In times long gone it was public executions, today we have popular culture and a strange obssession with celebrity. Of course people have always taken interest in someone who stands out from the crowd; the poet Lord Byron's wife Annabella coined the phrase 'Byronmania' in reference to the interest that surrounded her husband.
But this is something quite different. A giant bullshit machine, trampling a stupefied audience while chewing innocence and spitting it into a Z list spitoon. Or a flatulent ogre stumbling through forests of camera lenses in a feeble attempt to eek out attention. What septic troughs to wallow in.
And the less said about those colon headed people that stare out from glossy magazines with sickly grins brushed over their faces the better. Oh the pearl white teeth, the marble skin, icy blue eyes without a lash out of place! Such beauty! Styles to keep the uglies at bay, as airbrushes do the same with wrinkles and nasty creases. Heaven forbid should they be caught with their gut spilling out from a tracksuit bottom, or a crusted toenail....Or actually speaking the truth.
All hail magazine covers! The new fountain of youth allowing a never ending story for plain Janes to hang their image on. Hoodwinking the gullible into believing some people are born perfect. Tasteless paper junkies.
Is anybody really attracted to those blemish free windbags? The china doll madam posing like a compound fracture breaking free from cellophane. Does it kick peoples groins? Fuel their coke?
More importantly does everyone, or even only a handful, believe the picture before them? Have the crocodiles tricked the sheep into falling for the myth that fame and wealth turn grubs into swans? Yes, miserably they have.
But beware, chasing Cinderella is a lethal and cut throat pursuit, where only plague-like diets and monstrous egos are allowed to win the day. You will abandon dignity if you decide to play and as for being spit polish perfect, one might as well put a walrus on the greasy cover for all the truth todays singing brats say about perfection.
I have kept shelter with crazy kinds of crazy in life's formidable shadows, been witness to every type of megalomania and skulldugerry but these newer flock of flamingoes on the shelves, desperate and strutting, bring bile to my throat. A rotten type of gag because the olive skin and lily powdered hair, the pencil thin waists and blood cherry lips do nothing to turn my head and swindle me. Withered scarecrows have no spirit.
I know of eagles, stern lessons and stunning views of breast valleys and ocean fronted thighs. And the glossy dolls, those pale, straw kids have nothing but heels across their fishy mouths. The carbon copy menageries do nothing for lust when one has seen the gin angels. Herd flesh all you want - the sandbags of monstrosities get taller with each page.
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