—High-level Potomac political pooper, whose call, I assure you, would be taken by Dubya, a prez who’s not exactly known for fending off those who tell him what to do
Desk DeeCee and I were chatting about the recent voting outcomes. The dead heat of the Dems was overshadowed by this unsettling news: McCain is in talks with Romney, the dude whose ass he just trounced, to run as his VP, damn. Bad news. Why? Because McCain’s victory, as I reported ages ago, was expected.
This was also wanted by certain Dems, moi included, as the sometimes ill-tempered hubby to the gal who looks like a retired hooker, will—in all likelihood—let rip some foot-in-puss something or other on the campaign trail, thus, making it a bit easier for Hills (who I voted for) or Obama to win, depending on who’s running at that point. Father-procreates-best Romney and his cooler, more calculating head would afford hothead McCain a far greater chance at grabbing the top job.
But all of this prez goss went away when Britney, the topic du demented, came up: See, Dubya’s father, the elder Bush and hubby to bitchy Barbara, has already announced in this column that he doesn’t much care for Britney. Trust, the younger B-man feels the same.
And don’t think some sort of Oval Office declaration on all things Brit ain’t comin’, ‘cause it’s quite possibly in the works, mark my bitchy words. It’ll be something less dramatic (or sympathetic) than “Leave Britney alone!” howev. More on the spectacularly overprocessed popped tart in a sec, but first, yet more bad news:
—Heath Ledger bud (truly), regarding the medical examiner’s report on Ledger’s death, as well as Heath’s family and their subsequent press release. This is a tough one. I do feel for Heath’s put-upon relatives. But they did just release a rather long statement which, essentially, tried to sidestep the fact that recreational drug-taking played a part in the poor guy’s death. It’s really quite ludicrous. H.L. died from abuse of “prescribed” medication, they argued, as if that makes the issue of chemical overdose less offensive or germane.
Bullmerde to that, I say—as do, too, a few pals to Mr. L., who are doing to their best not to overly raise their brows, out of respect to the fam. But the point remains: A rolled up $20 bill was found next to Michelle’s ex. The masseuse and Mary-Kate Olsen had what seemed like 20 billion calls between them before paramedics were called. Several firsthand sources tell me they saw Heath abuse drugs. It’s all a very not standard way to depart this earth.
Indeed, Heath’s death was, at the very least, an accumulative effect of his mindset and how he abused drugs, whether prescribed or not. He had way too many pills in him when he died. How many more folks need to expire and go into rehab before folks stop being such a pansies about this life-threatening issue?
More comical, but just as sad, is the following:
After returning home, girl didn’t even give herself enough time to unpack all her souvenir hospital accoutrement before she was rolling out the door again without checking her appearance in a mirror. Brit-Brit was still wearing too-short skirts, slut lipstick and fugly plaid hats my grandpa never even had the bad taste to don as she led dozens of cars on a paparazzi parade through the streets of Hell-Ay.
B.S. jaunted to her old stomping grounds, the Beverly Hills Hotel, for a quick catch-up with her lawyer and business manager—and a rendezvous with her star-crossed loser Adnan. I don’t even want to begin to wonder what it’s like inside Brit’s brain, but what the ef was going on inside the minds of the hospital staff?
We know the Bev Hills staff was happy to see their fave gonzo guest back, 'cause they told us so. How the hell do you think all those paps chasin’ the poor babe got onto the property in the first place? Coincidence? And why, we must ask again, do you think B.S. chose the hotel to begin with? No coincidence, we assure you. Point in fact: Everybody in this whole charade is up to their old, press-hungry tricks again. It’s an elixir more addictive than heroin.
So, why are 'rents Lynne and Jamie not simply strapping their outta-control offspring on a private jet and hauling her exposed ass back to Louisiana?
I don’t like where this sad cast of characters is headed...inevitably someplace even more depressing, at this point (where they don’t have room service).
Sure, there are a few A-list personalities on the ballot. Justin Timberlake, Kanye West and Christina Aguilera’s beach-ball breasts all have a shot at making their way onstage to thank Jesus, their agent and mom (in that order). But I haven’t heard of half the names who might be filling some screen time with their acceptance speeches—Vince Gill might be up for Album of the Year, but all he’s getting from me is an ignorant shrug.
And what about the music? Sunday’s show will include performances from the likes of a Fergie and John Legend duet, Andrea Bocelli and Josh Groban providing the music during a bathroom break, your typical Beyoncé Vegas act with backup dancers and dry ice, Foo Fighters continuing their tour of mediocrity...You know what’s missing from this lineup? Britney in a bikini.