por Ted Casablanca | Traducido por | jue., 17 jul. 2008 5:12 PM
It’s amazing I don’t write these more often, the clinging-onto-celeb-life-with-all-the- surgeried-muscle-they-can-muster brand o’ Blind Vices. Could it be they hit too close to home for this fortysomething columnist who wonders if he should start embarking on all the plastic-puss opportunities available in this über-vain town? Nah, not today, at least. But do take Sheila Muff-Driver, an attractive enough gal who plans on selling her fading sexuality until she drops and who hasn't shied away from all that docs can do for her, trust. ‘Course, not that long ago, Sheila-love was the hoochie-coochie toast of T-town, and I don’t mean just for being a superscrumptious babe, but for her great beauty and arguable talent, too. The Academy Awards even gave her notable recognition at one time, but alas, that was back when SMD had a modicum of professionalism to offer her colleagues, as opposed to the perk-filled, ridiculously absurd existence Sheila's life has now become.
She goes through assistants faster than Botox needles. She fires reps of all sorts (managers, agents, etc.) who were just trying to do her a charitable favor in the first place—as Ms. Muff-Driver did, at one time, have such promise. And she still could, mind you, if she’d just stop injecting her body with every fountain-of-youth concoction out there and let what’s left of her face just be. So, you know, she could move it, utilize it and such, as actors are wont to do. But instead, all Sheila gets today are offers to do benefits and interviews about her once-golden career. And it was one occasion for the latter—in a documentary being put together by an established director who could ostensibly help reenergize Ms. M.-D.’s career—in which Sheila was set to be prominently featured.
Although, true to deranged spoiled form, when the producer rang up to finalize the schedule, Sheila barked back: “You know, I don’t get out of bed for less than $40,000 a day.”
Sheila’s still under the covers, by the by, her latest opportunity at anything close to a comeback having been quashed, yet again, by herself.
Maybe next time this happens, just go and shoot the bitch in her bed? Just a thought. Would be fitting on so many levels.
And it ain't: