Friday, October 14, 2005

Fake Advice to Celebrities Who Didn't Ask For It, Vol I

Since I never know what to write on Fridays, I've decided that every Friday from here on out is going to be "Fake Advice to Celebrities Who Didn't Ask For It" Day. I got the idea last night during a commercial break in the third consecutive episode I'd watched of the VH1 modern classic Breaking Bonaduce. While washing pop-tart crumbs off a plate and mentally lecturing the ex-Partridge, it seemed pretty clear that I could manufacture at least one weekly blog out of my smug sense of superiority over the marginally to overwhelmingly famous. This would also prevent me from both writing and forcing anyone else to read another five hundred words about why I hate my photocopier.

QUESTION:
Dear Kathy,

Though I think of myself as an actress, a recording artist, a marginally talented dancer, and general girl-about-town, it seems as though the press can only see me as a cokehead car crasher. It's true that I lost a ton of weight, I may or may not have slept with Bruce Willis, and I genuinely enjoy the soulful melodies of 30 Seconds to Mars, but it's not because I'm on drugs. How do I get the world to see me for my talents and not as a vacuum-faced quicker-coker-upper?

Thanks,
Liable to Inhale Nothing! Zilch!

ADVICE:
Dear LINZ,
I know you spent your childhood being tutored on the set of the Parent Trap, so its possible you missed out on the crazy lengths the rest of us went through to keep ourselves from falling asleep in fifth grade math class. To fill you in: one classic of grade school humor (popular, at least, in the Hudson Valley circa 1993) was a long, calculator based joke that involved Dolly Parton, several visits to a doctor, and a varying a dosage of a mammary-decreasing pill. The result on the calculator by the end of the joke was 55378008, which, when flipped upside-down, spells...

Boobless.

That, my dear LINZ, is the problem. Had you been told that particular joke at the delicate age of your own flowering, the equation that boobless=punchline may have stuck with you as it has me. I won't venture to say why it is you've lost so much weight (though I'm willing to bet in line at Dunkin' Donuts your more likely to ask for a powdered than a glazed, but that's just me) but in your quest for total skeletonnage your boobs disappeared.

I'm sure you've noticed that most of your paparazzi are men, and straight ones at that. My advice? Implants. Give 'em something to look at below your neck and they'll never notice the rolled up dollar in an orifice above it. Plus, should the whole acting/singing/dancing thing not pan out, big fake hooters will always get you a job where you can act like you're interested in sweaty businessmen while Whitesnake sings and you dance around a greased up pole.

Win/win sitch, Linz. Go for the double-ds.

Best,
Kathy

QUESTION:
Dear Kathy,

When the fuck did I get famous?

Sincerely,
Rachel McAdams

ADVICE:
Dear Rachel,

I don't know, but ride it like a bull until everyone realizes you're not Katie Holmes.

Best,
Kathy

QUESTION:
Dear Kathy,

I agreed to participate in the E! show Filthy Rich Cattle Drive because every other heir to a family fortune seems to have a reality show these days. I am not the kind of guy to sit around while Hiltons and Gastineaus have half an hour of prime-time air dedicated to them at least once a week while I have to manufacture my own fame by calling bouncers "negroes" and insisting they retrieve my Prada sweater from the club I was just kicked out of.

I digress. My point is: I hate this show, and I would very much like to go home. My father says that if I call the lawyers one more time he'll move my office to the opposite corner of the building, which means I'd only have a half bathroom. No tub! Who can work without a tub?! Where would you chill the kegs?

How can I get off this godforsaken ranch without losing my work tub, pissing off the network, and coming across like a whiny rich kid on my first reality show?

Signed,
Fabian Basabe.

ADVICE:
Dear Fabian,

Let me say first that I understand the pain of wanting what all your peers already have. In high school, everyone got a car before me. I was forced beg rides off of acquaintances for years to avoid walking home from literary magazine meetings and Amnesty International letter writing campaigns. I'm sure you can relate. When I finally did get a car that I was able to drive to school two or three days a week, I was ecstatic beyond comprehension. I had been handed my very dream.

So, Faby, I understand your unquenchable desire to have your own reality show. How you managed to sit idly by while Nicole Richie slutted her way across the heartland is beyond me, and above that, a model of self-control that from which many a Zen Buddhist could draw a lesson or two. You must have a deep well of spirit and character I can't even begin to fathom.

It is true, though, that your dreams are not always what you expect. My car, for example, stalled in the winter. The crank to its manual sunroof fell on my head if I drove more than thirty-five miles an hour and it wasn't positioned at exactly three o'clock.

Your show is just as difficult. You signed up for a cattle drive, but who ever thought a cattle drive would mean cattle? Or dirt? Or, for the love of everything sacred, dirty cattle? It's a shame you were swindled.

As for a way out of the show, I have only one suggestion:

Kill yourself.

Best,
Kathy Cacace

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