The downside of being rich and famous is that you can go decades without encountering a person honest enough to tell you what a sad fool you’ve become. In fact, Tyler’s lucky if the jackals he sustains have managed to prevent him from giving a Nigerian “prince” access to his checking account.
“Gosh, is it the ’90s already? I must be, like, 80, or are we on the metric system now? Now that I’m badly incontinent, perhaps I should stop wearing spandex. Maybe it’s time to stop playing songs other people wrote for Bruckheimer flicks and, instead, enjoy the fruits of my success in dignified peace. I think I’ll go to Paris.”
“No way, Stevie baby, you still got it!”
“But … my last groupie had a cane.”
“No, she was, like, 17. That’s a hip-hop thing, baby. Now, you’d originally signed me over 11 points on the new album, but …”
I hope you were spared that commercial in which youngish women pretend to swoon over the sagging, grey ghost of Tyler. Even after 12 hours of makeup applied in quantities that would shame a mortician, Steven still answers the unasked question: What if a catfish became anorexic? Yet someone convinced him to be cast as a sex symbol in this ad. Is this some stealthy Republican campaign to turn kids off of sex and drugs? Regardless, this man is clearly not in control of his own faculties, and I’m certain he still writes checks in the grocery store express line.
Obviously, something is very wrong with her husband. After 20 years of lingerie purchases that were tantamount to filing the garments next to the ark in a government warehouse, keeping Tom’s secret a secret must require incredible feats of denial on Wilson’s part.
“Oh Tom, you’re so nice, buying subscriptions to Tiger Beat and Boy’s Life just to help that kid win a trip to Hawaii. Just don’t spill any ice cream on the pages this time, OK? Yes, I know you’re lactose intolerant. I know that sort of thing because we have such a happy, normal marriage. Well, I’m going to do some gardening. Happy, happyyy.”
Public appearances must be an equal chore. She meets other couples who make her feel like a make a wish kid, then laughingly speculate on who/what Tom’s really nailing, just within earshot. She has the cutest delusions. But really you can’t blame her. Wilson’s a plain woman who fell into a couple of movie roles, and one of the wealthiest, most famous and most acclaimed actors in the world loves her and has stayed with her even after the realized Jacko fantasy of “Big” made him a superstar. So he has a boy’s fascination with WWII, can’t have sex without a Tom Emanski instructional video playing and refers to the crawlspace as “my Neverland Ranch.” Nothing’s perfect.
For a while, the novelty of this Strahan-toothed tramp’s chameleonic transformations was sort of interesting, but that was probably because I was 10 and rediscovering the tit with fresh appeal. Regardless of the packaging, whether it was matador girlfriend, Blek-Jesus-foot-fetish girlfriend or knocked-up-teen-Stamos-doppelganger girlfriend, there is always the same subtext: Madonna is a calculating whore of the highest order. Possessing a nasal, rangeless voice and a complexion that now looks like Jackson Pollock threw a bowl of oatmeal in her face, Madonna has spent the better part of 30 years thriving on being utterly disingenuous. Since she’s hijacked every possible sexy image, her next stunning twist is to try and bleach the cumstains from the motel sheets of her soul by doing a 180 and becoming a writer of children’s books. I could more easily rationalize Muhammad Ali and Michael J. Fox as bomb squad recruits than having the innocence of youth polluted with a single word penned by that human petri dish. Plus, she openly flaunted carnal relationships with Vanilla Ice AND Dennis Rodman, which to me still stands as the most horrific pre-Internet sexual abomination ever.
Being Madonna would be utter suffering. A soulless, rotting piece of chicken whose single, discreditable talent is being a manipulative rag, she smugly flits about with her Costner-quality English accent, her neutered husband and her children from arbitrary entourage members all in tow, thoroughly convinced that she deserves her celebrity over a more pure destiny for a lower-class Michigander, such as ending up as the obese and cowering punching bag for a soused, unemployed line riveter. You can take the whore out of the trash, but you can’t take the trash out of the whore — or vice versa.