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Re: lulu
Several weeks ago, while waiting patiently in line at the Angelika Film Center, I was suddenly shoved hard from the back as a very blonde couple pushed its way in front of me. You can imagine my surprise when I regained my balance and discovered that the offending persons were none other than Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow, whom I've since learned are something of an item. (I'm a very busy person and have little time to devote to memorizing celebritites' love connections.) I politely suggested that they might be more comfortable at the end of the line, where latecomers such as themselves can congregate and revel in their collective disregard for punctuality. I thought this was a reasonable request.
Apparently, Ms. Paltrow did not. She began to rail at me, calling me a "hideous, troll-like creature" who had no right to live, let alone tell her what to do, and added that if I had any idea of the kind of crazy sex that she and Brad had every single day, I would shoot myself on the spot. After a few more minutes of such insults (including several that were anti-Semitic in nature), Ms. Paltrow grabbed Mr. Pitt's hand and practically dragged the poor boy to the front of the line, where I could hear her berate the management for allowing "common street trash" to abuse "someone so wicked famous like me."
I feel it's only right to mention at this point that this story is completely untrue. I was cut on line at the Angelika the other week, but it was by two nose-ringed NYU film-school types, and I was too intimidated to ask them to move. However, I feel this slight discrepancy in my story is quite beside the point. The fact is, the scene I've described is exactly the sort of thing I'd expect from Gwyneth Paltrow, and she must be held accountable for her actions, even if they exist only in my own sick mind.
The woman is clearly evil, and why this fact has escaped the seemingly thousands of reporters who have touted this spawn of Satan as the next Grace Kelly is beyond me. First of all, Ms. Paltrow (or Ms. Cow-trow, as I like to call her - -- it rhymes if you work at it) isn't even a princess, so the comparison falls flat right there. I mean, have you ever seen her wear a tiara? No. She never wears a tiara, she rarely wears a bra, but what she does wear, constantly, is that stupid little smirk. That smug, toothless, corner-of-lips-upturned smirk that suggests she's keeping a secret. She wears it mostly when she's arm in arm with last year's Sexiest Man Alive, and the secret isn't too hard to figure out, provided you haven't been living under a rock for the past year: She's having crazy sex with Brad Pitt every single day.
Well, big deal. It just so happens that I've had crazy sex with Brad Pitt on several occasions, and let me tell you -- oops, there's that lying thing again. My point is, Gwyn has nothing to be smug about. Because, really, none of this means she's happy. Seriously -- if happiness to her means a gorgeous boyfriend, a thriving film career, rave reviews from the New York Times, and endless magazine covers declaring her Hollywood's new golden girl, then I feel sorry for her. I do.
You know what happiness means to me? Gwyneth's head in a box at the end of Seven. That's my idea of a good time. I still feel cheated that we never get to see it, so each time I rent the video I try to come up witha bloodier, more revolting image of what it might look like. Sometimes I imagine a new ending to the movie, where after Brad's ordeal with the serial killer, he seeks comfort in the arms of a local college student, played by me. We fall madly in love, get married, and mount the severed head on the wall as a conversation piece.
Who's smirking now, Gwyn?
