Wentz Upon a Troll
I’ve been up in this motherfucker, writing blogs once weekly for a long damn time now, and while I tense up at the mere mention of this thing drying up, I would be lying if I said there weren’t lean days. I’ve had more than my share. More importantly, my writing is either turning a corner towards bloat, or else, my greater fears confirmed, has jumped head first into those waters and never dried off. Quel dommage. You gotta just keep plugging away and simply hope for the best.
Yeah, and expect the worst.
Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson have finally wed. This is good for two reasons. First off, I am now able to think of them as one really, really ugly talentless person now instead of the two very separate ones they were to me before their cosmically perfect nuptials. The second reason this is good is that it is only a matter of time before the swarthy chipmunk demon shacks up with Britney’s sister, or Gwen Stefani, or Meg Ryan, or Mariah Carey, or whoever the fuck you like. And the thought of Pete and Ashlee not working out is like aloe on a burn for me. I can’t get enough of the healing salve of failed celebrity love affairs. That stuff is like candy to me, so deliciously decadent the taste.
Pete Wentz, for those of you so blissfully ignorant of the flaccid catastrophe that is the man himself, is the bass player (and I use the term “player” real fucking loosely) for the Illinois based shitcore emo band, Fall Out Boy. This band of his, this collection of forgettably plain everymen, posturing about to the delight of impossibly myopic teenaged girls, would never have come anywhere near my realm of experience were it not for the inclusion of Mr. Wentz.
Pete Wentz is the embodiment of what separates me from the tastes of young girls. When I look at Pete Wentz I see a midget with horse teeth, greasy chopped up black wiry hair that screams old-world ease, a five-minute shadow (where does he find the time to shave three times a day?), the kind of hairy chest that is almost impossible to isolate from the GI Joe horrors of his face, and an all-around sleaze that reeks of a hobbit after a month-long bender in Vegas, wherein said hobbit picks up a meth habit, a drippy dick from the stripper dancing the all night shift at the seedy dive three or four streets off the strip, and then decides that it’s time to keep his edge by painting his fingernails black and shaving his hive of a crotch for maximum creepiness.
That was a hell of a sentence.
Young girls, on the other hand, see in the hirsute Mr. Wentz not just a walking hard-on, but a cuddly one at that - the kind of hard-on that your parents would be happy to tie a ribbon on for you when the time comes, so unthreatening it would be to them.
Man, am I not able to find the pulse of America.
I won’t even go into the way the guy molests a bass. I could get arrested for that.
Then there’s his lovelee bride, Ashlee Simpson. What’s the fucking deal with the double Es anyway? Does a cute name make us forget that a Lovecraftian beast wears it?
Seriously here folks, as an aside, and as a public service, what is the fucking tale with the Simpson family? Because here we are with another Texas-bred entertainment family, way short on talent, camping up the sex, and all while claiming to be guided by the torch of the lord.
Yeah.
Like it isn’t bad enough with that overgrown unwashed man in women’s clothing Beyonce Knowles to put Texas on the map for cultivating overrated family empires on the backs of questionably talented hyperdivas, now we have to fend off the cultural advances of the terrifying Simpson clan.
Ashlee made a grade-A ass of herself outdoing even her greatest critics wildest imaginations by completely obliterating one of “her” “songs” while being the “musical” guest on Saturday Night Live. I know Lorne Michaels must find it hard to walk with Satan’s cock balls deep in his ass, but come on, even he should have had the sense not to put her carnival tent on stage that night. Either that or the man’s a genius. I’ll change my mind right now and go with genius. In retrospect, I admire his foresight.
In the Todd Browning freakshow of the Simpson family, Ashlee was the little sister, the aspiring ingénue, tugging at her tranny sister’s coattails, waiting for her big moment to shine. She was the big-nosed, pointy-chinned, gangly kid ready to get hers. It’s just that it took her dating the ugliest man in show business to actually accomplish it.
I work in a bookstore. Teen magazines are a big seller. Taking one quick glance at any newsstand would allay any doubts about the draw of these publications on the purses of teen America. There are about ten or so big selling mainstream teen magazines. They rank up there in content and proliferation with the tabloid entertainment mags for adults. On any given rack, for every Us Weekly, there is a Teenbeat, for every In Touch there is a J14, and on, and on. That shit is big money.
And either located on the cover, or at the very least on about a minimum of, say, nine or ten pages, is Pete fucking Wentz and/or Ashlee Simpson.
What exactly are kids into anyway? Stinky-pirate homunculus retards? Pointy-chinned half-witted inbred field-fairies? Are we still on planet earth? Is meth even more of a problem then we are capable of admitting to ourselves? What gives? I’m hurting here. Will we ever be set free?
Where’s Celine when you need her?
Christ, people, I don’t even have a point here. I guess I have just made the dire mistake of peering a little too closely into the void. That’s what I get for ignoring the warnings about that sort of thing. And to top it off, it gets worse. I’ve looked closer still. Closer still and closer still. I have peered into the very heart of darkness. I have bitch-slapped Joseph Conrad for being the withering pussy that he is, have sucker-punched Nietzsche because he forgot to put on his tutu and prance around the vacuous yawning perimeter like a tit. I have plummeted to the very darkest depths of nothingness and have found the strength to pull back and deliver this caveat upon the gathered hordes of humanity, naked, as they are, afraid, and all alone:
Don’t even ask me about Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon.
The horror.
The horror…
Yeah, and expect the worst.
Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson have finally wed. This is good for two reasons. First off, I am now able to think of them as one really, really ugly talentless person now instead of the two very separate ones they were to me before their cosmically perfect nuptials. The second reason this is good is that it is only a matter of time before the swarthy chipmunk demon shacks up with Britney’s sister, or Gwen Stefani, or Meg Ryan, or Mariah Carey, or whoever the fuck you like. And the thought of Pete and Ashlee not working out is like aloe on a burn for me. I can’t get enough of the healing salve of failed celebrity love affairs. That stuff is like candy to me, so deliciously decadent the taste.
Pete Wentz, for those of you so blissfully ignorant of the flaccid catastrophe that is the man himself, is the bass player (and I use the term “player” real fucking loosely) for the Illinois based shitcore emo band, Fall Out Boy. This band of his, this collection of forgettably plain everymen, posturing about to the delight of impossibly myopic teenaged girls, would never have come anywhere near my realm of experience were it not for the inclusion of Mr. Wentz.
Pete Wentz is the embodiment of what separates me from the tastes of young girls. When I look at Pete Wentz I see a midget with horse teeth, greasy chopped up black wiry hair that screams old-world ease, a five-minute shadow (where does he find the time to shave three times a day?), the kind of hairy chest that is almost impossible to isolate from the GI Joe horrors of his face, and an all-around sleaze that reeks of a hobbit after a month-long bender in Vegas, wherein said hobbit picks up a meth habit, a drippy dick from the stripper dancing the all night shift at the seedy dive three or four streets off the strip, and then decides that it’s time to keep his edge by painting his fingernails black and shaving his hive of a crotch for maximum creepiness.
That was a hell of a sentence.
Young girls, on the other hand, see in the hirsute Mr. Wentz not just a walking hard-on, but a cuddly one at that - the kind of hard-on that your parents would be happy to tie a ribbon on for you when the time comes, so unthreatening it would be to them.
Man, am I not able to find the pulse of America.
I won’t even go into the way the guy molests a bass. I could get arrested for that.
Then there’s his lovelee bride, Ashlee Simpson. What’s the fucking deal with the double Es anyway? Does a cute name make us forget that a Lovecraftian beast wears it?
Seriously here folks, as an aside, and as a public service, what is the fucking tale with the Simpson family? Because here we are with another Texas-bred entertainment family, way short on talent, camping up the sex, and all while claiming to be guided by the torch of the lord.
Yeah.
Like it isn’t bad enough with that overgrown unwashed man in women’s clothing Beyonce Knowles to put Texas on the map for cultivating overrated family empires on the backs of questionably talented hyperdivas, now we have to fend off the cultural advances of the terrifying Simpson clan.
Ashlee made a grade-A ass of herself outdoing even her greatest critics wildest imaginations by completely obliterating one of “her” “songs” while being the “musical” guest on Saturday Night Live. I know Lorne Michaels must find it hard to walk with Satan’s cock balls deep in his ass, but come on, even he should have had the sense not to put her carnival tent on stage that night. Either that or the man’s a genius. I’ll change my mind right now and go with genius. In retrospect, I admire his foresight.
In the Todd Browning freakshow of the Simpson family, Ashlee was the little sister, the aspiring ingénue, tugging at her tranny sister’s coattails, waiting for her big moment to shine. She was the big-nosed, pointy-chinned, gangly kid ready to get hers. It’s just that it took her dating the ugliest man in show business to actually accomplish it.
I work in a bookstore. Teen magazines are a big seller. Taking one quick glance at any newsstand would allay any doubts about the draw of these publications on the purses of teen America. There are about ten or so big selling mainstream teen magazines. They rank up there in content and proliferation with the tabloid entertainment mags for adults. On any given rack, for every Us Weekly, there is a Teenbeat, for every In Touch there is a J14, and on, and on. That shit is big money.
And either located on the cover, or at the very least on about a minimum of, say, nine or ten pages, is Pete fucking Wentz and/or Ashlee Simpson.
What exactly are kids into anyway? Stinky-pirate homunculus retards? Pointy-chinned half-witted inbred field-fairies? Are we still on planet earth? Is meth even more of a problem then we are capable of admitting to ourselves? What gives? I’m hurting here. Will we ever be set free?
Where’s Celine when you need her?
Christ, people, I don’t even have a point here. I guess I have just made the dire mistake of peering a little too closely into the void. That’s what I get for ignoring the warnings about that sort of thing. And to top it off, it gets worse. I’ve looked closer still. Closer still and closer still. I have peered into the very heart of darkness. I have bitch-slapped Joseph Conrad for being the withering pussy that he is, have sucker-punched Nietzsche because he forgot to put on his tutu and prance around the vacuous yawning perimeter like a tit. I have plummeted to the very darkest depths of nothingness and have found the strength to pull back and deliver this caveat upon the gathered hordes of humanity, naked, as they are, afraid, and all alone:
Don’t even ask me about Mariah Carey and Nick Cannon.
The horror.
The horror…
7 Comments:
wow! so it's come to this, has it...tsk tsk tsk
Ramon - John's been our beat reporter for the teeen seeen going way back. Somebody's got to do it. And who better than the bookhawker?
My apologies to you, Ramon, for killing something you love. I guess I'll pass on my future Justin Timberlake post. I thought it was genius myself.
Oh man, who beter to cover the tween beat set than John. No seriously I am stoked!
thanks john. on my break today,i broke into the office and used the computer normally reserved for menu printing and supply ordering to read nap. now i'm going back into the kitchen to make food for the masses while giggling about hobbits with v.d. and "inbred field fairies."
again, thanks.
"shaving his hive of a crotch"....jesus!
by the way john my first comment was meant to be read with tongue firmly in cheek. In case that wasn't apparent
at first I was wondering, if you hate them so much, why are you writing about them much less reading about them? but then I realized if you are faced with that constantly, like always being in a grocery store check out line, the hate would most certainly come out. Because you know.
My favorite line was "swarthy chipmunk demon".
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