Naomi Campbell‘s anger management problem has been well known to me for some time. Years ago, I was interviewing the model citizen for a glossy fashion magazine and she was uttery delightful and charming, captivating me with her winsome appeal. But then, practically halfway through a sentence, her pupils turned white, a laser light shot out of her ears, and smoke billowed out of her nose as if all her sinuses had caught fire. In a flash, her voice went from a lovely purr to that of the great and powerful Wizard of Oz behind the curtain, complete with extra volume and reverb. “THIS INTERVIEW HAD BETTER NOT BE FOR THE VILLAGE VOICE!” she screeched, as the window panes practically exploded and I held onto my clunky tape recorder to anchor my ass. I was amazed that someone who made a living walking gracefully down a runway was possessed of such a demonic inner life, burning with a rage you never saw when she walked heel-ball-toe before the fashion press. I was thrilled, actually! This was truly fascinating—a person of textures, not the usual bland, personality-free type that generally fills the catalogues and window displays. I was titillated that, in all her success, she was so paranoid she thought I might have used the name Harper’s Bazaar in vein just to gain a private audience with the great Naomi. But that was then. By now—all these cell phone attacks and plane tantrums later—Naomi’s psycho primadonna shtick is simply not cute anymore. It’s getting dangerous to the masses! The woman must be stopped! Maybe some actual punishment might do the trick? Though I suspect the only thing that will actually calm Campbell’s nerves at this point is if Tyra’s career takes a tumble.