Why I Hate Celebrities!


They claw their way to the top, then act like they’re desperate not to be noticed. … Their pulverized foreheads look a tad out of place in films about 16th-century England. … They have a dress for each disease and a sound bite for every charity gala that pays them to attend with a concerned facial expression. … Hitler could be rising to power again, but they wouldn’t say anything for fear the controversy might mess up their next game-show cameo. … They will cash in and sneakily do ad
campaigns for Europe and Asia, as if those places don’t really matter. … They’re such unrelenting narcissists that even when they have sex, they feel they have to film it.

They won’t tell you they’re gay because that’s too private, but they’ll describe at length the way their mother died a grisly death due to alcoholism and STDs. … If they do come out, you usually end up going, “Who?” … They can’t even wake up without a manager, stylist, nutritionist, and acting coach telling them how to brush their teeth. … They think Planet Hollywood is a museum. … When they win an Oscar, they make a point of acknowledging how great the four other nominees were, as the camera catches them squirming. … They will use a baby for career gain, trotting them out of their vaginas for regular photo-ops. … They give their kids hideous names that will guarantee they’ll be tortured for life, as if they wouldn’t be already. … They push their children into showbiz, then have breakdowns when the kids become more successful than they are.

The second they hit it big, they buy a $16 million mansion complete with a mortgage, as if they’re actually going to be big for 30 years. … They think that because they’re famous, they should automatically branch out and sing bluegrass, write poetry, open three restaurants, and, worst of all, direct. … They think they’re above the law, and, thanks to the bizarre phenomenon of celebrity justice, they usually are. … When they get caught, they invariably call their lawyer with one hand and Saturday Night Live with the other. … They use world crises as career-saving opportunities, blithely veering back and forth between rehab and Haiti. … When their movie careers hit a snag, they crash-land on Broadway, crowing, “The theater has always been my first love!”

They make public statements about how they’ve turned down Glee, leaving out the fact that they haven’t been asked. . . . They’re more famous than I am. … They hire vicious publicists to do their dirty work while they sit back and bat their eyes demurely. … They, like, you know, never, like, learned how to, you know, talk in correct sentences.

They’re so lifted they look like a tuna sandwich in a Ziploc bag, but they still can’t seem to get their eyes closer together. … After five facelifts, they talk about how wonderful it is to get older, using elaborately Photoshopped magazine spreads to gush about the wonders of aging. … They’ll sue tabloids for distortions, but somehow never sue their surgeons for the same. … They make sure to mention in every interview that they’re actually way younger than the role they just played. … They quit their illegal-drug addictions in favor of prescription-drug addictions and consider that a healthy choice. … They Google themselves so often they can no longer snap their fingers at servants. … They crank out endless Tweets about how epic their shoot was for the new Candie’s ad campaign. … They haven’t sung live since the Mouseketeers. … They come on to their daughter at their ex-wife’s funeral.

They’ll put riders in their contracts detailing what flavor Skittles they want and how they are to be addressed (if at all), but they often forget to read the part about what their responsibility is. … They didn’t realize that the $10 million they made off that TV show was reportable to the IRS. … When they meet their hot new co-star and start shtupping them, they convince themselves it’s true love and promptly dump their last hot new co-star, the one they married six months ago. … They get so sucked up into the “I’m such a fan/Let’s have lunch” schmooze game with each other that every word they spew in public seems like just another performance.

They’ll make biopics crucifying famous figures as twisted bizarros, but to avoid lawsuits and negative buzz, they’ll promote them as glowing portraits of real-life heroes. … They talk endlessly about their “craft,” even though they basically learned acting by faking orgasms on a succession of casting couches. … They’ve never met a cookie they haven’t tried to vomit. … Now that they finally have a ton of money, they’ve strangely decided that they want everything for free.

They work on their physiques at least 12 hours a day, but then insist on a body double. … They all think they’re the ones who can make the Oscars young, relevant, and funny again. … They circle the block at premieres, waiting to make an entrance only after their co-star does. (This sometimes results in gala events where no one gets out of their cars.) … They sign up for train-wreck-style
reality shows, then complain, “The editing didn’t make me look good!” … Then they’ll sign up for another train-wreck–style reality show. … They’ll write a book before actually reading a book.

When I ask them for hot copy, they demur that their life has been an immaculate journey with no dark patches whatsoever, but the second a publisher dangles the dinero, they suddenly remember that grandma raped them.

But the main thing I hate about celebrities—and you knew this was coming—is that I am inexorably drawn to their gutsy magic. They saved me through childhood and adolescence, their work and antics providing a glamorous catharsis that swept me out of outer-borough doldrums. And they still wet my wheels, exuding a radioactive glow that makes them seem extra charismatic and always worth watching. God, they’re fabulous. Fuck you, celebrities!