It had been a blissful few months of welcome ignorance to the pains and annoyances of celebrity wedding news. I even noticed a significant decline of the urge to throw up in my own mouth – and with evidence like that, it’s easy to say these things are not mutually exclusive. Alas, as my eyes read a recent headline, I could already begin to taste the bitter and acidic flavour of my bile. In a twitter battle, Deryck Whibley (from Sum 41) posted awkward Halloween photos of him and his girlfriend dressed as Chad Kroeger and Avril Lavigne. To which Chad fought valiantly back with “Hey Deryck loved the costumes! We were going to dress up as you guys this year but all the parties had celebrity themes haha! – CK”.
My doctor is insistent upon describing my acute intestinal pains and vehement diarrhea as unrelated to updates on celebrity news. Part of me thinks he works for TMZ, the lying bastard. Nevertheless, the engagement of Chad and Avril (we’re on a first name basis) has put a lot of things into perspective for me. Namely, my confidence in describing all celebrities as entities of no human origin; instead, they should be likened to robot aliens with special vampire powers.
What could only be described as immaculate dispositions, these robot alien vampires have been specifically designed to please the dull expectations of human beings (this I would describe as the robotic element – the manufactured physicality). We laugh with them, we cry with them, we masturbate to them – but for what?! Have they really done enough to engage us so deservedly? How can just a picture of them incite so much human interest?
Nothing in our current world could factorize benevolent beast machines like the celebrity, which is why it’s only natural to assume they we’re created by an outer-worldly source – ALIENS! Everyone already agrees that any extra-terrestrial interference would be predicated on learning about the human race – what better way to learn about us than by having an entire population obsessed with the conductor of such an experiment (a take on “Stockholm syndrome” perhaps?)
They may not drain our blood, but they’re soul vacuuming grasp has become more common than a cold. Through the succession of the former propositions, we’re then forced into acceptance of such banality by involuntary compulsion until that bite we feel isn’t from teeth, but the sting of reality leaving our consciousness.
Our hindsight weighs not in the battle of recognizing this demonic celebrity creature. Has it come to a point where violent dry heaving is our only reminder? It certainly seems that way. When will the Van Helsing of non-fiction save us – and will he be enough – and does anybody have a towel? I just puked on my jeans.