Bio-Hazard
In "Great" Britain we have a television show called Big Brother where slappers, queens, dickheads, vacant bimbos and generic scumbags from all across the land can live in a monitored house for a few months over the summer and enjoy 15 minutes of celebrity when they come out. This year's winner was some douche-bag called Pete. Now, look what I came across in the book store today:
Article 10: November 8, 2006
This cock-smoker has only been out of the fucking Big Brother house for a matter of weeks and already they've whipped out an autobiography, typed up faster than the speed of light (the knowledge that your 15 minutes might be up sooner than expected is a fantastic motivator!) Not content with just having this book exist in the universe, some people feel the need to justify it by posting fucking reviews on websites selling the book:
Look out book reviewers everywhere! "Wanda" has not only read the piss-poor excuse for a book, but she's also went to the trouble of going to a website to publish a fucking review of said book. Is there anything sadder? Now, there is so much wrong with this dumb chick's review, for one: I've lead an interesting and colourful life too. I don't see anybody rushing to write any books about me. I don't see any literary agents knocking down my door. And just how interesting and colourful could Pete's life have been? What the fuck has he done exactly apart from being enough of a scum-bucket to get on Big fucking Brother? But wait, it gets worse. Check out this twat:
This guy should have been the one packing your bags at the grocery store today. Unfortunately he had enough dumb luck to have been a sperm shot from the nut-sack of one Mr. Ozzy Osbourne. We all know he's only famous because of his sozzled father, and why should we care about a sub-literate wank-fest about some douche-bag's life just because he's famous by association? The soon-to-be-toilet-paper autobiography probably deals in great detail with his addiction to drugs and alcohol to give it some kind of "dramatic" weight. Oh, hang on! It does! And Paul O'Grady, part-time broadcaster and full-time non-genius, has referenced it in his review:
Well, we certainly know Paul doesn't have an addiction to quality literature! Look, I really don't give two shits about Jack Osbourne being born with a silver-spoon in his mouth, and thus because during every second of every minute of his life he's had everything handed to him, leading to unfulfillment and a general lack of a sense of self-worth, he's felt the need to resort to a cocktail of drink and drugs like a million poor-little-rich boys before him who have nothing else to spend their money on. Get a fucking life. It's actually quite suprising he didn't take one look at his father and swear off drink and drugs for life. The cunt.
Here's another Big Brother graduate who has managed to contrive an I'm-a-bit-thick-really schtick which has made her a millionaire while about several million orphans in Africa don't have enough money for a spoonful of rice. You'll never believe it, but she's quenched the public's thirst for all things Jade by releasing her own fucking autobiography too! It deals in great detail about what's it like being a chubby piece of white-trash scum-bucket. Her catch-phrase is "I'm I minging?" Don't rush all at once to answer that.
When Jordan's "book" was originally released, it was a huge seller, but if you are one of the lucky few who hasn't actually read it, I can save you the trouble of ever having to by summing it up in one sentence: "I get my tits out, and because the UK is such a morally-bankrupt, sex and celebrity-obsessed society, this ensures me a career." Here is a "choice" review of her piece-of-shit "book":
Hold on there, "Kelzybabes" before you spontaneously orgasm over somebody who wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire! What's this undying love you speak of? You're telling me they won't be divorced in a year? But I have to admit, hearing about these "juicy seacrets" in the book, I'm almost tempted to read it, if only to find out what a fucking "seacret" is.
So kids, today we have learnt to avoid celebrity autobiographies unless you are on the waiting list for a frontal-lobe labotomy.
Email Christopher