Christ, it’s bad enough that we have to deal with the bloody British royal family and all their hijinx. “Ooh, look at little Prince Willie dressed up like a Nazi for his friend’s costume party.” “Gosh, I hope they don’t send Prince Harry into battle in Iraq.” Besides being fucking nauseating – after all close to a million Iraqis have died since the 2003 invasion, who gives a crap if that spoiled brat buys the farm? What’s more, it’s a complete and utter distraction from the real issues, uh, you know, things like: why is there a hereditary monarchy in a supposedly democratic country and why do they own, you know, half the land in Britain and why is Queen Elizabeth, that sour-pussed parasite, one of the wealthiest women in the world.
And now those bastard Brits have sent us Beckham and I can’t read the newspaper while taking a dump without having to see an article about David and Victoria. Christ. Fine, he’s a good soccer player, maybe even a great one – I’ll have to trust what other people tell me. But so fucking what: it’s SOCCER! Did the guy cure cancer? Solve world hunger? Create a work of art so astounding that it will live through the ages or a have a philosophical insight so deep that it will change the way our culture thinks about itself?
No. HE KICKS A BALL AROUND ON THE GRASS!
Jiminy Crickets people. And what about his wife? I can barely put word to page because it brings to mind her image, which makes me want to launch my lunch across the keyboard. Will someone give that lady a cheese sandwich and a beer?
I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on Victoria Beckham, after all she’s about as skill-less and useless as Prince Harry and his inbred ilk. Her claim to fame – other than marrying a cute guy with certain financially valuable sporting skills – is that she was part of an entirely manufactured girl group called The Spice Girls. Had these women even met before they auditioned for the band? Can they play any instruments? Uh, no. Did they write any of their own songs? Uh, no. In other words she is a fashion mannequin with a soundtrack. And now it’s been recognized by Glamour Magazine, which has just awarded her “Woman of the Year” for 2007?! What? Woman of the year? Her combination of anorexia and breast implants makes her look like a toothbrush. That’s glamorous?
I do have a certain sympathy, I suppose, for the self-absorbed git. She is the ultimate expression of sexism – women aren’t about their talents or hard-won skills, their value derives from their ability to provide sexual satisfaction to men. And that ability comes from two places, the completely arbitrary luck of the genetic draw and, with enough money, cosmetic surgery and a personal trainer. It’s the old story over again: the rich are beautiful because they can afford to be.
Now, maybe I should show more pity to this obviously psychologically unhealthy woman and her over-inflated, soon to be forgotten ball-kicking husband. Perhaps. But I won’t. They’ve gotten rich by riding the wave of the most important ideological con job of our times: envy us, emulate us because, with enough hard work, you could be us.
That’s right, don’t spit in your bosses eye or protest the government sending you overseas to get your ass shot off so the oil and gas companies can continue to fuck up the planet with environmentally destructive technologies. No, no, no. Instead sit slack-jawed in front of your fucking tv and wish that you had Victoria Beckham’s non-existent ass, or that you could kick a ball like Beckham and shag Victoria (and not your wife who’s as soft as you are from living in the burbs) and get invited to drink martinis at the Oscar party.
And while you’re at it, believe that if you only worked hard enough you could be David and Victoria. It’s the old rags to riches story. Suck it up and pull up your bootstraps and then you can be like these pathetic assholes. I mean do you really want the fucking paparazzi hanging outside of your house in the hopes of getting a shot of you taking a piss first thing in the morning? Do you really want every part of your body turned into a saleable object – Beckham shoes, Beckham pants, Beckham shirts, Beckham watches. Fuck, next they’ll have a Beckham shlong so you can fulfill your secret oral sex fantasies.
So, no, I don’t care if Beckham will play in the game vs Toronto this week. Frankly, I don’t give a shit if his plane power dives into Lake Ontario's polluted waters.
David and Victoria, kindly fuck off.