The Trollop Trifecta: Who Cares?

Is the American public really that addicted to the daily trivialities of its self-appointed celebrities? With the paparazzi acting like street corner pushers, they feed the habit, providing an unseemly amount of brain-numbing minutiae on what every celebutard does.

The "media" (and I use that term loosely) has had a field day with what I like to call the trollop trifecta: Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and now Britney Spears. These three have single handedly helped to pay the rent on many a freelance photographer's flea-bitten apartment, providing a wellspring of manufactured sensationalism.

On any given night, you will find photogs feverishly documenting every ivory-pedastaled step of one or all three of these women as their exploits get plastered onto blogs and magazines the following day.

In fact, these three seem to be in the public eye so much, it's difficult to not consider the possibility that it's all part of some carefully-constructed marketing/PR ideology: A coterie of narcissistic, bucolic harlots- publicly lambasting the press for hounding them at every turn, while quietly making absolutely sure they remain squarely in the center of the photographer's lenses - milking as much publicity as long as they possibly can. Because in the tiny little world that these three people live in, publicity is oxygen.

"Look! Lindsay bought a pair of jewel-encrusted handcuffs! Look! Paris is boozing it up with BFF Britney. Look! Britney showed us her vulva again."

Seriously: Who cares? And why?

When your most recent contribution to society is to "accidentally" spread your legs for photographers as you exit your new best friend's ridiculously overpriced vehicle, the public's response should be, "OK, thanks for showing us your C-section scar... again. It really wasn't that impressive the first time."

Sure every time we watch jerky camera footage of our beloved boorish boy-toys walking into and staggering out of some pretentious ultra-exclusive, closet-sized club, it re-affirms everything other countries despise about the United States, but nobody within those circles really seems to care about that. Never mind what kind of a message their actions say to young, impressionable youths who look up to these people as their idols. Nobody cares. Just keep partying it up for all the world to see, because it helps sell magazines and that's really all that matters, right?

So who is to blame? Is it the photographers that make good money taking celebrity up skirt shots? Is it the magazines and blogs that work constantly to dig up the latest dirt or document the latest melodrama of some no-talent B-lister? Or is it the fast-living celebs themselves who are more well known for their drunken antics than anything they may have done on TV, film or music? Or is it the people that buy into this nonsense and jam this celebrity smack into their veins on a daily basis?

The answer is sadly, all of the above.

The truth is we are addicted to the things we hate. We enjoy watching people parade around like drunken court jesters for our amusement because it is far safer to live vicariously through these vainglorious vaginas as they party themselves at mach three into the ground, than it is to actually act that way ourselves.

The exploits of the original Rat Pack from the 50s are idolized. We love to think of Frankie, Sammy, Dean-o, (and the two guys nobody remembers) boozing it up with the broads in the casinos and smoky back rooms of sin city. We secretly fantasize that this was us.

The difference between the Rat Pack and this recent evolution of the Brat Pack is that the Rat Pack had talent.

The stuff that Franky and the boys did seems totally tame compared to what celebs like Lindsay, Paris, and Britney are up to, but nothing has really changed.

The ante may have been raised a bit, but the gamble and the end result is still the same.


Photo credit:
"The Three Disgraces" by "Fourteen"
galleryoftheabsurd.typepad.com

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