An Open Letter to Gwyneth Paltrow
Once upon a time, around mid-2010, we all knew you as an insufferable bitch afflicted with the kind of pretension that causes a lifelong American to publicly dismiss uncivilized American culture in favor of the vastly superior “European” way (for there is only one European way, you see), and took to the interwebs to remedy that with your own Goop website. You were absolutely intolerable, without the slightest understanding of “the little people” who saw your movies or read your ridiculous website.
And I loved it.
You were absolutely wretched. You were ignorantly posh to the point of idiocy. You were every hipster I went to college with proudly proclaiming “I don’t own a television” only with a gajillion more dollars and a much more sheltered life. And that was your charm. Do you know how sick I get of celebrities feigning as though they have anything in common with us wee pedestrians? Do you understand the levels to which my blood boils when I hear some starlet who hasn’t eaten since the first Bush administration write her thin frame off as “good genes, diet and exercise” while her jaw glands swell by the moment? But you never stooped to that. Never. You were better than that trash. You work out two hours a day, eat only the purest of macrobiotic raw foodstuffs and don’t give a shit who knows it, for you wouldn’t dare lower yourself to the level of some commoner who desires to fit in among the middle American lower tier.
God, I miss those days. Good times.
Somewhere around the time Sandra Bullock won an Oscar, you decided you’d grown bored with Superior. Now, you’d choose Beloved.
Bad. Fucking. Move.
First came Glee. You were fine enough, and you made sure to state firmly in interviews that you’d never heard of the show before you decided to do it. Then came the made-for-TV tripe that was Country Strong, in which you drank hard, loved a good man, took care of a wounded bird in a shoebox, then killed yourself like Candace Cameron Bure in the role of a lifetime on Lifetime. That is ridiculous that this happened. You are supposed to be better than that. Know how I know that? You’ve spent your entire career telling us so. And when you’ve spent the past 15+ years doing that, it’s embarrassing when you try to shill for that Bullock dollar. You may be Gwyneth Paltrow, but you ma’am are no Sandra Bullock. And you didn’t used to want to be.
Between Glee and Country Strong, you decided enough time had passed since Duets and it was time to give singing another go, so now you’re singing all over the place. Singing at the Grammys with a catsuit. Singing at the Oscars with your eyes closed. Not only have you abandoned that heinous snottiness that made you special, you’ve abandoned your dignity. That Oscars performance? Are you serious? How were you not pants-shittingly humiliated with your eyes clamped shut like you’re about to bust into an emotional round of “You Light Up My Life”?
Now the floodgates have opened. Now it’s at least three to four more episodes of Glee, calling a truce between Glee creator Ryan Murphy and the Kings of Leon and signing a country record deal. Where did you go?
I miss the frigid wonder Bedhead wrote about last year. Come back, Gwyneth. Go back to being the woman who called Jennifer Aniston “that TV girl.” Go back to insulting the career choices of Reese Witherspoon. Go back to namedropping every famous person you’ve ever met in your dipshit newsletter. Go back to referring to Anthony Hopkins as AnTony, despite he himself saying AnTHony. Go back to being the woman who was “humiliated” by wearing a fat suit in Shallow Hal. Go back to being the woman who once actually said, “I am who I am. I can’t pretend to be somebody who makes $25,000 a year.”
At the end of the day, give us more cunt, less country strong.