Look, I’m a cynic. I am one of those terrible people who believe that only the smallest handful of Hollywood relationships are genuine, that half of Hollywood is using their relationship for publicity while the other half is in a co-bearding situation. I am also endlessly fascinated by the tireless work of celebrity PR flacks who devote their lives to ensuring we the public are kept in the dark about the true goings on, unless it could in some way benefit ticket sales and viewership, then we’re given a salacious taste just to keep us caring (see: the masterminds who keep this Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie/Jennifer Aniston bullshit on the cover, despite Brangelina now outlasting Braniston by years).
But this Ashton and Demi thing is throwing me for a loop.
Believe me, I thought this would be over by now. I called the divorce announcement to be issued by “Two and a Half Men“‘s second or third episode, designed to build on the show’s newsworthiness after the shiny new douche’s press novelty wore off. But, this? This I don’t know about.
They’re up to something. Those crafty sons of bitches.
Rumors of a cheating Kutcher go back years. And when his career took a turn for the professional Tweeter, I thought the divorce announcement would come in an effort to rejuvenate a wholly staled professional existence.
But it didn’t. Despite frequently photographed dalliances with blonde casting couch castoffs. Despite the all-too-telling threatened lawsuit against the tabloid that broke the story, never to actually materialize (lesson: this is always proof that the tabloid told the truth).
Now, weeks have passed since this new batch. The two spent their anniversary apart, with Ashton spending it with some chick whose legs were apart. Both tweeted cryptic things, Demi’s appropriately strange and nonsensical. They (*gasp, sob*) unfollowed one another on Twitter, the death knell in any twelve-year-old’s relationship. But she still sends him flowers, when on break from her virgin blood baths.
So, what’s the deal?
Theory: Kutcher thinks he’s really smart. He’s really, really wrong about this, but he thinks it and he thinks it good. I bet he really thinks he’s fucking with us. I bet he thinks this is “Punk’d” Redux and finds it hilarious. Oh, trust me, he’s nailed more puss than a taxidermy wall-art shop, but the actual events we are privy to, the failing marriage, the Kabbalah marriage counseling, the Twitter, it’s all a big game. And I feel sorry for her. Because there is no way a woman so desperate to appear young can possibly be capable of handling appearing to be set aside for young vag, public prank or not.
This is the world in which we live. Relationships betwixt famous people are a commodity, bought and sold, used to generate public interest. Fuck, Kristen Stewart, spazzy Tim Burton creature and paparazzi rape victim, finally admitted that she is dating Robert Pattinson’s gold contacts, for the sole purpose of getting asses in the seats for the movie where he rips her womb open with his teeth. “Private lives” are a creation made for public consumption. Nothing is real.
Hollywood is basically an pretentious-assy college art installation.