I don't watch Oprah because she irritates the piss out of me. I don't read 99% of the articles on CNN dot com, either, for the same reason. I do, however, subscribe the latter's RSS feed, so I peruse the headlines and generally use them to give myself a good laugh. Like this morning, when I rolled my eyes about another washed-up celebrity attaining hero status by simply being in the right place at the right time--and then I realized the headline "Sting catches alleged terrorist in bomb plot" wasn't actually about Sting, former Police front man, but a sting. I'm so silly!
Lately, however, the headlines are just making me shake my head and wonder when my real family will descend from the clouds and take me back to my home planet. I speak specifically about Mackenzie Phillips and her recent attempt at soul-baring.
Come on, Julie. I watched you run Bonnie Franklin nutso back in the day and not only did I want to be you, I secretly wanted you to be my older sister. But then you did what all child stars are supposed to do, which is develop a highly-publicized drug problem and then drop off the radar. I respect that; like I said, it's what you were supposed to do. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's in every standard child actor contract written prior to 1987.
But now, like the Dolly Parton song says, here you come again. Now you want to come clean about your drug problem (like anyone missed that) and let everyone know about how you had a "consensual" incestuous affair with your dear old nutjob dad that lasted well into your adult life.
Oh, Julie. Seriously? Couldn't you just "accidentally" leak out some naked pictures or a sex tape if you wanted attention? Seriously.
And your claim you're only doing this to "get people to start talking about" incest and their own drama? Not buying it. Sorry. I think you're doing this because Whitney Houston talked trash on her ex to Oprah and now she's famous again. I think you're trying to get one more hit to the snooze button on your 15 minutes of fame. I think your publisher thought it would be a stellar way to kick off your new book's campaign.
And let's just say, because I like to play devil's advocate, you really were banging your old man all those years while you both injected yourselves with Sweet Lady H. Even if it's true--I don't care. I don't want to hear about it. Because really, I got over that whole "silence equals death" thing after every other cause ripped it off from the AIDS awareness campaign. Now I can't make it through a fucking work day without hearing about someone's pap smear, or what someone else's therapist suggested to help her deal with her mother's drinking problem, or what someone else thinks about female circumcision and vaccinating children, and I've decided a little silence could be a very good thing. I don't want to talk about the importance of regular prostate exams with my father. I don't want to talk about those not-so-fresh days with my mother-in-law. I don't want to engage in heartfelt conversation with my husband about our respective colons. You all just keep that fucking information to yourselves, thank you, and we'll get on just fine.
So Julie, please, if you can't get back in the spotlight the right way by gaining a shit-ton of weight and then becoming a spokesperson for a popular diet racket--you know, like Barbara did--do us all a favor and just crawl back into your crazy cave and stay there.
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