I’m going to start like this: I saw Ke$ha live once. Worse: I woke up at 4 a.m. and waited in Rockefeller Center in a puddle of glitter sprinkled off clusters of Midwestern teenagers who had woken even earlier to see Ke$ha, to see Ke$ha.
I remember the first time I saw Britney Spears. She was featured in a special section of the Delia’s catalogue I always looked through and never ordered from when I was in seventh grade.
In the following years, I would grow up, so would she, and I would follow her every step. She was mine, my star, and everything about her was mine to know. I once bought two copies of the “Oops!…I Did It Again” album just to make sure I was doing my part to boost her sales in the first week the album was released. I own a copy of Crossroads on DVD, y’all.
There comes a time in every girl’s life when she’s approached by David Bowie to take an unchaperoned trip through a dry hell full of weird men and magic. [Ed note: To be fair, David Bowie took Mick Jagger on the same trip.] Supposedly this journey leads you through the conclusion of puberty into adulthood, or whatever. I remember the first time the Androgynous One came to offer me his crystal globes. I snorted milk through my nose and behaved like my generally unbearable self. And that’s the story of why Kat Greene doesn’t have boobs! [Ed note: Is that the trade-off? He gets to turn a baby into a goblin and the girl gets boobs? Shame on you, Jennifer Connelly.]
Kat, I hate to break this to you, but everything you know about Dudley Moore and Kirk Cameron? Flip it. Arthur 2: On the Rocks? Flipped. Your Mike Seaver from Growing Pains poster? Flip. That. Shit. We got a real Christmas in Australia situation going on here.
Going forward, all Dudley Moore related matters will go directly to Kirk Cameron. All official Kirk Cameron business is now under the jurisdiction of Dudley Moore. Sean Astin stuff will continue to go to Sean Astin, unless Elijah Wood says otherwise. However, the magnetic poles of the Earth have been reversed, so Morgan Freeman will need to re-narrate March of the Penguins to reflect the change.
If you have any letters addressed to D. Moore or K. Cameron, please place a strikethrough on their names and write their corrected titles above the address field, followed by RE: LIKE FATHER LIKE SON. Also, the rapture has been postponed until God can finish watching the last half of this movie, so he can be sure that when he calls Kirk Cameron home to receive his heavenly rewards, it’s not actually Dudley Moore’s soul hiding out in Kirk Cameron’s body trying to scam his way into a free golden harp and halo.
The really unfortunate thing about all of this is how much hate mail I’ve now accidentally sent to the wrong person. Listen to me, Jason: Mike Seaver is a little shit, and don’t you forget it. I know I won’t.
You know what would be really great, though? A little Sean Astin, all to myself. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have a tiny hirsute admirer bring me food and carry me up mountains and shit. That’s what’s terrible about this economy, if we’re really getting down to it. There are too few hairy handmaidens, because they’re all too busy trying to earn a living in a currency more universal than my disdainful praise and the glory of being in my presence. The low supply of human Giving Trees is forcing the price up, and I just don’t know how much more condescension I’m willing to dole out in exchange for groveling and chores. Then again, nothing’s worse than having to make your own second breakfast, Jason. Nothing.