Turning Shit into Gold since 2006
Ever since Michael Jackson was killed by his homicidal, morphine-injecting robot butler Prudence 5000, it seems like so many of the former teen stars who once roamed his Neverland Ranch in search of the fountain of youth (because you can’t play a Lost Boy forever without it) have succumbed to the mishandling of prescription pills. Corey Haim, Andrew Koenig, and for the sake of equal rights, I will include Brittany Murphy, are the some ex-teen actors I can think of off the top of my head who couldn’t quite keep their pill counts in check. This is not even counting Drew Barrymore’s shameful awards ceremony appearances of late, which may or may not have been pill-related but unfortunately were not overdoses.
In no way do I feel sorry for the demise that has defined these celebrities. How hard could your life really have been? Sure the grandfather of celeb overdoses, Heath Ledger, was under extreme Olsen twin distress when he bought the farm for twenty-two Valiums over the asking price, but that does not excuse the fact that his Hollywood optimism should have outweighed his dumpster depression. DJ AM followed in fine fashion with his premature exit from existence after he cracked up over a break up with a fashion model. The dude survived an airplane crash for Pete’s sake!
I guess the whole point to this silly rant is to say that I do not have patience for people who squander fame, fortune, and opportunity. Sure, the public eye is prying and not much gets by its camera lens, but that does not mean pounding a six-pack on top of 44 units of Somas will solve all of your problems. There are homeless drug addicts that chew on stale cigarette butts for a buzz who deserve a swifter passing from the streets than any celebrity in an uptown loft.
This culture of cuddling celebrities haunted by their inescapable childhood roles is disgusting. Too fucking bad if the height of your career came at the peak of your puberty. Life is like a game of craps; we’d all like to throw sevens or elevens but most of us end up rolling twos or twelves. If you must self-destruct, at least have the courage to kill a liver with Cognac instead of disappearing in the unconscious abyss.