Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank (10 page)

He is so adamant about this that he even blames psychiatry—in a crazy-man-screaming-on-the-subway kind of way—for the Holocaust. Yes, that Holocaust.

The whole
Rosemary’s Baby
feel of this particular celeb coupling is just indescribably delicious. And the tabloids
have a new staple: Tom dipping Katie, apparently in a rather awkward height-compensation gesture. I’m guessing poor Katie can’t even walk across the kitchen for a bowl of corn-flakes without Tom springing out and dipping her.

He dips her at the supermarket, the soccer game, walking the dogs, everywhere. At last we have a replacement for the stock photo of Angelina Jolie with that eighty-pound Maddox glued to her hip or Paris Hilton with seventy-five-pound Nicole Richie glued to hers.

Oh, and speaking of Paris, she has said that she is ready to have a child. I guess this means that the future is in good hands. Of course, we don’t know where they’ve been.

Why does Paris want kids?

“I know that kids complete your life,” she said in an interview with
People
magazine. “I think having kids will make me happier than I am. Plus, I already treat my three puppies like kids!”

Yes, well, as long as you have a realistic notion of motherhood. The goal of any baby should be to bring happiness to his shallow-as-a-pie-pan mother. And if you can train that baby to eat on all fours from a five-hundred-dollar bowl bought at a Rodeo Drive boutique and shaped like a giant bone, well, so much the better!

Holy God, where is Dr. Phil when you need him? He needs to have one of those knee-touching sessions with Paris, look straight into her soulless eyes and say, “Paris, if you think raising up young’uns is the same as hauling around that
Gucci dog carrier of yours with a two-pound mutt that looks like a toilet brush with eyes, you’re crazier ‘n cactus juice.”

Paris Hilton having a baby is just a bad idea. Parenthood is about sacrifice, and I don’t mean having to choose between the dead sea mud treatment and the high colonic at your private spa.

Oh, and one more thing. If Paris is really serious about her desire to have a baby, she should probably know that if she thought that Brazilian wax was painful, she might want to hire a surrogate for the actual birthing. They’re
hot.

This Christmas, it seemed to me that every celebrity introduced a “signature fragrance.” If all you want for Christmas is to smell just like Donald Trump, you’re in luck. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m guessing that Trump Cologne smells like money. At sixty bucks for less than an ounce, it should be called Sucka. I’m sure
Apprentice
fans would love a gift set featuring Trump flanked by (much) smaller vials of George, which smells vaguely like crotchety old man, and Carolyn, which comes with its very own stick to insert up your ass, never to be removed.

Also just in time for holiday gift-giving: Britney Spears’s flirty floral, Curious, rumored to attract scruffy, ill-dressed man-boys whose skills are limited to fathering children out of wedlock and—oh, sorry, that was all.

Also new this season, a citrusy mix from the folks at Adidas. Right. I’m going to buy perfume made by a company known for products that combine rubber and sweaty feet. Pass.

Paris Hilton (insert your favorite joke here) was supposed to introduce her new signature scent for the masses later, but her handlers felt that she’s so hot right now that there was no sense in waiting. No name yet, but I’m rather fond of Mattressback!

Jessica Simpson has a huge line of smell’um, including a “threesome of deliciously kissable Taste.” Gawd, it must be true what they always said about preachers’ daughters.

Kim Cattrall, who’s not really a ho but just played one on TV, has introduced Spark Seduction, and Boston Rob Mariano, a second-place finisher in TV’s
Survivor,
has unveiled Foreman, which “combines scents of juniper and clean sweat.” Mariano said he chose the name because he used to be a construction foreman before becoming Mr. Ambuh. Cool. I used to work in a restaurant; meet my new scent, Fry Cook.

Perhaps the weirdest celeb scent I’ve encountered is Full Throttle, from father-son team Paul Teutul Sr. and Jr., of
Orange County Choppers,
a cult hit on The Discovery Channel. Both Teutuls look kinda scary but, as we’re reminded every year at Christmas until we just wanna puke, hardcore bikers are all just gentle giants wanting to deliver gifts to poor kids. Whatever.

The entire cast of
All My Children
has teamed with Wal-Mart to introduce Enchantment. I presume that with just one spritz you’ll be transported to a fictional town where women wake up with flawless hair and makeup in the arms of their husband’s best friends.

That doesn’t smell; it reeks.

Of course, those are all real products available in real stores. But I believe there are so many more celebrities who could be tapped for perfume pitches. How’s about Rehab, a clean new scent from Whitney Houston? (Free gift-with-purchase: Bobby Brown’s spicy scent, Jail Thyme.)

Skater-turned-professional-wrestler Tonya Harding loves to talk tough, so I’m thinking her perfume might be called Smells Like Ass.

Okay, that could hurt sales.

Although the endless celebrity perfume is tiresome, it’s still not so irksome as the celebrities thinking that just because they had a cameo on
Bay watch
one time, they’re now ready to write for kids.

Madonna’s leading the pack with an entire series of children’s books. Whose idea was it to give Madonna a five-book kids’ book deal? What next? A parenting book by Michael Jackson?
(What to Expect When One of Us Is Painfully Weird at Best or a Child Molester at Worst?)

Why does every celebrity think they should write a children’s book? Usually they’re still feeling the last bliss of the
epidural when they bark at the nurse, “Call my agent! The world
needs
my children’s book!”

Sometimes it works. Fergie transformed her tattered toe-sucking image by writing a sweet series of children’s books about a talking helicopter. I’m less optimistic about new poppa-of-three Jerry Seinfeld’s foray into kid lit. I mean what’s that gonna read like? I’m guessing: “What’s the deal with porridge? I mean, is it oatmeal or is it Cream of Wheat?”

But Madonna? Does the world really need her take on Puss ‘n Boots? (Then again, the original features a velvet-vested cat wearing nothing more than the vest, a smile, and some fetching thigh-high leather boots, so perhaps we have nothing to fear.)

Still, this is the woman who created a coffee table book that was so scorching, it was shrink-wrapped before it hit the stores.

One wonders what Dr. Seuss would think of Madonna’s literary pursuits if he were still alive.

Perhaps something like this . . .

I would not, could not read this book

Not on a plane or by a brook

Not in a boat or on a float

So I ask you, Thing One and Thing Two

What would you, should you, have me do?

Read it? No! You ask too much!

I don’t like bondage, sex, and such

What? It’s sweet, it’s good kids’ stuff?

It’s nothing nasty or even rough?

Okay, then, I shall give it a try

But keep the smelling salts standing by

Am I being harsh? Maybe. But would you let Madonna babysit your toddler? (“I spy with my little eye . . . a transvestite nun and a dozen choristers wearing nipple rings!”)

I thought not.

Of course, celebrities aren’t just spending their idle hours developing dubious perfumes and writing children’s books. They have so much to give us all.

For instance, convicted felon and rap diva Lil’ Kim has introduced a line of luxury watches that cost up to $3,500. I suppose marking time is weighing heavily on her mind these days, bless her tiny little heart.

Scruffy country crooner Willie Nelson sells Bio Willie, an ecologically correct fuel that I’m guessing is composed entirely of old whiskers and sleep boogers.

You can even get a MasterCard debit card with Usher’s face on it or, for the old-school types, Elvis, who continues to make huge amounts of money from the grave.

If you’re having a party, don’t forget the Erik Estrada gourmet chips. Did you say “Erik who?” Tsk-tsk. How could you forget his dramatic stylings as a motorcycle cop in
CHiPs?
Get it now? The chips have the bitter aftertaste of fleeting
fame and broken dreams. Or maybe that was just the potassium gum.

Serve those chips with a side of Cheech Marin’s Gnarly Garlic Hot Sauce. Cheech, of Cheech and Chong fame, used to be hilarious when they riffed on pot, but now he plays the gardener on
fudging Amy.
The judge better take a closer look at the plants in her mama’s yard, I say.

And, finally, there’s the rubber-bracelet craze ignited by Lance “Bubba” Armstrong. His Live Strong yellow rubber bracelets have raised millions for cancer research, and good for him. But don’t you think we’ve all gotten a little carried away with the whole rubber-bracelet thing?

The other day I saw one that read
ADOPT A SNIPER: ONE SHOT, ONE KILL, NO REMORSE, I DECIDE
.

Kinda makes you feel all warm and gooshy inside, doesn’t it.

Admittedly the sniper bands aren’t nearly so popular as the ones that say
DREAM
and
BELIEVE
and even
I
KITTENS
but it’s out there.

There’s even one that says
NO BULLYING
. I have this awful mental picture of a bespectacled, wedgie-prone, under-size middle-schooler showing that one off like Wonder Woman to the creepy bully who inevitably will steal his iPod. “But wait!” he will moan, crumpling to the floor. “Didn’t you see my bracelet?”

What would Lance Armstrong think of the bracelets
that say simply
BEER
and
SLACKER
or the steel-gray one that says
FBI
?

Here’s a hint, J. Edgar Doofus: It’s unlikely that a real FBI agent would wear a rubber bracelet identifying himself that way. It would be like that fuzzy-haired undercover agent at the high school showing up in the lunchroom with a nifty tie-dye version that says
NARC

The rubber bracelets can cause confusion. If you see one embossed with a rainbow, does this mean that the wearer is gay or simply a lover of bright colors and, God forbid, unicorns?

Somewhere Lance Armstrong must be sitting in a restaurant and wondering why the teenage waitress is wearing bracelets that say
HIGH MAINTENANCE, SPOILED
, and
DRAMA QUEEN
.

And, as she turns to walk away, the faint musk of Tonya Harding trails behind her.

I just read where TV talk show host Montel Williams has come out in support of legalizing marijuana for medical use. Turns out that Montel has been smoking dope for years to ease his MS symptoms. While I am happy that he has found pain relief, I have to admit that this certainly explains a lot. Everybody knows Montel’s show is just one redneck family paternity test after another, with only the occasional relief of dwarf wrestling or chats with that creepy psychic lady, Sylvia something. Now we know why: The brother was high!

This should lay to rest any notion that marijuana actually makes one think more creatively. I’m picturing Montel firing up a big ol’ doobie at the morning staff meeting and saying,
“A’ight, dawgs, let’s do a show where we test some guy’s DNA to see if he’s really the father!”

While his yes-men staffers nod and say, “Great idea!” you know they’re all thinking,
Tel needs to stop smokin the chronic and give the people what they want: More Midget Weddings!

Most of Montel’s most popular shows involve repeat visits by psychic mediums. I’ll admit Miss Sylvia is better than most because she just comes right out with stuff. (“Yes, your brother’s in heaven and he’s also sitting beside you right now. Next!”) To hear Miss Sylvia tell it, we’re surrounded by dead relatives, which always makes me nervous when I think about getting undressed.

Some of the TV mediums sound as if they’ve been getting high with Tel, though.

MEDIUM
: I’m getting a message from someone named Harry. Your late father?

AUDIENCE JOE
: Nope, no Harrys.

MEDIUM
: Oh, my bad! Did I say Harry? I meant John.

JOE
: No Johns either—sorry.

MEDIUM
: He’s telling me he is a pianist, this John.

JOE
: Nope. But I do have a dead aunt named Clarissa who played cards a lot.

MEDIUM
: Clarissa! That’s who I meant, of course! (Audience cheers wildly.)

Talking about Montel getting high, wouldn’t you hate to be the one in charge of bringing the little chocolate doughnuts
to the morning meeting? Talk about your never-ending jobs. (“Dang I’m hawn-gry!”)