Fuck you, celebrity adulating dumbass skeezers!

So this last Tuesday I moonlighted, working security at the local premier of Captain Morgan's new liquor, Tattoo. Tattoo is just like the regular Captain Morgan's rum, only it tastes worse.

The invite list was restricted to local bar workers, and the event featured on-site tattooing and piercing, drunken play piercers, drunken fire-dancers, scantily clad trapeze artists, scantily clad Captain Morgan's spokesmodels, scantily clad local band Helles Belles, and scantily clad local bartenders and cocktail waitresses, all of whom did their level best to put a dent in the unlimited free alcohol that flowed all night long.

But the highlight of the evening was Captain Morgan's celebrity spokesmodel himbo Dennis Rodman. Apparently Rodman represents the bad boy image the Captain hopes to imbue Tattoo with.

Rodman was set to arrive by riding a motorcycle up a ramp and into the building. And man, there is nothing better than trying to clear and maintain an open space in a crowd of several hundred drunk people, so that a celebrity can ride a motorcycle into their midst. It's even better if the celebrity keeps on delaying his arrival. When Rodman finally did get there, you would have thought Jesus himself had ridden down from heaven and started passing out free cocaine. Everybody cheered, and tried to press in on the himbo and his bike.

Once he got off the bike, he retreated over to a wall covered with Tattoo logos, and started posing for pictures. Our detail formed a line as best we could, and held the drunk folks back.

As I held the dumbasses back, I meditated on the nature of celebrity. In front of me stood dozens and dozens of sluttily dressed bimbos, the whole mess of them wriggling and squealing and doing their best to get closer to Rodman. Had Rodman so commanded, any one of them would have dropped to their knees and blown him right then and there. As I meditated, I realized any one of these skeezers would have done anything to get close to Rodman. Rodman the Celebrity.

It was then I realized, again, that we are doomed. The same cultural forces compelling housewives to have strongly-held, vigorously defended Pitt/Aniston/Jolie positions also drive the bar sluts to want to breed with Rodman. Our culture revers celebrities the way previous socities revered their emperorer or their gods.

But an emperor could send legions to aid you. A god might smite your enemies. By contrast, a celebrity makes appearances, grants interviews, and talks about 'where they're at now.' The only thing celebrities are good at is being famous. Who would you want on your side in a knife fight - Marcus Aurelius, or Paris Hilton?

A society such as ours, that places so much value on fame, is fundamentally flawed. For what we value is what we will emulate. By prizing fame for the sake of fame, we assign value to that which has none. The more people there are who succeed by our society's definition, the more people there will be who have no value.

So to you bimbos who tried so desperately to attract the attention of Rodman, I say fuck you. Go read a book. Go read a newspaper. Go vote. Go think about something. Try and come up with one idea of your own. If you don't, if you can't, we are all fucked.