My Spastic Colin Spews Firth
We have a new leader for the Oddest Search String To Produce This Blog As A Result: Nicole Richie's Favorite Flower, via Google. The Bucket came in at number 67, but it's an honor just to be nominated. There are two possible reasons why a person would even attempt such a search: 1) Stalker. He wants to have said flowers pulled apart one petal at a time, then spread across her bed after he breaks into her house. Plus they will serve as a poetic decoration when he dismembers her strangled corpse. 2) Someone at work trying to look up heroin or heroin related products. Remember, Nicole loves the smack. So Nicole Richie -> Heroin -> Opium -> Poppies -> Flowers. It's subtle, but it's less scary than the stalker thing.

I would also like to say quickly how disappointed I am that I don't get more search engine hits for the phrase Vietnamese Hookers despite my best efforts. But as Jesse Jackson says, I should keep hope alive. Or more accurately as he says "Keeb hoba laaaaahf." Is there anyone else in the whole world with the same accent as Rev. Jesse? I swear he made that up himself, obviously without the help of a focus group.

Preliminaries out of the way, today's post begins now:

If I ever see that bastard Colin Firth in person, I'm going to punch him right in the face.

No, not Colin Farrell, broody, dark, smoldering-hot Irishman currently starring in Oliver Stone's gay snuff film epic Alexander, recently announced star of the very necessary film version of Miami Vice. Oh, and once he nailed Britney Spears.

I'm talking about Colin Firth, star of stuffily dull movies whose prime attraction is the employment of an English accent (Pride and Prejudice, The English Patient, Shakespeare In Love and Bridget Jones' Diary to name a few).

I'm sure he's a fine person and not at all deserving of a smashed-in cranium, but really, I'm completely tired of the man. Not only has he prominently featured in my latest Entertainment Weekly, but I've seen two news-service stories on him in my local paper as well as an interview in my latest Newsweek.

That last bit is just going to far. I read Newsweek with the explicit intent to be scared to death about the rapidly deteriorating political situations all around the globe and why it's all George Bush's fault. The last thing I need is some smirking limey thespian sniffingly dismissing the very necessary Bridget Jones sequel of which he is a primary part and complaining about how he wants to "stretch" as an actor.

There are certain people whose overexposure you expect and accept. Let's go back to Britney Spears for a second as an example. Sure, she can't sing a lick and has never to my knowledge even tried to sing live, unaided in any way by any sort of recording. But she does have giant fake breasts and dresses scantily while she does that hip-jiggly thingy when she dances. That type of a person you expect hundreds of thousands of newspaper and magazine pages to be devoted to. And well earned, I must say.

But this Colin Firth guy... it's all "oh, look at me, I can act and everything. Wow, aren't I proficient in the medium by which I earn my living." Bo-ring. Ever dance in a halter top while carrying an albino python? Didn't think so.

But for some completely unexplained reason, American women just swoon.

Did I mention he was English? Bastard.

OK fine, here it is, I'll lay it out for you. Here's what's bothering me. If Mrs. Pops had a blog/website, it would probably look like this. Or this. Or this. Or this.

Of course there is just the slightest outside chance that it would look like this, but really, does it make a difference? The point is still the same: I am a sad little insecure man who is easily threatened by pretend people portrayed by certain actors.

Therefore I would be totally justified punching him in the face.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 8.4


Pops

- posted by Pops @ 1:08 PM