Go read all the Mommy Bloggers before you read this.
I'm not kidding. Go.
Get all the sweet pictures of everyone's little darlings wrapped in Christmas paper and sucking on dolls' toes and the dog wearing reindeer antlers into your systems first. I want you to have a reason to feel good about life before the disgust of my blog sets in and you tell me I need a hug or some other retarded thing. Please don't ever tell me I need a hug. Cash yes, hugs no.
Yesterday I caught an episode of the Duggar marathon, the people with 17 kids.
With a SAG strike looming, many shows KO'd by the writer's strike, producers are looking for more shows like this. The Duggars get paid, get tons of freebies and PR while actors and writers who've spent a lifetime honing their craft for peanuts, just for the love of the art form, watch with mouths agape at how ridiculous Hollywood has become. Yes, let's give the HOUSEWIVES OF THE O.C., NYC and ATLANTA tons of money because we all know how poor they are.
Producers are the equivalent of Bernard Madoff. Only it's corporate greed masquerading as entertainment. I hope they, along with Steven Spielberg (doesn't he have enough money that he had to go with Madoff too?) lose it all and one day have to look at life the way artists do. At least the Japanese and French have the right idea; make a huge financial mistake and then kill yourself.
Merry Christmas.
Now go check out Part 9 of my memoir, All The Bad Sex I've Had AND IN SPITE OF THAT WAS NOT IRRESPONSIBLE ENOUGH TO HAVE 17 KIDS.
Scrooge out.
