Paris Hilton must be pissed off right about now. While her back was turned, two people who are even more stupid, entitled, and gross than she is have ascended to the giddy shame-throne occupied by rarefied, useless idiots that America loves to hate. In fact, it would appear that Spencer and Heidi exist to make Paris feel as though she's accomplished, reasonable, and decent.
There is no good reason to watch them on I'm a Celebrity ... Get Me Out of Here . Well, OK, there's one. They're born again now. In case you weren't keeping up with the details, Stephen Baldwin assisted them with this. Suddenly their lives have become way more fascinating to me.
Best part of the most recent episode I saw (so you don't have to watch it, because seriously, why would you if you weren't being paid to do so like me?) was when Spencer described a moment in which Heidi began reading aloud from her Bible in a search for wisdom about whether or not they should remain in the wet Costa Rican jungle with Janice Dickinson or whether they should return to The Hills from whence they came. At the sound of her voice reading from Scripture, Spence began vomiting and sweating uncontrollably. When asked if he wanted her to stop, he demanded she continue while he puked up his guts.
Later, Heidi vomits. Both of them consider this barf to be demons that have been squatting in Heidi's soul. Stephen Baldwin is so into this that he eggs them on and encourages them to get real crazy with loud screaming to Jesus after he interprets their "prophetic dreams" and talks about one of his own.
So, keeping score:
1. Heidi's voice makes Spencer throw up.
2. Satan makes Heidi throw up.
3. Both of them make Stephen Baldwin seem rational.
Suddenly, after a long period where I studiously avoided them, I'm fascinated. And even better? They show all the signs of being on the Baldwin path, which is just a hop and jump away from becoming like this guy:
Yes, I watch The 700 Club sometimes. I think it's important to keep up with what your favorite gay-haters are saying. And Pat Robertson has always been my favorite. He's not a barking, meatheaded bully like Jerry Falwell was, may he rest in peace. He's not a vicious, spitting monster like Jesse Helms was, may he also rest in peace. Pat Robertson is like the doddering geriatric coot with all the wrong information and homemade ideas about theology, science, psychology, and human behavior, like when your senile grandfather starts spouting off about race-mixing. Pat is also a total charlatan of the old-school variety, and we're about to lose touch with that bit of snake-oily cultural history when he shuffles off.
I love that the age of the son in question (Go watch the clip! Don't think you can just skim over this shit) is important to Pat, like maybe if the kid were young enough, he might advise the parents to simply spank the gay out of the boy. I also like the logic involved in believing that sexually abusive coaches and guidance counselors are so prevalent, in every school in every town, that they alone are responsible for the existence of queer kids. Even better, this is a guy who thinks gays caused 9/11. Which in turn means that coaches and guidance counselors were also responsible. And that means, ultimately, that both international terrorism and homosexuality are all the fault of dodge ball and Career Day.
As an antidote, we have the recent telecast of the Tony Awards, which are a very big deal to lots of gays. I don't understand them at all, but I would never insult anything that gives us the pow-right-in-the-kisser sight of a clotheslined Bret Michaels. I watched some of the show with my husband and only winced once, when the touring company of Mamma Mia! got up to camp around and butcher an ABBA song. It was just an uncomfortable reminder of how the fame ladder works. Unemployed actors are grateful to be in touring companies. Touring company people wish they were on Broadway, nominated for Tonys for a TV audience who has no idea who they are or what their play is about. The cult-famous Broadway people wish they could be in movies, and movie people want stage legitimacy, even if it means acting all gay in the Shrek musical.
As a further antidote, we also get the return of Kathy Griffin on another season of My Life on The D-list, which premiered this week. Full disclosure before I praise her: I appeared on one episode of that show during the first season for precisely five seconds. I kinda-sorta know her, is why. We have mutual friends, and my man and I were at her Christmas party, avoiding the cameras as much as we could without seeming ridiculous about it. And then she came up to talk to us, and, as it was her show and she was surrounded by cameras, we got caught on tape, then edited into the show, laughing at something funny she said to us. For the record, my man said "NUH-UH!" and I was the one with the shaved head who went "BAH-HA!"
And now that episode airs on Bravo all the dang time for some reason and people e-mail me and go, "OMG I SAW YOU ON D-LIST! WHAT'S KATHY GRIFFIN LIKE IN REAL LIFE?!" That's a question with no good answer since, like I said, I only kinda-sorta know her. But I dig her and I dig her show. I like that she has cast-iron balls and that she'll say pretty much anything that crosses her mind. I like that she's both really into being a celebrity and also really into fucking with the idea of celebrity. But mostly I like that she gave me my first-ever fancy cupcake from Sprinkles and, when there were a few left over, she looked at my husband and me and said, "C'mon bears! Eat the cupcakes!"
She hung out with Bette Midler on the first episode, and asked the unusually prissy B.M. whether or not "Wind Beneath My Wings" was about farts. B.M. didn't find this amusing even though it was the absolute funniest thing of the whole episode. You'd think that for a lady who used to sing in gay bathhouses she'd be a little more down for poop-centric material.
So I'll keep watching her (Griffin, that is, not Bette) all summer. You should do that too. It'll cleanse the Speidi, Baldwin, and Pat from your demon-clogged soul.