At 1:36 p.m. yesterday, Anna Nicole Smith was found on the floor of a cheesy theme hotel room in Florida. She was pale and bloated, her pupils were fixed and dilated, and she was unresponsive to simple questioning. I’m surprised that anyone thought there was anything wrong with her.
Within minutes, Anna’s underfunded spin machine went into overdrive. The hired-gun pathologist she put on the payroll a few months back to try and convince people that her son didn’t die of a drug-fuelled binge told the press that he thought Anna might have died of viral pneumonia. Which just goes to show you that whatever you think about Anna Nicole, she paid that fucking quack too much. I’m no doctor, but even I know you can’t snort viral pneumonia.
I was following the course of Anna’s newly-launched deathship on MSNBC.com, and I read this quote: “‘From my professional exposure to Anna Nicole, I can say she was always personable, down to earth and driven…’ said Wayne Munroe, her Bahamian lawyer who has overseen the aftermath of her son’s mysterious death in Nassau.” Of course. All good, salt-of-the-earth folks have Bahamian lawyers on retainer to assist in the mop-up of their child’s methadone overdose. Hell, my mom has two.
And obviously she was driven. Because nothing screams personal ambition like giving a dry crank yank to an octogenarian for a chunk of 400 million. Oh sure; it sounds like sleeping your way to the top, but this was before Viagra. She probably gave herself carpal tunnel syndrome tossing that guy off, which may have led to her lifelong addiction to morphine-based painkillers. Well, either carpal tunnel, or her insatiable, lustful hunger for morphine-based painkillers.
Anna Nicole was at her most famous while I was in college; her Guess Jeans ad was a pretty common pin-up for the guys in my sophomore year dorm. She was in Playboy by my junior year (when I was broke), which presented me with a choice: see Anna Nicole’s tits or buy a twelve pack of Natural Light. If you know me at all, you know that I chose the beer. When I got my first Internet account a couple years later, one of the first things I downloaded off of Usenet was her centerfold, proving that even when I was a junior, I was wise beyond my years.
Because there’s a fine line between “I can’t believe I fucked that girl!” being a complete and satisfying statement, and being a prefix to the statement: “Christ, I hope my friends don’t find out”. And Anna entered prefix / suffix land after the old fart’s family raised a stink over her 200 million dollar handjob, Guess Jeans fired her and Hugh Hefner stopped returning her calls, so she made Anna Nicole Smith: Exposed, which was a major motion picture clocking in under a hour that documented Anna Nicole’s refined taste for dick, clam, dildo and / or doorstop.
I’ve seen it, and it’s worth watching if you’re horny, alone and your Internet connection’s down, but do yourself a favor: focus on the tits. Not only do they put on the only compelling performance in the movie, but if you look into Anna’s eyes, you could easily fool yourself into thinking it’s a Romero zombie flick. Except I’m pretty sure Tom Savini could make more realistic fake knockers.
And then there was the Goddamned reality show – two seasons of a bloated former beauty queen stumbling around in a percodan haze looking for love, money and a payday. I watched it once, but all I can remember liking about it was the fact that watching her stumble into things while she chased around after that Goddamned poodle made me feel normal. I’m pretty sure you could be whiskey-drunk, naked and huffing Rust-O-Leum, with a dead hooker to get rid of in the four hours before you had to pilot the 6:15 flight to London… but turning on E! to watch Anna Nicole try to puzzle out the directions on a bottle of Prell would make you feel like you had your shit together.
Look: on an average day, Anna Nicole Smith was the life-support system for a nice set of funbags who happened to be in the right place at the right time with the right attitude toward casual bulimia to make it big. On her best day, she was a Real Doll with track marks for Marilyn Monroe fetishists, and on her worst, she traded out sex for money but had the good sense to aim higher than a glory hole in the bus station men’s room. All I’m saying is, we didn’t lose a cure for cancer here, and any come shots we might have lost dried up in 1995. Last night, Larry King said she “had some class,” but he’s old and I’ll forgive him the accidental extra two letters.
She leaves behind a body of work that includes a canceled reality show and obsolete soft-core pornography, an irritating rat dog named Sugar-Pie, and an infant daughter with a fraudulent birth certificate and fetal methadone syndrome.
Yep, all “class.” Gotta watch those two extra letters, Larry. Think about hiring an editor.
[tags]Anna Nicole Smith, Howard K. Stern, Larry Birkhead, Dannielynn Smith, Howard Marshall, Vicki Lynn Hogan, methadone, autopsy, paternity, The Anna Nicole Show, autopsy, dark humor[/tags]
meh
“meh”
Now THAT’S a heckle, sir! You have certainly put me in MY place! I’ll grant you, it’s not a homophobic rant involving monkeys, but I’ll try harder next time, I promise.
MEH!
Sometimes I feel bad about myself as a human being. I’m glad I have you two around to remind me that I’m not as bad as I think.
Does this mean they already booked you for the memorial service?
She’s got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll’s eyes. When she comes at ya, doesn’t seem to be living… until she steals your inheritance, and those black eyes roll over white…
“Now THAT’S a heckle, sir! You have certainly put me in MY place! I’ll grant you, it’s not a homophobic rant involving monkeys, but I’ll try harder next time, I promise. ”
This from the guy that is viewed by real comedians the same way that real vampires view Count Chocula.
1. It wasn’t a heckle, it was my comment on how I felt about her death.
2. Choke on a dick you pathetic little pussy whipped fuck. Have another 6 pack and flex your cyber-muscles some more while you hide behind your keyboard while posting from your new pillow fort. Just because ‘Scoop’ scares mexicans doesn’t mean that you won’t piss your pants the first time I make a fist and glare in your general direction. Remember, you are best known as a homophobic, submissive piddler. To wit, shut your fucking bitch ass pie hole before I kick you in the cunt, you fucking whiner.
3. Number 1, above, really is true and your article really was funny… you dumb fuck.
4. Sloppy wet kisses, bitch.
5. Peace out, niggah.
Lance – Oh, okay. I get it now. Your post has subtle nuance and raises questions that Noctivigant’s first post was missing. Well played, sir. Well played. And I don’t just say that because you’re friendly with my boss and might be the only person who could convince my girl to turn against me.
Timmy Mac – While I’m glad I serve a purpose in your life, I must maintain that making fun of a dead whore who was too stupid to get the money up front doesn’t make me a bad person; it makes me a Darwinist.
Paul – I won’t be attending the memorial. I want to remember Anna the way she was in life: empty, slack-jawed and vacuous. I don’t need to look at a corpse to reinforce that image. Plus, that lawyer of hers would have me put in a hammerlock quicker than you could say “Defamation of character.”
Trebuchet – …So, eleven hundred men went in Anna Nicole; 316 men come out; I’ll never put on a ribbed condom again…
Noctivigant – Thanks for clarifying that you liked the post, and that your intention was to indicate a lack of interest in Anna’s death. I don’t see how I could have missed that wealth of meaning in three clearly-written letters with no capitalization or punctuation. Obviously, my reading comprehension needs work.
That said: let’s quit the bullshit posturing, shall we? I know how flattered you were when I referred to you as an “Ex-army biker” on the radio, but don’t let it go to your head. Technically it was true, but I could just have easily referred to you as a “LARPing computer geek,” which would be equally true, and then who’d be more believable screaming “Not the face!”?
And with regards to being a “homophobic, submissive piddler”: I’ve never made any secret about being willing to do absolutely anything for a half-million dollars.
Excuse me, if you want to drag it down to that level, then you will refer to me by my proper titles:
Tsabrak V’rammir, Captain of the Imperial Army of Koth (retired), Lieutenant of the Dupree Colonial Milita, Master General and Warlord of the Bloodriders of Chaos.
or
Noctivigant, Quality Assurance Project Manager
Fuck, old my LARPing titles have more testosterone in them then your body has ever produced.
Now, all that being said, as a former Drill Instructor for the US Army and an owner of several more motorcycles and pick-up trucks than you… Mr. Mazda Miata or should I say Miss Toyota MR2 Spyder, I cordially invite you to quit the posturing as well and feel free to stand toe to toe with me any given day – I’ll give you the first swing, which I demand will be to the face. On the day that you have enough sack to do that AND take the beatdown that will inevitably follow without crying like a little girl… THEN we will sit down as equals. Until then, slip into your Depends, open up your throat and take it like the bitch that you are.
jeez, how much longer does this have to go on before one of us starts crying and we go have that awesome make-up sex?
shit… I typed that didn’t I?
I wish I knew how to quit you…. fagit
For the record, in case anyone actually needs this clarified (and so no charges are filed against either camp) Rob and I have been friends for years and this kind of bullshit bantering is par for the course. It’s how we got through our days at the helm of the deathship that we worked at together. It was either that or play Zombie Attack with our co-workers and frankly, while the idea of mowing those fuckers down made me feel funny in the pants, the idea of having to actually pay for my crimes held as much appeal as trying to wrestle the last beer on earth away from Reuter.
So now everyone can sit back and relax, no one is trying to hurt your precious little Robbie Wobbie. He’s perfectly safe in his new house. With all those windows. Never can have too many locks on the door. Ever notice how, with thermal imaging sites, you have to aim just an inch or two to the left – some kind of wierd distortion or something I guess. Anyway, I’m rambling again. Now where did I put that surgical tubing?
Man, I sure love a good quality assurance fight.
“Man, I sure love a good quality assurance fight.”
You think it’s bad now, just wait until it gets all hexadecimal.
6675636b206f666620796f7520636f636b7375636b696e6720736869…
54696d6d79204d61632065617473207468652073636162732066726f6…
[Hex strings truncated by editor due to destructive effect on CSS page formatting]
Yes, it’s really hexadecimal….
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