Anna Nicole Watch

Remember when you were a kid, and you and your buddies got together for a little 2-on-2 basketball, and right before starting, you'd claim, "I call I'm Larry Bird," and another kid said, "I'm Dr. J," and so forth?

Oh, you guys didn't do that when you were kids? You should have. I mean, look at how much better my life has turned out to be than yours as a result.

Anyway, it's one thing to be a kid and have a vivid and active imagination. But what about when you're an A-list celebrity in your late-30s, like Anna Nicole Smith, and two weeks after your not-really-all-that mysterious death, it's revealed in a courtroom that you declared not long before dying that you wanted to be buried next to your idol Marilyn Monroe?

Do you know any adults whose obsessions are so outrageous that they're talking in their 30s where they want to be buried?

I'm typically a compassionate dude, but not when it comes to losers who lead comfy lives despite having no talent or work ethic whatsoever, and even moreso when said loser has it so easy and still finds a way to fuck it up. Have you noticed that the file video you've seen of her since her death includes mostly pictures of Anna being held up by her entourage? There always seems to be a hand firmly gripped around one or both of her forearms. How many clips do you see of her walking -- shoot, even standing -- straight up?

Anna, you made such a mess of your life that you're making quite a mess in death, and thanks to you, the equally trashy masses now have their circus to watch for the next couple of years because no one knows who the father of your new baby is, no one knows who gets to bury your plastic body or where, and no one knows who will get your money that you made merely by marrying a dinosaur in the 1990s.

And don't get me started on Britney.

Two More Cents On Anna Nicole

Now that the Anna Nicole Smith hullabaloo seems to have died down some, here are my two cents:

I have no idea why this person was so celebrated. She succeeded merely at being a brainless millionaire. Blond hair, big tits and completely devoid of any character.

If we've learned one thing upon reflection since her death, it's that trailer trash can certainly make it big. Just start out as a stripper, get impregnated as a teen, present yourself as a whore loudly enough for Playboy to take notice in the form of a rich contract, get an enormously disgusting tattoo on your back, hate your mom, marry a zillionaire three times your age, treat your newfound irrelevance by gaining 100 pounds, make a comeback by embarrassing yourself with that joke of a reality TV show, lose the weight and then spend the last few years of your life being a camera-hungry pill addict and acting like a Marilyn Monroe wannabe.

Certainly Anna had to have had image consultants, but none seemed to tell her of the difference between paparazzi and studio photographers. So much of the file video that's been flashed on television the last several days shows Anna posing like she's in a photo shoot for a truck-stop soft-porn mag. Red-carpet events really aren't the place for tongue shots, but that girl is so fucking dumb I think the national average IQ just went up by a full point with her death.

And even in death there's more to her loser legacy. Three men claim to be the father of her 6-month-old daughter, whose name is quite trailer itself. Dannielynn? I think I've seen that name before -- on a theme-park airbrushed T-shirt back in 1989. What a summer that was.

Old Man Rant Again

Speaking of Jenny McCarthy, did you follow the party coverage of the Super Bowl weekend? Lots of behind-the-scenes looks at this A-list couple going to that A-list club. Exactly the type of stuff that makes me want to live out the rest of my years in the northern reaches of western Canada. I just wish I was better with one of those Swiss Army knives.

Remember when female musicians used to be female musicians? When actresses were just actresses? When did the memo go out to all women telling them they had to look like porn stars too? Seriously, I think every South Beach party picture I saw had a woman showing cleavage, legs and ass, or at least some kind of suggestive smile that told me -- and only me, of course -- that she was ready for me to meet her at her hotel and have my way with her. Certainly the temperatures are nicer in Miami than in most places this time of year, but -- and I haven't yet been invited to a red-carpet Super Bowl party, so I could be wrong -- the invitations surely don't require female guests to dress nearly naked. Do they?

But that's unfortunately how things are in our VIP and velvet-rope culture, which has conditioned too many women to put on every weekend outfit with "How much attention will I get from men?" being the chief concern.

This is not a new rant. The only two girls who've ever broken up with me heard variations of it often. I'm pretty doting with girlfriends, but when it feels like the large amount of attention I heap upon them still isn't enough, then the problem is on them, not me.

This is obviously a note from someone who's 36, not 26, but if you've dated me, or even if you've just had a conversation with me, you know this isn't old and conservative talking. It's well known I can be just as perverted as the next Larry Flynt.

But as long as tan, curvy women want to behave in a way that makes Girls Gone Wild videos sell like hotpants, er, hotcakes, I'll never know which is worse -- their starvation for attention, or the eagerness by typical men to encourage such behavior.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go search for more pictures of Eva Mendes.