Eeky Geeky: Weekly Peeky at the Freaky

Carl Brooks

A bold EGWPATF this week, on the phenomenon that has altered the gelid surface of consumable culture as we know it: sex celebrity. But first, the news.

The DMCA continues to be a bad law, and hands down the funniest attempt to implement it belongs those friendly gents who make garage door openers. They tried to claim, under the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, one of the worst pieces of legislation since the Alien and Sedition Acts, that the idea of beaming a radio signal at a teeny weenie little antenna in your articulated magic wall o’garage happiness, is intellectual property and anyone else should be verboten under pain of federal court bitchslapping from making anything remotely likely it.

Now, they were laughed out of court, which is fine. But really, can you imagine the suburb at 6pm, as hundreds, thousands of drudges return from their habitats to their nesting cages? One by one they pull into the driveway, and each in turn, is apprehended by a squad of stormbooted jacktroopers for “Garage Door Piracy.”

In other news, the MPAA has introduced a bill to the House via its pet representative whores that will send you to jail for five years for using a camcorder in a movie theater. No joke. That’s five, count ’em, Years In Prison. And that would be federal pound-me-in-the-*ss prison, not minimum sec. country club. The good news is that the Paris Hilton sex video has arrived.

In what might be a world’s record for filesharing and a rather innovative marketing strategy, the skinny rich twitch’s gooey video hit the net exactly as her new TV show came out, and there was a somewhat over-calculated public spat with a website that “somehow” got aholt of the Hilt’s XXX video. Oddly, the video was shot by and starred a fella named Rick Solomon, whose hobby is, well, amateur porn. Go figure, huh?

Ms Hilton is to be commended on her daring, expertise in marketing, and her frank appraisal of her worth as a human being. Doubtless with a team of crack PR bunnies at her side, she noted well the success, in a bassackward way, of the Pam and Tommy video, the R. Kelly video (a bit too naughty), and the revelation that Britney Spears kisses other girls and masturbates, and devoted a good length of time to evaluating her talents as a performer, personality and the relative chances she had of making a worthwhile contribution to society, and decided that her best shot at fame was a naughty video shot while she still had perky hormones on her side.

At least this way she’ll be a household name, courtesy of her one moderate talent, for at least a few years, and hey, she’s too rich to care what happens when she gets unpleasant to look at, right? She will live in perpetual naughtiness forever, a tribute to the remarkable new world of celebrity we live in, when enthusiastic and charmingly inexpert public rutting is a bonus, stylish, and quite possibly to become the next publicity craze. The future women scientists, lawyers, and engineers of the world salute you, Paris!

Seriously, though-the Hilton fillin’ can teach us all a valuable lesson. As the entertainment world discovered quite by accident with Spam and Sloppy Lee, otherwise useless celebrities having dirty sex does not, in fact, lower their appreciable value in the eyes of the trailer sloth. In fact, it rather increases it. But really, who thought either one had talent? All they had were young skin and excitable bits, and the true nature of celebrity was, in a virtual-epiphenomenalistic fashion, stripped bare.

All people ask is that you look like you’re having fun. Gods knows the Hilton video is embarrassing, for women, for the western world, etc., but nobody really cares, because all they need, with their fat, soft little feelers outstretched, is proof that somebody out there is living up to their expectations for depravity. In a way, she’s become a sort of Christ figure for the celebrity religion, accepting martyrdom with a smile that the many will never have to. And let’s thank her, or we may find the next “sex tape leak” to be Jack Nicholson’s. Eek.