Bizarro World

If You Can’t Beat ’Em…

April 08, 2014

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If You Can’t Beat ’Em…

So I guess I finally have to write about Bruce Jenner.

Tellingly, when I first typed that sentence, instead of “Bruce,” I wrote “Kris.” That’s the name of Jenner’s butch, bossy, occasionally estranged fame-hound wife, from whose love canal (when she was wedded to another) oozed those specimens of toxic, tottering avoirdupois known as the Kardashians.

First off, I must admit: I’ve only seen about 60 seconds of this family’s many television programs. I occasionally leave the TV on when I write, and one afternoon I overheard the following exchange:

First Girl in Restaurant: That’s my purse!

Second Girl in Restaurant: No it isn’t!

First Girl: It is so. I can’t believe you’d borrow my purse without asking!

Second Girl: Whatever.

First Girl: You [beep]!!

Second Girl: No, you’re the [beep]!!

This “conversation” continued for another half-minute before Second Girl muttered “Whatever” again, grabbed said contentious handbag, and wobbled out the door as quickly as her 4-inch stilettos would permit.

“The former Olympian occasionally objects, meekly, to his family’s extravagance or whorishness, but he’s laughed at or simply ignored.”

I grabbed the remote and switched to something higher-falutin’—Cops, probably—but not before I recognized the feuding females as a pair of Kardashians. Their Christian names escaped me then, as they do now, but unfortunately, their peculiar faces have been seared into my brain over the years via cash register magazine racks.

I do know that the most famous one is married to that black “singer” whom, I’m sorry, I still can’t tell apart from that other black “singer.”

According to other information I’ve likewise managed to acquire, like mental burrs or lint, simply by not being comatose, Bruce Jenner’s role on these shows is that of a drone in a hive with multiple queens—a.k.a. Kris and her plentiful female offspring. The former Olympian occasionally objects, meekly, to his family’s extravagance or whorishness, but he’s laughed at or simply ignored. (See “tellingly,” above.)

Yet even if you were already wondering when it was that this onetime personification of alpha male athleticism let the queens cut off his balls, I doubt you ever imagined the day would come when vulgar metaphor would mutate into grotesque reality.

So I’ve been trying to ignore tabloid rumors that Bruce Jenner might be plotting a sex change.

But then a fit of binge-reading on the history of gossip and tabloids reminded me of something that became common knowledge during the O.J. Simpson murder trial, and which had been true long before then:

Tabloids rarely lie.

They exaggerate. They jump to absurd conclusions. But ever since Confidential, the most successful gossip rags have based their celebrity stories upon sworn affidavits, New Yorker-level fact checking, and multiple sources. Confidential might still be around if the proprietors hadn’t gotten too cocky and sloppy to stick with their own patented libel-proof system.
Which brings us, reluctantly, back to Bruce—or as he now reportedly wishes to be called, Bridgitte. (Not for the first or last time, life imitates Monty Python.)