I've got a television in the other room and have it on MSNBC (whenever there's a big tabloid story breaking, you can count on MSNBC to be the best in the worst way -- it does scuzzy very very naturally). Seminole Police Chief Charlie Tiger just announced there were NO illegal narcotics found in the room (as apparently falsely reported by CBS-2's Scott Weinberger, who now has some 'splaining to do). Just a bunch of prescription meds.
Broward Medical Examiner Joshua Perper is up there now talking about his preliminary findings. Big day for him. But he wasn't of much help, the cagey bastard. Cause still undetermined.
Mostly what has been transmitted from the other room has been a constant stream of BS. Everybody's talking about why we cared so much about Anna Nicole Smith. Why, oh why, did we love her so? Perseverence, they say. Glamour. Extraordinary beauty.
Bullshit, bullshit,
bullshit.
For 15 minutes 14 years ago that might have been true. But for the past decade-plus, we have cared about Anna Nicole Smith the same we care about a six-car pile-up on the highway. All we were doing when we watched her (and here I plead guilty) was rubbernecking. How drug-addled and drunk would she be this time? Did she really screw that old codger? Would she have some insipid squabble with the idiot Bobby Trendy? How fucking fat would she be this week? What would she do to prove once again that she's Grade A, 100 percent pure American trailer trash?
Yeah, we were waiting for disaster to strike. And it did yesterday. Welcome to the payoff, fans.
