The Muppet Happy Hour

Day 23.

Fuck Daniel Radcliff.  Fuck his scrawny, lilly white, I-landed-the-sweetest-gig-ever-when-I-was-eleven-and-now-I'm-set-for-life, pampered, pimply ass.  While we're at it, fuck Hermione and Ron, too.  Also, fuck Miley Cryus, Jaime-Lynn Spears, Taylor Swift, fuck the Jonas Brothers, Vanessa Hudgens, the cast of Glee, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK Justin Bieber and fuck his multi-million dollar fucking movie.  Their talent level is suspect yet they have more money than every member of my hard-working lower-middle class family combined.  I resent these children with every jealous fiber of my being for their delusional fans, their stupid haircuts, their "art," and the entire Disney Channel machine that created them.  Produced and promoted within an inch of their tweeny little lives, they lierally make me want to gag myself with a silver spoon.

I do not know these people at all and hate that I feel anything at all in regards to the lives of strangers.

It's envy really.  Just plain old, unattractive, unwarranted envy.  Somebody had to play Harry Potter; might as well be Radcliff.  Sure, I'd probably prefer if one of my favorite, childhood literary characters was protrayed by an actor who could convey more than anger, fear, and constipation, but I doubt even Haley Joel Osment could please everybody.  Maybe I just wish I was born that lucky, successful from the get-go, free from failure and financial worry.  But no, instead of ease I have toil and instead of instant gratification I have the satisfaction that comes with a soul-crushing daily grind.

There's something about really good art that requires a little bit of street cred.  Rappers with prison tattoos, painters with psychosis, country stars with lifelong memberships to AA, these are people who have lived.  They've struggled, failed, recovered, fought for every gig, scraped for every dollar, and ended up finding peace in the little things.  Bloody knuckles, sweaty fits of withdrawl, tearful heartbreaks that push us within an inch of our lives; these are the foundations of lessons worth talking about.  These are songs I will gratefully listen to.

Then I hear "Baby" from the Bieb-ster and vomit in my mouth a little.  There he is, singing about love because ten minutes ago he felt his lil' wee-wee move for the first time.  His music is a certified crock of shit and yet Bieber is somehow a 16-year old rockstar rolling in Canadian pride, American greenbacks, Latin American girls and opportunities all over North America.  Justin Bieber has overcome nothing, he hasn't had the time, leading too charmed a life to merit appreciation, and so his words mean nothing.  I don't wish harm on the kid or anything, but a nasty case of unsightly acne might be nice.  What kind of artist can be born without suffering?

The rest of us have the privilege/kick-in-the-balls of earning.  We get earn our awards and recognition, working two crappy jobs to be behind on the rent, scraping and fighting for our place in the world so that (even if we don't find it) we will at least have our pride.  If ever I amount to anything I'll stand on my soapbox and humbly declare, "And I did it without a fucking handout."

I defer my student loans because I can't afford to move out of my parent's house while Selena Gomez buys a new Mercedes.

Fist yourself, Bieber.

TFR. SYT.