Melissa Schrettner STAFF WRITER

You know celebs and paparazzi culture are going down the drain when find yourself surfing BBC and CNN rather than Perez Hilton and Oh No They Didn’t for new updates. Now, I love me some ONTD, but lately I’ve been finding myself pretty brushed up on world politics and I just want to know one thing: Why the sudden shift to the intellectual side of life?

Maybe it’s because people are calling Jessica Simpson fat and I just can’t get with that. I mean, ok, maybe wearing two cheetah print belts at the same time was a bad idea—hell, wearing one is a bad idea—but in her defense, she’s still about 500 Big Macs shy of anything even closely resembling chubby. So I say bash her stylist all you want, but the body type? Dudes. Lay off. Ten bucks says you’re fatter than her, anyways.

Or maybe, maybe celebrities are just getting too volatile as of recent. Gone are the days where you could snap a quick pick of a celeb without getting your camera trashed. Gone are the days where lurking in a tree with a zoom lens wasn’t called “invasion of privacy.” Gone are the days where a director of photography could walk around on set without getting fired! Sure, ok, Christian Bale, I get it—you were in your acting groove and this guy distracted you or whatever. But seriously? Trying to get him fired because of it? That ain’t right. I can’t take delight in watching celebrities ruin the lives of other, regular people. I want to see celebrities trash celebrities, and I’m just not getting it.

But then—is that a light at the end of the tunnel I see? A celebrity caught partaking in illegal activities?! This, I gotta see! It’s gonna be so good, I can’t wait, because—oh, God dammit. It’s Michael Phelps smoking up. I’m so sick of that guy it’s not even funny. Come on, America, you’ve got to agree with me. Magazines, early morning talk shows, late night talk shows—that guy is everywhere! The Olympics is so 2008. Let’s move on already.

The only person who is more everywhere than Michael Phelps is Pete Wentz. I would think that, maybe, they were long lost twins or something, except I don’t hate Pete Wentz. Sorry, guys, I can’t. I can’t hate him the way I hate Brad Pitt because he didn’t publicly cheat on his wife (who I love, by the way. Ashlee Simpson, I mean, but Jennifer Aniston, too), and I can’t be creeped out by him in the same way that I’m creeped out by Gary Busey because Pete Wentz didn’t grope Jennifer Garner a year ago. And, hello, the guy takes better pictures than paparazzi and porn directors with thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment, and he’s only got a Sidekick. That deserves some sort of medal in my eyes. Or, like, a certificate, at least. (I’d make him one too, except I don’t know where to send it and I’m too busy reading about Muammar Gaddafi to find out. If it’s that important to you, Pete Wentz, send me an email and I’ll get on it.)

With all the cell phone photo leaks out there—Miley, Lindsay with a knife, Kate and cocaine, that girl from High School Musical—I have to wonder why we even have professional paparazzi. Clearly, they’re doing no one any good. Something’s gotta give, that’s all I know. I need a new scandal to talk about so I don’t have the time to focus on how pathetic my own life is or how I have a Russian test in mere hours and have yet to study for it. So I need to go do that, I guess, but while I’m on the subject, can anyone teach me how to hack a phone? I bet Peter O’Toole has some crazy stuff on his Jitterbug.
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