To My Friends At The Jezebel:
Well I'm sure you've heard the news by now: Kim Kardashian, of the Kardashians, has broken up with her boyfriend. To be honest with you, I didn't even know she had a boyfriend. I mean, I know she's had boyfriends in the past and all, but I'm at the point where there's so much Kardashian news that I can't keep any of it straight in my head. Every week I get my magazines and there they are, the Kardashians, with another drama to deal with. And don't get me wrong, these girls—they seem very nice and they're beautiful, you know, god love them, they're gorgeous, if Kim was born 60 years earlier she'd have Frank Sinatra trying to buy her a drink and trying other things I'm too much of a lady to mention—but if I see them on the cover of one more magazine, I think I might just go mad.
I mean, for cripes' sake this family has more drama than a Bette Davis-Joan Crawford dinner party attended by Debbie Reynolds, Eddie Fisher, and Liz Taylor, and featuring Orson Welles as guest of honor. Sheesh! I rear-ended a Cutless Ciara in 1986—nobody was hurt and to tell you the truth, I don't care what the police report says, the man in front of me was dawdling at a green light—and I swear the life that flashed before my eyes in that very moment was less dramatic than your average Kardashian expose. I love them, you know, they seem very sweet and like they love each other, which is so nice, because a lot of people on these reality shows, you know, they don't seem to love anyone, including themselves, but from one week to the next it's this or that or the next thing and I can't help but wonder if maybe the Kardashians can't even keep up with themselves at this point, you know? How exhausting it must be to be famous and have everyone know your business like that!
I couldn't do it, I'll tell you that, though that Alice Fishby down the street would probably LOVE to see that incident wherein I accidentally left the cider in the fridge for too long and then took a swig right before walking Albert—that's my dog—down Sparrow Street singing "Put On Happy Face" while scooping Albert's poop (I always scoop, even in an intoxicated state, which I consider to be the sign of a responsible pet owner) into my purse instead of a grocery store bag end up on the cover of Star or In Touch. Barbara, that's my best friend, thinks it's the funniest thing she's ever heard, but I can guarantee you that if it were your bag (Liz Claiborne, had it for 14 years) filled with Albert's after-dinner oopsies, you would not be as easily amused.
But I suppose that's the difference between the Kardashians and someone like me; they're "famous for being famous" and part of that is being on the cover of my magazines, tellin' the whole world about their love lives or heartbreaks or diet plans or babies or husbands or what have you. And you know, that's fine for them, that works, but I think I might take a break from my magazines for a while. I just can't keep up with any of these celebrities anymore, you know? Too much drama for me. I'd like to see all of those Kardashian girls have a happy ending—I wish them well, you know? But I'll be happy to hear about it secondhand, from Barbara, or my son, Kevin, who, Kim, if you're reading this, is available and a big fan of yours, or from that Alice Fishby, who, I swear on my mother's china, pays the mailman an extra seven dollars a month to get her magazines before I do. But until then I think I'll just try to keep up with my own business. And with Albert's business, which will never again touch the insides of any of my purses.
Your friend and neighbor,