Golden Girl: Why Gwyneth Paltrow Must Die

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Golden Girl: Why Gwyneth Paltrow Must Die


Several weeks ago, while waiting patiently in line at the Angelika
Film Center, I was suddenly shoved hard from the back as a very blonde
couple pushed its way in front of me.  You can imagine my surprise
when I regained my balance and discovered that the offending persons
were none other than Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow, whom I've since
learned are something of an item. (I'm a very busy person and have
little time to devote to memorizing celebritites' love connections.) I
politely suggested that they might be more comfortable at the end of
the line, where latecomers such as themselves can congregate and revel
in their collective disregard for punctuality. I thought this was a
reasonable request.

Apparently, Ms. Paltrow did not. She began to rail at me, calling me a
"hideous, troll-like creature" who had no right to live, let alone
tell her what to do, and added that if I had any idea of the kind of
crazy sex that she and Brad had every single day, I would shoot myself
on the spot. After a few more minutes of such insults (including
several that were anti-Semitic in nature), Ms.  Paltrow grabbed
Mr. Pitt's hand and practically dragged the poor boy to the front of
the line, where I could hear her berate the management for allowing
"common street trash" to abuse "someone so wicked famous like me."

I feel it's only right to mention at this point that this story is
completely untrue. I was cut on line at the Angelika the other week,
but it was by two nose-ringed NYU film-school types, and I was too
intimidated to ask them to move.  However, I feel this slight
discrepancy in my story is quite beside the point. The fact is, the
scene I've described is exactly the sort of thing I'd expect from
Gwyneth Paltrow, and she must be held accountable for her actions,
even if they exist only in my own sick mind.

The woman is clearly evil, and why this fact has escaped the seemingly
thousands of reporters who have touted this spawn of Satan as the next
Grace Kelly is beyond me. First of all, Ms. Paltrow (or Ms. Cow-trow,
as I like to call her - -- it rhymes if you work at it) isn't even a
princess, so the comparison falls flat right there. I mean, have you
ever seen her wear a tiara? No. She never wears a tiara, she rarely
wears a bra, but what she does wear, constantly, is that stupid little
smirk. That smug, toothless, corner-of-lips-upturned smirk that
suggests she's keeping a secret. She wears it mostly when she's arm in
arm with last year's Sexiest Man Alive, and the secret isn't too hard
to figure out, provided you haven't been living under a rock for the
past year: She's having crazy sex with Brad Pitt every single day.

Well, big deal. It just so happens that I've had crazy sex with Brad
Pitt on several occasions, and let me tell you -- oops, there's that
lying thing again. My point is, Gwyn has nothing to be smug
about. Because, really, none of this means she's happy. Seriously --
if happiness to her means a gorgeous boyfriend, a thriving film
career, rave reviews from the New York Times, and endless magazine
covers declaring her Hollywood's new golden girl, then I feel sorry
for her. I do.

You know what happiness means to me? Gwyneth's head in a box at the
end of Seven. That's my idea of a good time. I still feel cheated that
we never get to see it, so each time I rent the video I try to come up
witha bloodier, more revolting image of what it might look
like. Sometimes I imagine a new ending to the movie, where after
Brad's ordeal with the serial killer, he seeks comfort in the arms of
a local college student, played by me. We fall madly in love, get
married, and mount the severed head on the wall as a conversation
piece.

Who's smirking now, Gwyn?


Another Gwyneth site

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