Awhile back I mentioned the idea that life may now be satire-proof -- that things have become so ridiculously silly that they've rendered the need to make fun of them thoroughly unnecessary.
Case in point: Fashion Week.
True, Zoolander gently poked the fashion industry with a stick, and Sasha Baron Cohen's "Bruno" character regularly slices its sycophants with a scalpel. But in the end, no amount of mockery or mimicry can even begin to come close to the sheer absurdity of the fashion industry itself.
With that in mind -- and I'll make this quick -- I bring you three simple statements regarding this bi-annual affliction on the New York City area, which is upon us once again.
#1) I look at fashion the same way I look at steak, I have no problem partaking in the end result, but I have no fucking desire to see how it's made -- and don't you dare ask me to meet the loathsome, soulless creatures who are responsible for bringing it to me.
#2) The cast of Project Runway and Carson Kressley do not constitute true celebrity and therefore don't deserve to have a camera pointed in their direction for even a second -- no matter what crappy programming NBC is trying to push. A side note: although I don't doubt that he's a nice guy, Carson's flawless embodiment and perpetuation of the "mincing little queen" stereotype should earn him a beating over the head with one of Ted Allen's rolling pins -- or maybe Tom Felicia's stylish leather ottomans.
#3) The new cologne from P. Diddy's Sean John line is called "Unforgivable." Now tell me I need to bother to make fun of that.