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It pains me to do so, but I must officially declare Ashton
Kutcher over.
So done. Over it. Whatever, next.
It seems petty of me to use the starmaking machinery of this
site to strip away the golden laurels that MTV deigned to
place around his cornfed, pretty-boy brow. But it must be
done. The non-stop reruns of Punk'd on the Erstwhile Music
Channel were bad enough.
The Rolling Stone cover, with his Kutcherian goodies on lascivious
display, was more than enough, a thumb on the deli scale of
incipient superstardom. He even got himself a piece of a restaurant
and some sort of P. Diddy connection, harbingers of doom more
ominous than a Leno monologue joke. He really just jumped
out of the Biplane of Acceptable Celebrity without a parachute
and is watching the Washed-Up Ground of Corey Feldman spin
towards him at breakneck speed.
But the whole Demi Moore thing is really taking the Cult of
Ashton about five steps too far. Tadpoling is a bad precedent
to set for the pretty boys that will wash ashore in the wreckage
of his It-Boy yacht party. Does he think that Josh Hartnett
or Frankie Muniz (once he gets pubes) are going to want to
date a rapidly-sagging Sharon Stone or Melanie Griffith once
she gets tired of Antonio's philandering? It's a classic case
of flavor-of-the-month hubris. Personally, I think Ashton
is perfectly aware of what he's doing, setting up an epic
Punk'ng of Heath Ledger and Tobey Maguire. He snatches up
the surgically rebuilt, Pilates-and-hot-yoga toned Moore while
he watches all the other pretty boys struggle for the old
lady scraps, hoping that the Pffeifers and the Basingers trolling
Hollywood hook them on their under-30-test fishing lines.
AK has a good laugh, he learns how he stacks up against Bruce,
and the rest of the world ridicules his imitators while decrying
the double standards that have allowed naugahyde scarecrows
like Garry Shandling to ever get laid.
Ashton, you're done. Your fan pages will soon be consigned
to the Google cache. Please validate your valet parking slip
for The Standard Downtown on your way out.
And I should make it perfectly clear that this declaration
of Ashton's official over-ness has nothing to do with my failing
relationship with Rue McClanahan, Golden Girl sexpot. As usual
I was months ahead of the trend and did it bigger and better
than everyone else.
It had nothing to do with (as has been widely reported) her
meltdown during a recent performance in our sold-out run in
"Love Letters" at the Kodak Theater. I just couldn't
handle the animal carnality of her twice daily hot flashes,
and our work was suffering.
I'm not getting any younger, you know.
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