Puff, the Magic Asshole

Every now and then, there is a morsel of pop culture that catches my eye and/or flies up my ass and I just cannot resist.

Hey, I'm only human. And very at that.

So, by now, you've heard that Diddy/Puffy/Puffed-Rice/Didpuffs/Puff-Dildo bought his son a Maybach sedan, valued at approximately $360,000, for his sixteenth birthday. If you hadn't yet heard about this, then, holy shit-- you just learned a bit of vapid, inconsequential celebrity news from My Masonic Apron.

What is the world coming to?

Dids did, in addition to the car, donate $10,000 to Haitian relief.

Now, this is the part where I rip Didders a new asshole and castigate him for his rampant extravagence and hedonistic excess, not to mention the abominable hypocrisy that fueled his drop-in-the-bucket "donation."

Ready? Here I go!

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Meh.

I mean, really-- why bother? Aren't we all to blame? By making a celebrity out of this d-bag, by buying his music or his bodywash or whatever it is that he's peddling, isn't it our fault that this moron has even enough waddage to buy his son a seven-year-old Chevy Cavalier, let alone a car that costs more than any house I will ever be able to afford?

I’m pretty sure it’s all our fault.

Well, yours. I use Ivory bodywash. And I still have fucking eczema.

I find it somewhat entertaining, and somewhat infuriating (depends on whether or not I’ve had coffee) how we as a culture suck at the teat of untalented shit-for-brains until they are catapulted to the tippy-top of the teetering apex of celebrity status in our culture, and then we sit back and click our tongues when they behave like retarded goat-children with all of the money that we have decreed they should have.

HellOOoOoOoO? Celebrities are assholes. This isn’t some kind of ancient, mystic secret.

I mean, celebrities who aren’t Betty White are assholes. I don’t want to get stoned to death on this blog for maligning the last remaining Golden Girl and Generation Y’s doddering, sentimental darling-of-the-moment. (“I love it when she curses! L.O.L!”)

If I became a celebrity, I can guarantee you that I would become an asshole, too. Sure, my assholedom would manifest itself in slightly different ways than Puffy Combs’. I would have a garage-full of pristinely-restored antique VW Beetles. Would that rub people the wrong way? I don’t know. They’re still pretty economical, even by today’s EPA standards, and it’s hard to call a Beetle “extravagant” when they didn’t even have standard fuel gauges until the 1962 model year.

And I don’t know that I’d be donating a swathload of my money to help clean off oil-coated birds in the Gulf. That would make me a celebrity asshole.

Frankly, I would be surprised if that moron didn’t buy his son a $360,000 car for the kid’s 16th birthday. Wouldn’t it be weird if, like, he bought him a Kia Soul? Really, he was just doing what is expected of him—to be a dick and to live within the expectations of the culture that we have all helped to create for him. This man should, by rights, be buying and selling us at the rate of a thousand a minute, while wiping his ass with damask and bottling his pee for handsome, French women to spray upon their wrists.

Because, Goddamnit, that’s what we expect. And we don’t really have the right to be outraged or disappointed when our expectations are met, or even exceeded, by those to whom we have granted success and fame. Are we jealous? Certainly. Are we insecure? Yes. Are we maybe regretting being part of an insipid, ethereal culture that rewards miniscule or no talent, keeps tabs on celebrities’ every move and choice, and then has the audacity to shake its head in despair when they do what they do, and do so well?

I suppose I have a slightly different perspective on this whole thing, having grown up in a relatively posh section of the Philadelphia suburbs where, in the student parking lot of my high school, there were more Mercedes, Audi, BMW, and Lexus insignias on the asses of cars than there were in the teachers’ lot.

Assholes come in all shapes and sizes and celebrities aren’t the only ones.

That said, though-- I would have LOVED to have seen the look on that fucking kid's face if his asshole dad had gotten him a Kia Soul.

He woulda been all like, "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

Whoa.

Too soon, Apron. Too soon.

Hey-- at least it wasn't a Rue McClanahan joke.