lobsterchick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Chateaubriand. C-H-A-T-E-A-U-B-R-I-A-N-D. Chateaubriand. I don't want to be famous. I don't want to be a celebrity. I want to be a washed-up celebrity, so I can skip past the meteoric rise to fame, including vast amounts of money, which I'm not used to, and which will undoubtedly be spent on (male) hookers and blow, and go straight to the good part: The Great American Celebrity Spelling Bee. Not only would I completely kick ass on this show (seriously, dude, how do you screw up "Frappuccino" when "cappuccino" was just two words ago?), but the celebrities keep half their money. Screw the charities! Fuck the people who could actually use the money and didn't squander what they had on lap dances at Scores and Cristal by the case! Those losers only get $75,000, and I would get the rest! And why would I need that much money, you ask? Didn't I invest any of it when I was big? Oh, sure, but those dot-com stocks are way more volatile than anyone would have expected. And anyway, my agent says it's a good idea for me to stay in Earl Jeans and Blahniks and shirts that look like lingerie if I hope to get any work. So, you know, I'd have to keep my winnings to buy myself an outfit. 8:27 PM - 13 February 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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