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Liz Farrell is the editor of Lowcountry Current. She is a native Bostonian and a graduate of Gettysburg College. She is excellent at wasting time, loves to drink coffee and read, and has made Google-Image-stalking Tom Selleck a real pastime.
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Well, if you haven't heard the big news by now, I'll break it to you very, very gently: Barbara Walters is apparently a big, old hussy.
Speaking of old, she's like 78, but look at her neck! That's a 40-year-old's neck! How the heck did she do that?!? It's a miracle to behold ... like angels getting their wings on Christmas Day or me making it through the light at Simmonsville and 278 without getting sideswiped by someone with a yellow sticker in their front window ( ... now, don't get all huffy ... that could mean anything ... except in this case it means "Sun City drivers").
Well, it's a good thing Fathers' Day isn't until June because we're all going to need a month to get over this past week. And poor little Miley Cyrus is especially going to need that time to hunt down the perfect card for her daddy (assuming they make "Dear Dad, Thanks for Pimping Me Out" cards. If not, they really should ... lord knows, there's a market for it).
Once upon a time, in a glossy kingdom not so far away, there was a big, crooked nose and one very flabby belly. The kingdom wasn't so kind to that nose and that belly. As a matter of fact, the kingdom was downright cruel - some might even say the kingdom was impossible to please and judge-y and narcissistic and RUDE and full of double standards and ... stop staring at me! ... OK, look, the nose and belly never had a chance, kids. The kingdom banished them immediately. It's a woeful tale, but that's how the cookie crumbled back in the Age Before Plastic Surgery. That's how the cookie still crumbles, actually ... unless, of course, you have a good doctor who can immediately take care of both problems.
Get ready for new reality programming brought to you by Kleenex, Prozac and the Estranged Wives Camera Club.
Before socialite Tricia Walsh-Smith's most uncomfortable rant (above) there used to be three types of divorce: the "we'll still stay friends" divorce; the "I hate that guy so much" divorce; and the "Great! Now I hate myself" divorce.
Sad fact: Upon hearing of celebrity divorces I usually try to figure out what kind of relationship dissolution we're talking about before I waste time caring. (Some might wonder, why do you care at all? Not the point.) For instance, Demi Moore and Bruce Willis: Still friends. Not exciting. Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey: She did not come out it for the better. Things are not looking up for her. Stay tuned. Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt: Whoa. Still friends. She hates him. She hates herself. A divorce that is all things to all people. Imagine if Aniston had a YouTube account ...
Question of the day: Why don't guidance counselors ever tell you about the career option that involves a simple boob job, double highlights and your own slutty clothing line? At no point during my pre-college counseling did anyone ever say, "Well, you could go pre-law buuuuuut there's also this other thing. You'll be famous for doing absolutely nothing. No school loans necessary. You can take the SATs if you want, but ... you know, like, blah, blah, blah, maybe just get your nose fixed ... especially the tip."
Not to say I would've done that, but it would have been nice to know all the options back then. (Also I'm lying. I totally would've gotten the tip done ... and some other work, too ... I blame the public school system ... and Mattel).
So, uh, there's this thing called the Purple Bracelet project ... [You'll have to forgive me, the only interesting thing that happened this weekend was Jamie Lynn Spears going to Wal-Mart with her baby daddy — they bought a dog bed.]
Anyway, in case you haven't heard of it, the Purple Bracelet project is a "complaint-free" initiative started by a pastor from a Kansas City church. The idea is this, you wear a rubber purple bracelet on your wrist and if you complain, gossip or whine, you take off the freaking bracelet and put it on the opposite freaking wrist as a reminder of your bad freaking behavior.
Ah, the miracle of science. Without it there'd be no penicillin. No electricity. No Big Mac.
And no pregnant transgendered man blurring the lines between "How lovely" and "What the -."
Today on Oprah, the world will be introduced to Thomas Beatie, a natural-born woman who underwent gender reassignment surgery 10 years ago and is now pregnant with his first child (I think my head just exploded).
I think the war and high oil prices are finally getting to me - I can't wait for the New Kids on the Block to perform on the Today show Friday. It. Is. Going. To. Be. Wicked. And guess what! Then they're going to tour!!! This is almost more exciting than the promise of Britney's horrorfest performance at the MTV music awards last fall. This is way more exciting than the presidential election (sorry, it is) and it's loads more important than anything I'll be doing that day (except breathing, but that's debatable).
The New England Historic Genealogical Society has done its part to get out the vote by announcing that presidential hopefuls Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are related to pretty much everyone currently famous or somehow important to history.
It doesn't mean much, mind you. When it comes down to it, we're all related to each other in some way (except you, sir, you are not related to ANY of us). Nor does it mention any of the less desirable cousins they were sure to have had (though Obama is said to be related to Dick Cheney, which should really worry him since heart disease is genetic and also because Cheney hates all things that rhyme with Osama).
Sarah Jessica Parker recently admitted that her feelings were hurt when Maxim magazine proclaimed her to be the unsexiest woman alive back in October. It's no wonder she feels bad - she beat out Amy Winehouse (barf), Sandra Oh (whoa, not cool), Madonna (OK. She is getting creepier looking) and Britney Spears (now, now) for the dishonor.