So poor (or rich, depending on which court you believe) Anna Nicole Smith has died, the latest in a generation-long series of personal tragedies brought on, at least in part, by our pop culture obsession with blondes, fame, and, well, the subject of this note.
Every story on the telly, and there've been plenty of them, shows Anna Nicole in her heyday, smirking, winking, posing --okay, sometimes tearful, as when testifying, or, right after the birth of the baby with a thousand fathers, a little bedraggled, for which she can be excused--, usually in some flamboyant costume. And the news stories focus on her storied career, her marriage to Methuselah, inevitably asking some variant of the question, why are we so fascinated by this? It's a rhetorical question, of course: everyone knows, and no one is going to say, at least on the air.
It's her breasts, folks. They were (hell, probably still are!), um, huge. No matter how. It is, to put it mildly, fascinating to behold such a sight. She was a pretty woman, but those traffic-stoppers, well ... it's like slowing down when passing the site of a car wreck. You know you shouldn't, but you just can't help looking.
None of which diminishes this private tragedy that we will insist on making a public spectacle. Hm ... I wonder if on the web I can find ...
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