SHOW 'N' FRAUD

Last month I did a talking-head stint on this goofy television program that aired on the WE Network. Hoping to drum up a little buzz, the station's publicity firm asked me if I'd mind doing some radio interviews to promote the show. As radio doesn't add 10 pounds, nor is sobriety an issue, I agreed.

What I didn't realize is that as soon as I said yes, a team of overeager, under-informed publicists sent out a flurry of press releases billing me as some sort of celebrity-relationship psychic capable of predicting which star-studded couples would stay together and which would part. Huh? I can't even predict what I'm going to have for dinner. At first I was annoyed, but my ego soon won out and I got into the spirit of things, snapping up all of the copies of Star, People and something called In Touch that I could find. All in a lame attempt to appear informed.

What I discovered was shocking-apparently that gal from Friends with the popular hairdo broke up with her over-rated movie-star hubby. Who knew! Gossips say that home-wrecking kook, Angelina Jolie, came between them. No doubt! Poor, sweet, dull Jen; didn't you ever see Grease? Men love the slutty nutters.

Other discoveries included the fact that Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner-two low-fat lukewarm vanilla milkshakes in human form-are dating. Yawn. Who cares? Ben was only fun when he was being pussywhipped by JLo. What I wouldn't do to have filmed evidence of some ex-boyfriend literally kissing my ass! I'm not jealous of the rocks that you got, Jenny, but I sure do envy your video collection!

Now that Liza and David Gest are no more, my new favorite bearded couple is Star Jones and her Big Gay Husband. Never mind that cyberspace is clogged with photos of Mr. Jones cavorting with well-muscled hotties in hotpants, Star insists that theirs is a love connection of the romantic persuasion. It's always been my opinion that if getting laid isn't a high priority, a gay man would make the perfect husband; they can reach things on the high shelves and will tell you if the pants you're wearing are ass-smashers. And if that Queer Eye program is any indicator, gay boys are generally a whole lot more fun than straight dudes.

It's no secret why people are obsessed with celebrity romantic meltdowns; it's human nature to derive pleasure from other people's misery. Especially when the fucked-over are wealthier, skinnier and more fabulous than we mortals could ever hope to be. Me, I'm currently living for the day that dim-witted bimbo Scarlett Johannsen gets hers. I know I should be more patient with the stupidity that is youth, but every time I read something she's said, I want to hit her on the head with a brick. Plus, she got to fuck Benicio Del Toro in an elevator! So not fair. I should be the one fucking Benicio Del Toro in an elevator!

But I digress.

Anyway, all this talk of public breakups and hookups and everything in between got me thinking about schadenfreude and its karmic consequences. Though I read Page Six and peruse gossip websites fairly regularly, I can't say that events like the rumored Katie Holmes/Chris Klein split have even the most fleeting effect on my mood. For me to experience maximum enjoyment, it has to be personal. Reading that recovering crackwhore Kate Moss is engaged to the walking, talking pharmacy that is Pete Doherty might elicit a shrug; hearing that a filthy ex has developed a chronic hemorrhoid condition-now that's funny.

Like every other jackass in hipsterdom, I'm reading Mike Albo's hilarious book, The Underminer. And, like the author (and every other jackass in the universe), I've had friends (and boyfriends) who would seemingly go out of their way to make me feel like crap. All in the name of honesty, they'd offer up tidbits along the lines of, "I'm sure someday you'll meet someone who'll appreciate your not-always-apparent beauty" and, "You're definitely one of the prettiest girls I've slept with." Um, thanks.

So when I heard one of the most egregious underminers I'd excised from my life is now involved in a horrible relationship, spending many a day in abject misery, my first reaction was to fall off my chair, practically wetting myself with laughter. (Mature, no?) It's just that every single thing she'd always been smugly superior about way back when had somehow turned into her life! Worst of all, her distress made me happy! Momentarily ecstatic, even! And this disturbed me. Deeply. (Okay, maybe not deeply, but I did enough time in Catholic school to feel a twinge or two of guilt about my glee.)

But then I regained my senses. To gloat is to be human. I am human, therefore I gloat. Or something like that.