Listen, I work.  A lot. I understand the whole process; overexert your mind, body, soul for someone who has never and will never understand your levels of exertion, to receive some form of monetary dignity- nay, monetary indignity.  I get that from 8am through 5pm (read- 6am until 5:59am the following day), I am responsible for benefitting someone’s life.  I comprehend that the likelihood of me walking into a car dealership and putting $100K -IN CASH- on the salesman’s desk, so I can drive off in a customized Range Rover is just about as likely as a celebrity having a car payment on a mini cooper (it’s made by BMW- back off.)  Now, my white picket fence accompanied by 2.3 children and a dashingly handsome (doctor) husband may be completely unattainable until I reach 50 (file under: glimmer-less), but dammit; I am trying.  You, Kardashian clan, are not.

I was strongly against starting this (soon to be known and admired worldwide; (I have dreams too, asshole)) blog with a political post (mainly because I knew the majority of you would instantly click X on the browser, but also because Khloe and Lamar didn’t conference with me on wedding nuptials time slots and I’m now void of any other form of emotion but rage. Read- They took your oysters and turned them into convenient, thirty full minutes of marketing promos conveniently titled: “The Kardashians.”)  Guess what, folks?  I’ll save you the politics (just for today,) because I’m on to something.  That’s how things work around here; topics, tantrums, and tangents.  

I’m in a bitter love/hate relationship with The Kardashians. 

I cried.  It happened.  I’m a sucker for weddings (and funerals, but that’s so morbid.)    But, that wasn’t until after a thought-provoking hour and forty-five minutes of Kardashian banter.  Let me explain: You know how after you get into a huge, laborious, seven hour-long fight with your boyfriend (Dad, boss, whatever) over his use of the last ketchup packet in the McDonald’s bag (what’s the point of eating French fries?  Chicken Nuggets? A FUCKING FILET-O-FISH? WHY AM I EVEN ALIVE?!), only to be found in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, mumbling Tori Amos lyrics to a loofah, wondering how one small, meaningless packet of fancy ketchup so drastically effected your life—but at the same time had NO EFFECT AT ALL?  No?  Well, that’s what the Kardashians did to me.  They took my fancy ketchup.  Nobody takes my fancy ketchup.

Although, Kardashians, I guess I really do have to thank you.  Your deliberately stupid family and Ryan Seacrest have opened my eyes to the realities and benefits of anonymity.  I am nothing but a rating and am fortunate enough to realize that although you have a phenomenal wardrobe (big shout-out E!), you all lack any form of real talent or moral fiber.  But, I’m oddly intrigued by each and every one of you.  Especially Bruce. 

Bruce.

Baby.

Please.

Let’s chat. 

How exactly did you get into all of this? I wrote exactly; don’t spare me any trivial details.  I am ALL ABOUT trivial details. I’m sure this has been asked numerous times by numerous people, but how are you still affiliated with any of this nonsense?  Hey Bruce, do you remember the good ol days?

Yup. That’s it

I’ve always been a firm believer that any form of public displays of chest hair (drool) relates to “good ol days,” and you, Bruce, were IN IT.  And now-

Yeesh.

I don’t blame it on the a-a-aalcohol, it’s those G-D Kardashians!  Do you see what they are doing to you, Bruce?  I bet you don’t even have chest hair anymore.  I can just picture you and Kris walking hand-in-hand into your weekly his & hers waxing appointment.  Sell out. 

Oh Khloe, you really are the lucky one, though.  A Laker- in less than a month of dating?  Kim had something to do with this, huh? Khloe, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it that way.  What I meant was more along the lines of an assumption that you WANTED to be the next Anna Nicole Smith and Kim called Reggie for some athletic back-up(be honest- you were heavy.  And addicted.  We don’t need to go through our little purse bars/pharmacies to prove said addictions (because I will win,) but you cannot openly disagree with that one, Khloe.)

You know, Kardashians, you really only have one person to thank for all this monstrosity, and she just so happens to bear the family name.  Kris Kardashian, come on down- you’re the next contestant on “Pimp Your Family.”  Yes, the second nominee for “Mother of The Year” just so happens to be a game show contestant!  

“Now, Mrs. Kardashian.  Pick between Box A and Box B!

Box A- Youve won $10,000, but there’s a catch!   $5,000 from your winnings will be used in helping build homes and provide food and clothing for up to 20 years for 17 families in Northern Uganda…..

-or-

Box B- You’ve won $10,000, but there’s a catch!  We fully obtain ownership of your daughters uterus.”

I want to continue.  Really, I do.  But we know which box was picked (those poor Ugandans,) and as you will shortly come to understand, I have an issue finishing thoughts cohesively, especially after losing so many brain cells to the Kardashians.  If I dont stop now, we could easily be on the subject of Peeps.  And boy do I love Peeps.

[Editors note- I’m fully aware that my first blog posting will be immortalized as an “ode to the Kardashians.” I’m embarrassed just as much (if not, more than) you are.  Luckily for me, my future writing endeavors and abilities will surpass any form of notoriety this blog receives.  Unfortunately for you, I posted this warning at the END of the blog.  Deceitful, conniving, little bitch….  I know.]