Taylor Swift and Harry Styles in San Diego

I don’t normally post (much) on poppish stories, but the good name of Sandy Eggo has been defamed and I must defend her honor. Tell me what is wrong with this sentence: We all know, every single one of us, from bleak Bangor to sleazy San Diego, that singer Taylor Swift and boy band moppet Harry Styles have split up. Sleazy? How dare you!

Taylor Swift and Harry Styles
Taylor Swift and Harry Styles

The real issue is that Harry Styles’ hair and cranium is 3.14 times that of Taylor Swift’s. Hairy Style indeed. . .

Hey, You Reading Warships?

Car nuts read Motor Trend, Tweeners read Tiger Beat, college students read, um, nevermind. As for naval warriors, we read Warships, International Fleet Review:

Since its foundation in 1998 WARSHIPS IFR has evolved to the world’s leading and only ‘high street’ naval news monthly magazine. WARSHIPS IFR is read, not only by professionals, but also by those with a general interest in naval affairs.

Although, I must confess I almost bought the October Tiger Beat magazine. Will Taylor Swift marry Conor Kennedy? She is a pop star, why marry into such a lowly family? (Note: link is not Tiger Beat magazine, but some low-class rag named Vanity Fair. I have to keep some of my guilty pleasures to myself. You gotta earn a Tiiga’ Beat link. Maybe next week.)

Around the World in 72 Days with Kimbo Kardashian

Midnight at the NavyOne Mansion.

I sit on a leathered chair, a brandy snifter in one hand, a fire gently snapping in the fireplace, and my man-servant Igor nowhere to be found. I close the screen to my laptop and glare around the room.

Igor! Hey Igor. . .

(He appears in the doorway, eyes bulging.) Yes, Master?

Do you think it odd that the one day I post on Kim Kardashian, she is later in the news for divorcing her husband?

Odd how, Master?


(Igor grimaces.)

Whoops, sorry for yelling, Iggy. But imagine my surprise. Can you play some Halloween music, please?

Yes, Master. (Igor fiddles with a contraption on the mantle and creepy Halloween music clings to the air.) Could blogging about someone make them divorce their husband?

I don’t think that is how it works, Igor. Cut the Halloween music, will you? What about a Viennese waltz. . . Also, get out our nicest lady fingers. Offer them to our readers, please.

Yes, Master.

Oh and Igor, use our best silver tray.

Master, we only have one silver tray.

Shhhhh. (I gesture madly, with an angry elbow, at the blogging audience. At you.) Now please, Igor!

Yes, Master. (He disappears, only to return moments later. I frown.)

Igor, those lady fingers are attached to ladies! When I said lady fingers, I meant the cookie, the cakey wafer. (I smile weakly at the women.) Sorry ladies. Igor, return those fair damsels from wherest they were fetched!

As you wish, Master. (Igor clomps out of the room with the two non-wench-like ladies. Two minutes elapse and finally my man-servant returns. I look up from my laptop.)

Well Igor, the Kar-dashing-through-the-snow post was on coyotes and the fact that Kim and her sister Khloe’s mugs turn up whenever I google Calabasas. Apparently, they live near there.

Do tell, Master.

Her father was a lawyer, involved in the OJ Simpson case. The Bravo channel at the gym taught me all I know of their family.

Ah, Bravo. (Igor grinned a wide grin. As if he had caught me reading Tiger Beat magazine, the May 2011 issue, the one with Taylor Swift on page 42. And possibly, I’ve heard, page 43. Or listening to Nicki Minaj a beaucoup. Or some other pap pop schmear.)

Igor! I do not watch that show by choice.

Of course, Master. Who does?

I was spared the audio. While on the elliptical trainer, I listen to music. Bruce Jenner is her step-father. He walks around their house, in a  glory-days-gone-by trance, doing daddly things. Like the stain-the-deck-atholon.

I stained the deck once, Master. I dropped a PBJ on it, and tracked grape jelly all across the redwood.


It is no longer redwood, but purple-wood.

Is that not the name of Prince’s house?

It could be, Master. Why are we talking about the Kardashians?

Did you not read what cartoony Kimbo said about her now-deceased nuppies:

“I felt like I was on a fast roller coaster and couldn’t get off when now I know I probably should have,” Kardashian blogged Tuesday.

“I got caught up with the hoopla and the filming of the TV show that when I probably should have ended my relationship, I didn’t know how to and didn’t want to disappoint a lot of people.”

Confirms a Kardashian pal: “She felt like she couldn’t turn back. She got in over her head. She made a big mistake and she knows it.”

Sad, Master. I missed the story. I don’t know how I have quite survived without this life-affirming news. Poor girl. And that pitiful basketball player who was married to her. No more grabbing rebounds for him, I suppose.

Igor! She brings shame to the blogging world. Who allowed her into the blogo-square? Not me. In another non-oil-of-olayed wrinkle, some lady is organizing a protest of the dashing Kardashians:

No more Kardashians! That’s the message a Denver area woman is promoting in an online petition, which is getting thousands of signatures.

Cyndy Snider, 41, started the petition in early November and nearly 2 weeks later. . .

What is the response, Master, to the pro-test? Or should I say, amateur-test? 

I tell you Igor, some people have got too much time on their hands and not enough hobbies, like blogging about tyrannical bloggers and their fictional man-servants. The lady has even received death threats over it:

While Snider’s disapproval of the show has gained support, there has been some serious backlash.

“I’ve had death threats. That’s been my latest, in the past 2 days I’ve had death threats. . . over the Kardashians.”

What else do you need me for, Master?

That is all, Igor. Please add Kimbo Kardashian, and her 72-day marriage to Kris Humphries, to the list of topics never to blog about again.

Yes, Master. (He gives the audience, you, an I’ve-heard-this-before smile.) The list is in the dungeon. Will you be needing anything else tonight?

No, Igor. Good work today.

Thanks, Master.

(He turns, humming to himself. Checking my list. Checking it twice. Checking to see who’s been naughty or nice. Kimbo Kardash is coming to town. Kimbo Kardash is coming to town. . .)

Igor, what did I say about singing?

Sorry, Master. Will you be needing the Lamborghini tomorrow?

I don’t think so.

Very well. Goodnight, Master.

‘Night, Igor.

(Down the hall, I can hear his faint warble. Kimbo Kardash is coming to town.)

I shake my head. Good help is hard to find, nothing like finding good blog readers. Publish a ridiculous post and blog readers, they will smile. And groan. Yes?