ToBS R2: Celeb fiction vs. talking shit about the New Yorker while submitting frequently to the New Yorker
[matchup #42 in Tournament of Bookshit]
Since 2004, Katie Price, the British glamour model, singer and actress, has written four autobiographies and seven novels. Her novels are called Angel, Crystal, Angel Uncovered, Sapphire, Paradise, The comeback girl and Santa Baby. Lots of people love to read these wonderful books because they give realistic insights into the ultimate human lifestyle that everyone aspires to live in 2011: CELEB/CELEB-SPOUSE. The novels contain a lot of very detailed descriptions of outfits and accessories and perfumes and luxury products that everyone wants to buy. The main characters of the novels are usually the wives of footballers or glamour models. Everyone wants to be a wife or model so it makes sense that the books are so popular. Also they are beautifully written. Here are examples of the writing in Santa Baby:
“seriously under-dressed in a black tutu-style skirt”
“brightly coloured, revealing body-con dresses and fake tan”
“fingerless lace gloves, and a black tuxedo jacket.”
“Tiffany’s style was more quirky and individual.”
“silver sandals, bare legs”
“sprayed on masses of Coco Mademoiselle”
“long chestnut-brown hair”
“plastering [her hair] against her glossed lips.”
These extracts all come from the same page of the book. The first page.
Other celebs also write books but none of them are good at it, only Katie Price. Someone like James Franco for example. Palo Alto has almost no descriptions of clothes or hair or perfume on any of its pages. For every Katie Price (good) there is a James Franco (bad). Fiction by celebrities is always better than fiction by non-celebrities because they are doing better at life than us.
Talking shit about the New Yorker while submitting frequently to the New Yorker is great. It is like being at school and being bullied. The bully is funny and big and cruel and makes fun of everyone. You talk to your friends about the bully and say what a fucking dick he is and what a piece of shit he is and how awful he is to everyone and how unfair and judgemental he is and how miserable he makes everyone feel.
Then whenever you have the chance, when you are with him alone for some reason, or he is picking on someone who isn’t you, you try to make him laugh. You try your best, cracking your best jokes. You try so hard even though he makes you look like an idiot in front of everyone. And then eventually you are with your friends and the bully is there and bullys your friends and you join in with the bully and make cruel jokes about your friends and then you are better than them and you hated them anyway and you go and live with the bully in a tower and pour shit on everyone below the tower and you love your new life.
I don’t have much of a sense of humour, but any joke I have made in my life comes directly from trying to impress people who I thought were idiots. So that proves for definite that Talking shit about the New Yorker while submitting frequently to the New Yorker is good for your sense of humour and will improve your personality.
But I love Santa Baby so much I award this to celeb-fiction.
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WINNER: Celeb fiction