Um. Uhh. Errr, uhh…
Ever since the tiny elites who cluster together in tiny swaths of America’s coasts appointed themselves the moral arbiters of an entire nation that they deem to be teeming with inbred Christofascist moral lepers who deserve to be tortured and mocked into extinction, it has been our sincerest wish to see these sheltered pervs unmasked as the corrupt and predatory hypocrites we always knew they were.
For generations now we’ve been forced to endure endlessly pious chest-thumping and relentlessly condescending lectures from HIV-positive waste cases who, if they had a scrap of decency, would have publicly immolated themselves on a glowing funeral pyre made of melted crack pipes.
At the moment the entertainment industry is cannibalizing itself as a result of the sort of entitled arrogance that comes from not realizing that the endless witch hunts whose flames they’ve fanned for decades would eventually burn them at the stake, too.
For this week at least, our greatest pleasure comes in seeing comedian Louis C.K.—the lumpy and physically appalling “conscience of the comedy scene”—unmasked as a fat bald twerp who gets his jollies from masturbating to completion in front of horrified female coworkers.
I repeat: ugh. Also, ick.
Rumors of C.K.’s masturbatory proclivities have circulated for years but were mostly swept under the rug, because the entertainment industry loves few things more than a comedian who can sell out Madison Square Garden while getting everyone to laugh about white degradation and displacement.
However, that pimple finally popped last week when The New York Times ran an article in which five women—only one of them anonymous—accused the physiognomically disadvantaged comic of whipping it out and jerking it while they either watched in stunned horror or listened on the phone with extreme discomfort. During one encounter in a motel room, two accusers say his penis spat forth a quarter-billion ugly little Louis C.K. tadpoles all over his ample belly as they watched in horror.
I always liked Louis C.K. I mean, sure, he’s a garden-variety showbiz liberal and all, but he’s funny, and he seemed like a sincerely committed father who loved his kids—not that this means he doesn’t, of course. He never came off like someone I would have instantly assumed to be afflicted with the same diseased proclivities as the usual round of Hollywood pervs, freaks, and creeps, I’ll say that much. Oh well, so much for all that. By way of (very) minor mitigation, though, there IS this:
Rather than deflecting and denying like so many others, Louis admitted that the accusations were accurate.
Three groans and a half-hearted hat tip to him for owning up right away, I guess. It has the advantage of being both the right thing to do and the smart thing to do; giving the media scandal-vampires the chance to keep the squalid circus staggering along as they bay for blood in proportion to the increasing flaccidity of each successive denial and retraction only prolongs the agony—for all of us, most especially those of us who would just as soon these twisted horndogs keep their kinks to themselves.
And with this latest roll in the Hollywood hogwallow, let’s all hope that the recent spate of distasteful TMI will soon be drawing to a most welcome close. I for one have heard more than I really needed to about all of these people by now; as I said the other day, I don’t find any of it surprising in the least, and I fervently hope that there aren’t going to be any stomach-churning public “scandals” involving, say, Roseanne Barr or Ernest Borgnine forthcoming.
Or, may merciful God forbid, Sandra Bernhard (shudder).