For all those horny teenagers who wanted to get inside Anna Nicole Smith for years, now’s your chance.
The Smoking Gun recently published the autopsy report for the former starlet, which reveals that she died from some lethal mixture of prescription drugs. But that’s not all! 
You can now see definitive proof of her weight (178 pounds), the size of her breast implants (“each containing 700 ml of clear fluid”), and the character of her tattoos (a pair of red lips, a Playboy bunny, Christ’s head, Marilyn Monroe, etc.). Furthermore, the report informs us that “the genitalia are those of a normally developed adult woman,” “the left and right buttocks have foci of recent, hemorrhagic tracts” and “the anus is unremarkable.” Hubba hubba!
The whole Anna Nicole Smith saga is so monumentally depressing that it’s hard to know where to begin. Here’s a woman who’s famous for, well, for buying a large pair of fake tits and wearing them well. One could admire her for her modeling career, except she pretty much slept her way into that too. She was enamored with Marilyn Monroe, another woman famous for nice tits — though at least Marilyn did have an actual acting career, as lousy as she may have been at it. Why anyone would want to hold Marilyn Monroe’s sad, sad life up as an inspiration, I don’t know, unless her goal was to make Marilyn look less pathetic in comparison.
(And in case you missed it, a recently released FBI memo from 1964 throws new evidence into the suspicion that Robert F. Kennedy conspired to get Marilyn Monroe to commit suicide. See this article on Celebitchy. Seems like a bit of a stretch, but it’s instructive of how long the media is willing to follow its obsessions. She died 45 years ago.)
We all knew that Anna Nicole was a high school dropout without much in the way of an education, but now her private diaries are being auctioned off and we can see just how uneducated she really was. (See real sample above right.) Don’t worry, Anne Frank, your claim to fame as the world’s best posthumously published diarist is secure. The AP article quotes insightful passages from Vickie Lynn’s diaries like this one:
I’ve been really stressed out lately and depressed and I can’t quit eating. I feel like a pig. Howard has been buying me som jewelry but he call me 15 or 20 times a day it drives me crazy. I love him but he aggravates me somtimes. I don’t no what to do about Paul hes strange guy. I hate for men to want sex all the time. Chow!!
And this one, about first husband J. Howard Marshall:
Hes so very weak and fragile When I touch him Im afraid he might break. If Jesus desides to take him I dont no what I’ll do. I love him so much it hurts me to site and watch him when hes hurting I just want to hold him touch him let him no how much I care.
An anonymous German businessman bought these diaries off eBay recently for $500,000, says the AP. But don’t think of it as too bad an investment, considering he can sell them off to ABC for use in the scripts of their Geico cavemen sitcom.
If you think I’m being mean to this poor girl who really wanted nothing more than to be rich and famous, you’re right. But this is nothing compared to the shame and humiliation the former Vickie Lynn Smith invited year after year by putting herself in the public spotlight. She invited television cameras into her home to film her life 24/7. She starred in soft-core porn that was obviously shot while she was coked up to the gills. She pressed her inheritance case all the way to the Supreme Court, and made an obscene spectacle out of the whole thing.
And the public licked it all up. The media obliged her quest for fame by acting as both stick and carrot. The gossip rags kept track of her rapid weight fluctuations. Comedians fed the fire by making snide commentary about how much of a train wreck her life had become. Who wants to bet that this blog entry gets more traffic than just about anything else I’ve written here?
And it’s just getting started! We’ve had the death coverage, and the autopsy coverage. Watch soon for the paternity test coverage and the dispensation of the estate coverage!
It’s all just so ridiculously shameful. I feel dirty, dirty, dirty just having to live in a country where this kind of thing happens over and over again. I can’t believe that our culture seems to throw these talentless starlets onto center stage year after year for our amusement. I’m angry that the news media outlets and the blogosphere feed on this kind of thing. I feel like such a dupe for writing one of these predictable angry blog pieces about the futility of it all and the wretched state of our culture. Writing this, I feel like the poor schlub actor playing Emmanuel Goldstein in Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, making sour faces for the camera so that the public can jeer at him during the Two Minutes Hate.
Rinse and repeat. Thanks for reading. Guess I’ll see you back here in the same place when Paris Hilton OD’s.