Anne Hathaway miming Miley Cyrus is not as shocking as learning there’s a show called Lip Sync battle on Spike. Isn’t Miley Cyrus lip syncing her own songs already? Did everyone at the last Spike creative meeting try to hide in the back until the Chipotle arrived? I’m left with only questions when all I wanted was to pretend that karaoke was better left to the drunk girls in accounting. C’mon, Spike. I’m prepared to drill down five more layers in MMA. I’ll watch Thai boys beat each other with sticks. A bobcat just ate a shark. Bring back motorcycles on ice. I think my balls just cried. I’d like a written apology.
There comes a time in every truly obnoxious person’s life when they must accept the fact that only their opinion of themselves matters. It’s not easy completely dismissing the thoughts of the rest of the world and embracing the indisputable truth of your own ego. But if you are to be one super twatty annoying piehole, this is a must. Anne Hathaway tells the dig deeper journalists at Elle magazine that fame used to be a bitch because she cared too much about what people thought of her. Now she’s free from any concern over social judgement and so much happier for it:
I’ve realized that I don’t need validation from anybody. At all. I’m not sitting here now worrying, ‘What do you think of me?’ With all due respect, you seem like a lovely lady, but I don’t need you, or anyone else, to like me. And that’s so liberating.
Fuck yeah. Wallow in your own slather of wonderful me and shit bubbles of joy into the ether. Here’s the thing though, this plan never fucking works. Certain sociopaths and elementary school teachers can live a content existence not giving a damn what people think of them, but actors in Hollywood can only talk this talk. They feed off adoration. A tiger can’t change its stripes. And nobody likes a cunty tiger.
Anne Hathaway is trying to seem more down to Earth to stop people from wanting to punch her oversized mouth. Around the time she won the Oscar for bleating like a menstruating cat in Les Miserables, the American public turned on their precious fucking sweetheart. Her false modesty, diva behavior, and general twattiness made people treat her like a Fukushima tuna. Internet trollers even organized a posse they called Hathahaters to cast shade at the Dark Knight Rises actress on Twitter. That’s the modern day equivalent of toilet papering somebody’s house. Anne has decided enough is enough and it’s time to show the world, just like that French whore she portrayed in the movie, that she’s all heart. So, she gave away a lot of her expensive dresses to her staff of servants. Because what every middle-aged thrice village raped Guatemalan maid needs is a $3000 Versace dress to wear while they are cleaning her poo bits from under the rim of her toilets. Anne has also committed to pretending to be more humble and pleasant like the character she played in those shitty Princess Diaries movies that first fooled people into thinking she was sweet and cute. An adopted Malaysian airliner orphan can’t be far behind. Anne Hathaway 2.0 will be impossible not to love.
If you put a seashell to your ear, you can hear Anne Hathaway’s nipples bitching at you. It’s not the overly obvious type of verbal incursion, more the subtle toll taking as if those nipples were the clapper on some suicide by shaving death knell. I might be projecting. But that’s what I see when I look at Anne Hathaway dressed like a middle-aged woman on her period at the beach.
Anne Hathaway staged a near drowning in Hawaii so that her husband could rescue her in front of the paparazzi and regain the masculinity he first felt when Anne grabbed him by the wrist and told him he was going to be her husband. Anne flailed her arms a full ten feet off the coastline of Hawaii when an oceanographically inexplicable rip tide threatened to take away the world’s greatest actress. She screamed out for help didn’t realize that her husband couldn’t hear her through the Bublé he had blasting on his earbuds. A nearby surfer who I guess didn’t read the Please Don’t Save Anne Hathaway memo to locals grabbed Anne and brought her back to the shore where she made her husband suck fake poison out of her foot for his failure to perform his role. Emote. Counter emote. It was very dramatic.
Anne Hathaway and her emasculated husband have been enjoying their Hawaiian getaway. It’s a good chance for Anne to be reclusive and self-important in a place with slightly nicer beaches. Slap on the top hat and order your bitch to tote your beach bag while you give the public a peek at your small serious actress boobs to remind them you’re fucking, Fantine, the singing dying prostitute who had to sell her hair. You can marry any effeminate man you want, just like Natalie Portman did after Black Swan. After onlookers were done masturbating uncontrollably to Anne’s boyish charms, she slapped her skinny gimp for forgetting her sandals and ordered vegan poi from room service. Soon it will be back to reality for Anne. Or, exactly the same.