by James Tuttle
Killough rang today and I said, “Sorry, I’ll have to call you back. Holly’s World is on.”
He said, “What the hell is Holly’s World?”
I thought, Bitch, do I have to clue you in to everything? I know I’m an Oxford educated, polo-playing fashion whore but I do have a foot in the real world. Who the fuck doesn’t know about Holly’s World?
What came out of my mouth, though, was, “It’s just another reality show with pretty people running around Las Vegas, making deafeningly obvious statements about everything. You probably wouldn’t like it much.”
On the television screen before me was one of the top ten most successful accomplishments in cosmetic surgery, former Playmate Holly Madison, and her adorable friend, singer Josh or Justin or something that starts with a “J.” I didn’t really pay much attention to the name because he’s so adorable, though a little too swish for my taste. He has a wonderful voice, too, and that’s an oddity in reality TV, where every Housewife is ready to raise Earth’s collective consciousness by unleashing a damn dance single. Did you put “Tardy for the Party” or “Money Can’t Buy You Class” on your iPod? I sure didn’t. They’re both auto-tuned messes that you’d have to be drunk or high to download. They’ve also both racked up big numbers on iTunes. I’m glad there can be that many people drunker or higher than me on a regular basis, and that society still manages to function.