Monster Island Rehab

Heidi Fleiss Celebrity Rehab

Yeah, I blew the Smog Monster one time, so what?

It’s admission time. And no, that doesn’t mean I’m going to fess up anything about my involvement in the Holy Cross Girl’s Lacrosse Team sex scandal. It’s never been proven that I was anywhere near Worcester the night of the alleged incident or that I do indeed own a Roman Gladiator costume, either. So keep your paternity tests to yourselves and let’s move on.

No, I’m talking about admitting something even more embarrassing than impregnated Catholic co-eds.

I’m talking about Celebrity Rehab.

And my addiction to it.

Let’s be honest. It probably has something to do with enjoying the sight of people more fucked up than I am, that’s true. It’s not like I’m getting anything terribly emotional or intellectual out of watching leathery old b-level celebrities throw up and blow snots on each other. No, the enjoyment that I feel watching the show is a bit more visceral. And let’s be honest, it is enjoyment, through and through, at seeing the miserable, venal, gutter level abyss that these delusional, self-important Celebri-douches have brought themselves to through substance abuse.

So is it wrong to gain enjoyment out of someone else’s pain?

Not in this case, friends. These are not the down and out underpriviledged of the world. These are pampered, wealthy fame hogs who have used whatever small level of public notoriety they’ve gained, and the money that comes along with it, to fund spectacularly indulgent chemical dependencies. They have, as you might say, made their own beds and it turns out those beds are in the Pasadena Recovery Center.

Good luck to this Doctor Drew guy, by the way. A seemingly decent, intelligent, good hearted guy with, I think, a genuine desire to help folks who’s created for himself the Monster Island of rehab facilities. Makes the guy on Animal Planet who takes care of those hyper-violent, brain damaged chimpanzees seem like he’s filming Romper Room.

And trust me, this season is the Atomic Bomb of Fucked-uppedness when you look at the cast of heavy lidded Hollywood back alley types they’ve assembled.

The Cast:

  • Dennis Rodman. Only there because he’s been ordered by Court to do so, he truly believes there’s nothing wrong with him and claims to have perfected some sort of Zen mind thing that puts his intellect above everyone else’s. Even though his speech is so slurred they need subtitles for him and when asked about Cannabis says, “Not unless you just mean eating steak…”
  • Heidi Fleiss. Possibly the ugliest woman walking the Earth at this time not mauled by rabid primates, she’s done something to her lips with plastic surgery that makes her look like she should be hoovering plankton off the ocean floor for sustenance. Enters the program fresh off a long, hard day of crystal meth use. Lives in the desert with 20 parrots but calls herself the greatest Madame who ever lived. Right.
  • Mckenzie Phillips. Jesus, what can I even say about this one? A true dark goddess in the world of drug abuse and mental depravity. Smoking weed at 10, shooting coke at 17, a lifetime of incest and opiate addiction. I’ve built a temple to her in the deep woods here and I sacrafice goats in her name from time to time, she’s that legendary. By all indication from the first episode, she’s the most well adjusted, stable personality of the group.
  • Mindy McCready. So you’d think after having an illicit love affair with scumbag, steriod abusing pedophile Roger Clemens at age 15, there would be nowhere to go but up in your life, right? Not the case. Here’s what you do. Marry a vicious spousal abuser who attempts to beat and choke you to death and then, as soon as he’s released from prison, go hook up with him and get yourself pregnant. Then get totally fucked on booze and pills, try to kill yourself twice, have said child removed from your custody and placed with the mother who abused you as a kid as you serve a prison sentence for assaulting her. Cap it all off by having a seizure on national television and what you have there is a recipe for pure comedy gold. Or one hell of a great country and western song.
  • Tom Sizemore. Hasn’t actually shown up on the show by the end of episode one but the previews show him a sweating, haggard, psychopathic meth/heroin hound who probably wishes he died on Omaha Beach at the beginning of Saving Private Ryan. He’s already been the star of another grim, unwatchable VH1 reality show and has a history with Fleiss during which he beat the fuck out of her and, sadly, served some time for it. A joyous reunion lies ahead, no doubt.
  • Token Drug Crazed Ex-Rocker. There’s no real need to know his name but apparently he was the bassist for Alice in Chains and got thrown out of the band for drug abuse. Read that again. Thrown out of Alice in Chains for drugs abuse. You’ve got to be gobbling chemicals the way the Cookie Monster eats oatmeal raisin for that to happen, dude. It shows as the guy is a rambling, vacant mess who’s pacing the pool deck in tight withdrawal a mere 30 minutes after his arrival at the facility. Early highlight: him getting a gaping bloody hole in his hip swabbed out after it got infected where he was shooting up. Sweet.
  • Add in a couple of random, out of control former reality show twat bags and you’ve got your cast. I guess that ultra-nasty, whiny little twit-princess Keri-Ann Douche-Sipper, recently rejected from from VH1’s sex addiction show will be on hand at some point to take her top off and douse another couple or six people with water before she gets kicked to the curb again.

    I can’t fucking wait I tell you.

    I know, I know. It’s low brow, pandering titilation that appeals to the worst voyeuristic nature within us. Very true. But I swear to you this is not the proverbial car crash that you can’t look away from. This isn’t in the class of “so bad it’s good”.

    No, this is High Art people and not in the sense that you have to be high to appreciate it. This is the human condition laid bare in all it’s glorious ugliness and depravity. It’s what our celebrity worshipping culture has led us to, the natural end results of our cravings for fame and fortune.

    It’s who we are and what we deserve. Every Thursday night at 10. Tune in, won’t you, and check back here on Friday’s for some delicious post-show rehashing and fun.

    You know you want to.


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    3 Responses to “Monster Island Rehab”

    1. Cullen Says:

      Truly frightening are the swaths of youth who watch this, realize that these people are actually getting paid to behave this way, and decide that it’s a perfect money making scheme.

      If you need me, I’ll be on the corner with my sandwich sign and a can of beans.

    2. Ken Socrates Says:

      I’ve been behaving that way since ’74 and haven’t made a damned penny.

      Spare some beans?

      Nevermind, I’m going to break into your place while you’re out and eat them cold in your kitchen. Hurm.

    3. Cullen Says:

      I don’t know what your fascination is with that Penny chick, but I’m sure the 5 grand you blew in Taho last month was directly proportionate to the “executive producer” credit you got from Jersey Shore.

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