Nope, I am not keeping up with the Kardashians
It
used to be where a person had to actually do something to become famous.
Roger
Maris swatting his 61st home run.
Neil
Armstrong walking on the moon.
Jonas
Salk inventing a cure for polio.
Albert
Einstein and his Theory of Relativity.
You
know, famous equaled monumental.
These
days, famous has an entirely new definition.
You’re
a housewife from Beverly Hills.
You’re
a Kardashian.
You
live on the Jersey Shore and you’re dumb as a cinderblock on steroids.
You
own a pawn shop in Vegas. You own a pawn shop in Detroit. You are toothless and from Kentucky and you
wrestle raccoons in pickup trucks and dive for snapping turtles in swamps.
You
put a video on YouTube. It goes viral
and all of a sudden you are somebody even if your return to nobody comes quicker than a answering volley from
Nadal.
You
have a bazillion people following you on Twitter. You have 239,128 alleged
friends on Facebook.
Call
me old-fashioned, but give me real accomplishments. Give me a home run. Give me
an astronaut. Give me a cure or a genius.
Please,
dear God, do not give me a Kardashian.
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