Golden Girl:
Why Gwyneth Paltrow Must Die

by Sara Adelman

http://apokrypha.com/rhizome/archive/issue_one/gwyneth.html


Several weeks ago, while waiting patiently in line at the
Angelika Film Center, I was suddenly shoved hard from the
back as a very blonde couple pushed its way in front of me.
You can imagine my surprise when I regained my balance and
discovered that the offending persons were none other than
Brad Pitt and Gwyneth Paltrow, whom I've since learned are
something of an item. (I'm a very busy person and have
little time to devote to memorizing celebritites' love
connections.) I politely suggested that they might be more
comfortable at the end of the line, where latecomers such
as themselves can congregate and revel in their collective
disregard for punctuality. I thought this was a reasonable
request.

Apparently, Ms. Paltrow did not. She began to rail at me,
calling me a "hideous, troll-like creature" who had no
right to live, let alone tell her what to do, and added
that if I had any idea of the kind of crazy sex that she
and Brad had every single day, I would shoot myself on the
spot. After a few more minutes of such insults (including
several that were anti-Semitic in nature), Ms. Paltrow
grabbed Mr. Pitt's hand and practically dragged the poor
boy to the front of the line, where I could hear her
berate the management for allowing "common street trash"
to abuse "someone so wicked famous like me."

I feel it's only right to mention at this point that this
story is completely untrue. I was cut on line at the
Angelika the other week, but it was by two nose-ringed
NYU film-school types, and I was too intimidated to ask
them to move. However, I feel this slight discrepancy in
my story is quite beside the point. The fact is, the scene
I've described is exactly the sort of thing I'd expect from
Gwyneth Paltrow, and she must be held accountable for her
actions, even if they exist only in my own sick mind.

The woman is clearly evil, and why this fact has escaped
the seemingly thousands of reporters who have touted this
spawn of Satan as the next Grace Kelly is beyond me. First
of all, Ms. Paltrow (or Ms. Cow-trow, as I like to call
her -- it rhymes if you work at it) isn't even a princess,
so the comparison falls flat right there. I mean, have you
ever seen her wear a tiara? No. She never wears a tiara,
she rarely wears a bra, but what she does wear, constantly,
is that stupid little smirk. That smug, toothless, corner-
of-lips-upturned smirk that suggests she's keeping a secret.
She wears it mostly when she's arm in arm with last year's
Sexiest Man Alive, and the secret isn't too hard to figure
out, provided you haven't been living under a rock for the
past year: She's having crazy sex with Brad Pitt every
single day.

Well, big deal. It just so happens that I've had crazy sex
with Brad Pitt on several occasions, and let me tell you --
oops, there's that lying thing again. My point is, Gwyn has
nothing to be smug about. Because, really, none of this
means she's happy. Seriously -- if happiness to her means a
gorgeous boyfriend, a thriving film career, rave reviews
from the New York Times, and endless magazine covers
declaring her Hollywood's new golden girl, then I feel
sorry for her. I do.

You know what happiness means to me? Gwyneth's head in a
box at the end of Seven. That's my idea of a good time. I
still feel cheated that we never get to see it, so each
time I rent the video I try to come up witha bloodier, more
revolting image of what it might look like. Sometimes I
imagine a new ending to the movie, where after Brad's ordeal
with the serial killer, he seeks comfort in the arms of a
local college student, played by me. We fall madly in love,
get married, and mount the severed head on the wall as a
conversation piece.

Who's smirking now, Gwyn?