Celeb Iím Not Young, Cool, Nor Qualified, But I Pretend To Be On TV, Man!
posted by August 22 at 13:08 PMon
Do you know this man?
Well. I am sitting in my very clean apartment, in my underwear, and it is exactly 1:12PM. I make no excuses for this behavior and I refuse to justify myself; if I have a hankering to sit around my apartment in my underwear all day, godfuckingdammit, indeed I shall do so, and with relish and aplomb.
But forget all that. It isnít what I want to talk about. There are far, far worse things in the universe than me sitting, merely underweared, until early afternoon, thank you, and, basically, all of those worse things are ďGREG BEHRENDTĒ! And Greg Behrendt (that’s his picture up there) is exactly what Iíd like to discuss.
O, SWEET JESUS! HOW I HATE HIM! Do you hear me, America? World? Cosmos? Cosmo? Words. Cannot. Express it. And Iím sure you understand.
Wait. What? You donít? Who is this Greg Behrendt, you ask? Lordy, lordy. Well. Alright. Give me a moment to hack the last steaming chunks of hot vomit that thinking about him inspires from my epiglottis and I shall enlighten you. Ahem. Hem. Hem, hem hem.
Answering the question ďwho and/or what is Gregg fucking BeheredntĒ, my darlings, is complicated, and fraught with total ickyness. Letís begin first by exploring who/what Greg Beherendt isnít. Itís easiest that way. Trust me.
Greg Behrendt is NOT Bart fucking Simpson. He is not a twenty-year-old sk8er punk living with his band in his parentís garage. He is not Eddie VanHalen. He is not Tommy Lee. He is not Dave Navarro. He is not hot. He is. Not. Cool. No sir, he is not, he is not, he is NOT.
But thatís far from all Greg Behrendt isnít.
He is not a psychologist, a psychotherapist, a psychiatrist (much to Tom Cruiseís great relief), nor a counselor of any legitimate sort whatsoever. According to the best of my knowledge and a cursory Googling, his only degree is antiperspirant.
Got all that straight? Fabulous. Now, letís explore what Greg Behrendt is. Hang in there. This part is much shorter.
Greg Beherendt is a horrid middle-aged (he ďjust turned 40Ē, my hairy red tomato!) spiky-haired jackass rockstar wannabe/desperate poseur. In real life heís some sort of comedian or something, and legend has it he wrote for “Sex and the City”. (Did anyone else think Carrie was a whiney self-entitled bitch with unforgivable drama issues? Honestly?) Writing for that show somehow qualified him to author some self-help books that explain to fat chicks why guys never call back, and apparently THAT great achievement has conferred upon him the awesome powers of Dr. Phil, Oprah, Sigmund Freud and Jerry Springer, all rolled up in a studded belt and man-earrings. And broham, heís here to straighten you out, work on those issues and save your marriage, dude!
Greg Beherednt is indeed the host of ďThe Greg Behrendt ShowĒ, which lamentably airs fresh each day on a network I wonít admit to watching. And I wonít admit to watching it right now, in my underwear, as he attempts, with faux-sincerity oozing from his faux-young-and-hip-dude voice to actually and legitimately psychoanalyze some white trash coupleís dentally-challenged relationship back together or something. (And then maybe heíll go hit the half pipe, broí, or kick it at the gym and wail on those abs, man!) His horribleness is entrancing, almost hypnotic, like a murder. And yet, oh my God, how I despise him. And I just really needed the world to know. It makes it all more bearable, somehow. And I thank you.
God, I hate you Greg Behrendt! HATE YOU!