Reading has taken on a lot of unfair, unfortunate associations through the years. Through no fault of its own, reading has become associated with intelligence, knowledge, book-learning, libraries, colleges, librarians, and education. I’m here to tell you, that’s all a bunch of horseshit. To me, reading isn’t a pathway to self-actualization, or a magic ticket to a land of wonder and imagination. On the contrary, it’s nothing more than a way to waste time in the least productive manner imaginable. When I want to turn off my brain, I pick up a quickie celebrity biography or half-assed show-biz memoir instead of watching television. That’s why I am officially starting a new monthly feature, The Silly Little Show-Biz Book Club. It’s a forum to discuss the junk food of the literary universe: stupid, superficial pop ephemera destined not to outlast its fleeting cultural moment. When Axl Rose’s maid writes a lurid tell-all, I’ll be there. Wherever a half-assed boy-band has-been feels the need to sing out about his life in the pages of a ghostwritten memoir, I’ll be there. I will read all these terrible books so you don’t have to. It’s my latest attempt to transform the stupid, pointless shit I do in my free time into the stupid, pointless shit I am obligated do for my job.
His latest entry in the series is his review of Karrine “Super-Head” Steffans’ Confessions Of A Video Vixen. Here’s a brief excerpt from a passage about Karrine’s encounter with Fred Durst, with Rabin’s commentary in italics:
“Fred ordered five different entrées, just for himself. I was confused but I didn’t want to seem young and inexperienced, so I just watched his movements… He was grand, taking tiny forkfuls from each dish and repeating that move a few times. Then, just that fast, he was done, leaving the majority of the food behind. I was in awe. I had never really wasted food before, and right then I knew that one day I would be able to eat whatever I wanted, however much I wanted, and summon someone to take the plates away…With all of his tattoos, body piercing and worn way of dress Fred had an air of prestige. I silently hoped for him to want me.”
Oh, Durst wants her all right. For he is that rarest breed of man: the kind that will gladly accept a no-strings-attached blowjob from an attractive stranger. I similarly love how impressed Steffans is by Durst’s flaming douchebaggery. I just hope there was a malnourished orphan staring wistfully at Durst as he sent away plate after plate of food, more or less uneaten. He could have followed this performance by wiping his ass with a towel full of highly concentrated AIDS vaccine, then topped it off by urinating lustily into the water supply of an impoverished Indian village.