Cold Play: Separation of Paltrow & Martin

Do you give a damn about this? Does anyone, really?

I can't weigh in on this. It's too light-weight. Like, it weighs about as much as a potato chip, which is the color of Paltrow's hair and Martin's teeth.

This is some kind of royal couple? Really? I don't think I've ever seen any of the shitty chick flicks this Paltrow bitch has made. She's not that attractive, and aside from having some decent ideas on nutrition, she seems to be just another spoiled silly bit of Yuppie spawn, the kind overly concerned with having the bedspread match the sheets, and setting the dinner table with three different types of forks.

Chris Martin? For fart's sake (I don't give a fuck on this to make it for fuck's sake). He's the nauseating singer for a limp and pussified band...he's so lame he has to put the microphone above him and sing upward, like some kind of baby bird waiting to get his regurgitated pap. Which, come to think of it, is another good definition of his music: puke.

Equally nuts, Paltrow and Martin named their kid Apple. What can I say, except I'm glad it wasn't named Google!

This wasn't a "power" couple. I can't imagine their differences were due to the Beethoven-like genius of Mr. Martin, up all night pacing the floor because he couldn't figure out whether his song needed a B flat or a C sharp for a chord change. Nor was it due to the precious Gwyneth up all night pondering the upcoming morning's scene where her character has to sip a latte and then put the cup down. ("What's my motivation...why did I sip the latte in the first place...")

Eleven years is a long time for most relationships, and it's nice these two crackpots are not engaged in any kind of bitter battle (as will happen, any day now, with Kim Kunt Trashian and her sullen zoo keeper). Let's wish them well: fuck off. Your films suck, your music stinks, and if you just disappear for the next six months, it'll be good for you both, and a relief to me!