EVERYBODY'S FECES FOR 15 MINUTES

Here's a twit in Dublin, unknown to everybody but her relatives and the guy who sells tampons to her once a month, but SHE thinks she's hot shit.

She wants you to LIKE her shit and BUY her shit.

And here's a legend in his own mind, a video "star," who is a "personality" and a "consumer affairs reporter." He might even brag that he's another obese "stand-up comedian and raconteur" like Stephen Fry. He "broadcasts" shit, and gets "royalties" that might just be enough to buy a roll of toilet paper once a month.

What's going on? It's the Internet, making the playing field dead level.

The world has become the flatlands. "Far as the eye can see...level, dead level." But I quote the Oysterband, who are barely holding on in their late middle age, touring but not that much (because it's easier to watch bootlegs of them on YouTube) and making albums (but not often, because they're in competition with every nitwit who uploads music for their Facebook friends to hear).

Warhol suggested everybody would be famous for 15 minutes? Davies sang about how everybody's in show biz? I wouldn't call 'em psychic. Neither are up there with, say, Madame Fecalnegro, who works out of a booth in Blackshit. The matriarch of the family, Slimy Fecalnegro once told Brian Conley, "One day you will be totally forgotten." Pretty accurate, huh?

He replied, "And you'll be known as one ugly cow who is just a fucking joke. God, your face looks like a pile of cow manure with doll eyes glued on and a bitch dog sat on your head."

Good Lord, Conley was psychic, too!

BUT I DIGRESS.

The sad state of "entertainment" in the world is that you don't need any talent at all to be "famous." You can be Kardashian famous. Or Barren Cock "famous in his own mind."

Back in the sane days, we all knew what it meant for an "author" to be "published" by Vantage or Exposition Press. It meant "you are NOT a real writer, you paid for somebody to print your awful vanity project."

Likewise, somebody self-pressing an album didn't have a label with the RCA or EMI logo. It was usually some fake "company" and the address was actually the singer's home, or a nearby post box number.

NOW? Any idiot can be on YouTube, right alongside bootlegs of Graham Norton and David Wulliams.

NOW? Any idiot can be on Spotify or iTunes or Google Play, right alongside The Beatles.

Like dog shit you've stepped in unknowingly, there's a brown smudgy line between what you can laugh away and what is so stinky you can't ignore.

It's pathetic that deluded Cuntwells and Cocks won't curb their enthusiasm for calling attention to their wretched selves. What is worse is that in the 21st Century of Shite, the audience doesn't always KNOW THE DIFFERENCE.

The proof is that nobodies are famous for no reason at all, and that some dopes who have the opportunity to listen to The Beatles will listen to Shauna Cuntwell instead. Some cock-eyed schitzu moron will sit, wet nose pressed against the screen, fascinated by a fat turd named Darren opening a Lego set he bought. Literally wheezing and sneezing, and muttering to himself in a mouse-fart voice, he ain't worth watching yet 300 or 400 people or more will watch most anything he posts. As if it's real entertainment.

Once upon a time book publishers and record labels set a bar that, at least, kept out the rank amateurs. Today, the rank amateurs have lowered the bar so that nobody can make a living, nobody knows good from bad, and the landscape is a landmine of shit.