Ever since I learned that Anna Nicole Smith died, I have been unable to shake my feeling of deep, profound apathy. The whirring and clanking of the media frenzy machine as it retools from "Who is the father of her baby" to "How she died, and did someone kill her" fails to incite in me the requisite rabid voyeurism from which pop culture derives much of its power.
In other words: I don't give a crap, and if you value your brain cells, you won't, either.
Of course, for someone who doesn't give a crap, I'm going to spend several paragraphs telling you precisely why you shouldn't give a crap. But it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for you, dear reader. We must all suffer in the name of art.
The criterion I use when determining if any piece of celebrity gossip is worth my time is simple in application: I as myself, "If this was happening to a no-name piece of trailer trash, would it still warrant the news time?"
If this happened in a trailer park, you, the general public, would not care. So why do you care? Because she's a celebrity. Because the media told you to. Because she's famous for being famous. And you, the public, having been conditioned in a Pavlovian manner to drool at all things Hollywood, obediently begin salivating.
Gape at the implications inherent in that statement. Revel in your newfound freedom from this increasingly soundbitten culture. Realize that it is not worth your time, and move on.