It could be worse. A four-day compilation hangover composed of various and sundry alcoholic binges, tryptophan hiccups and whatever else it is one does to try to make lugubrious seem fantastic. All I have to show for it is a stomachache, a stuffy nose and that peculiar Xanax haze that makes your jaw hang open and the Monday sunshine feel ever so slightly like a frying pan being slammed against your head by God himself.
I suppose I have a lot be thankful for. At least I don't have a mug shot in press circulation. Well, at least not one that any press would care to circulate. (Please, please, please do not search the Tallahassee archives on that one. I promise it wasn't me.)
But if I were to have a mug shot photo-op (wink, wink), there are a few things I would make sure to do ahead of time. Sort of like the housewife to-do list every Wilma and Betty keeps clipped to the side of the refrigerator: hairpins, eye shadow, rouge, a penny to suck on, etc. Just the important things, really.
Not sucking on a penny, but on something altogether more, er, flaccid, was Michael Jackson, who must have had in his widely televised arrest motorcade a full Hello Kitty makeup kit at his disposal. Through what must have been hours of squinting and chiseling, the Santa Barbara police department were able to discern that booking number 621785's race was indeed "B" (for black, I guess), his weight 120 (my weight! I'm totally famous), and his sex was probably "M." More importantly, though, his nose had been injected with an actual bone, not like the sniffer we saw slipping off his face last time MJ was a smooth criminal for ... what? ... oh, yeah, for dangling his muzzled baby over a balcony.
Now, Michael was in Vegas reportedly lensing another superfluous video for his latest comeback futility, "One More Chance," when the news came out that he was indeed (again) a wanted man. So I suspect that there was some sort of "Queer Eye" ambush in an attempt to make Michael look about as much like Elizabeth Taylor as five gay men into nouveau cuisine and Ikea can, because the outcome was just stunning.
I'm not sure of this, but I think that Michael may be the first mug shot model of the male persuasion, and not a prostituting drag queen, to ever wear that much lipstick en route to the slammer. He is a very pretty girl: eyebrows stretched to Minnesota, cheeks sunken to Argentina and pupils the size of Manhattan. You could drop him and he would shatter into a thousand little porcelain pieces. Sadly, nobody thought of that, and our hero slinked out (presumably back to the mirror) for a scant $3 million. Chump (chimp?) change.
Speaking of monkeys, or cows, rather, perpetually bovine country crooner Wynonna Judd could have used a smear from Michael's face before her Nov. 13 backseat ride to the Nashville police headquarters after her .175 Breathalyzer blowjob. Her mug shot revealed what many of us have suspected for years: That she is either a man, or a butch lesbian. Don't believe everything you read in the Enquirer (or the B-List, for that matter), but 220-pound Wynonna (whose new husband loves her "just the way I am") seems a little more likely to be netting fish at the bait and tackle than whispering sweet nothings into a hairy male ear. She, too, was not sucking on a penny, as the police reported a distinct smell of booze on her person, not to mention the bleary-eyed symptoms akin to those of a dead worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle.
As her mug shot would later reveal, Judd can carry a good buzz for some amount of time. She's smiling amidst the gray impunity of it all, barely revealing the age dimples on her cheeks and the Louis Vuittons dangling from her under-eyes. She looks a little bit like a trailer-park landlady, but most of us already thought that.
But we didn't think of Glenn Campbell, at least not since the last time we thought about Kenny Rogers having sex with Dolly Parton. Probably on the way to attain some purchased sex of his own, Campbell slammed his BMW into an unsuspecting auto on Nov. 25, and like any Rhinestone Cowboy would, decided to simply drive away. Arrested later at his home, Campbell responded kindly by kneeing a participating officer in the balls.
Prior to his photo session, one can sense the amount of care that Campbell took into making sure that his police-recorded infamy was worth its weight in balls. A hairstyle with no discernable parts tops a face of magnificent rage -- all downcast eyes, bitter frown, four-day stubble. He was said not to be a very nice drunk, a fact I can easily sympathize with. But Glenn! Oh, Glenn! Couldn't you at least get your earlobes tucked? Doesn't Branson have a midsize theater with a midsize plastic surgeon waiting to rhinestone your cowboy? You, my friend, have been remiss.
Forever remiss, for reasons this rag could gleefully gag on for days, is Fox News talking head Shepard Smith. Ol' Shep, known for his Shatner-lite, irony-pause delivery, met The Man during the 2000 Florida election fiasco, during which he inspired an altercation involving his and another's motor vehicle over a parking place. His mug shot looks surprisingly like his mug on Fox every day, almost down to the sound of an electronic power swoosh that usually backdrops his tongue-slips over Mariah Carey's blowjobs, and, probably, his own in reference to the Republican party. Still, he looks a little mad.
But, then, the Fox News people always look a little mad. "SHUT UP!" I can hear Bill O'Reilly spitting in my head. Never.
Mr. O'Reilly, I'm ready for my mug shot.
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