It’s been a week of chickens coming home to roost.
Salman Rushdie has probably realised that no matter what your haughty principles are, sometimes it’s wise to be just a tad pragmatic. He wrote a book to provoke a reaction, and it worked.
He slated Islam and motivated 1.9bn Muslims, one of whom was bound to have a serious pop. Any surprise that he got shanked is just self-denial.
Maybe he hasn’t realised it yet, because he’s on a ventilator and looking just a little fucked up, one eye down with liver damage. But if he does pull through, maybe he will.
If he doesn’t, he’s a bigger twat than we, as readers of his dire books, thought.
Anne Heche discovered the penalty for getting spannered out of your head on Coke and then booting it at 90mph through a residential zone.
Or maybe she hasn’t, because she’s burnt to a crisp, with not a lick left in her, and pretty much beyond salvation.
They’re keeping her alive in the hope that her organs might be viable for transplantation, but guys, let’s not hold out too much hope. Who wants a coked-up heart or a sautéed liver? Even her fetid slice won’t be worth a twang, so best to let her last breaths slip away and have done with it.
Former President Trump stashed twenty boxes of files, some marked Top Secret, at his mansion and then got busted by the Feds. He’s just beyond any meaningful intervention, as was his mental hairdo before him….
They all do have one thing in common. They all saw themselves as being above rules and norms, and they found out they weren’t – the hard way.
There will of course be no shortage of uproar and sympathy after this triste trio bit the dust, or the carpet in Anne’s hairy-tongued case, but it’s all just tough titties.
Particularly if Ellen’s are the only paltry rock tits on offer.
Next up will be the Assange shitshow, when everybody under the sun will be blamed for the aggravation that a supposedly cogent bright spark brought upon himself through free agency.
But, hey – let’s not heap criticism upon them. Let’s just celebrate freedom of choice.