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Friday 23rd May
The anti-smoking Nazis are setting their sights on Nicole Kidman, since
she flacked her new movie at Cannes whilst childishly puffing on a
cigarette whilst her director, the exceedingly odd Lars Van Triers, begged
her not to. "Nicole, you PROMISED!" he was reported to have whined. I have
had my eye on this Kidman menace for some time. Even before she was pegged
for having a breath befouled with fag smoke, she was seen as a shameless
self-aggrandizer, a promoter of gossip about her less-than-manly former
husband, and a false busted-marriage martyr. What's worse is that she
willingly authorized an Oscar p.r. juggernaut that assaulted us with
all-Nicole-all-the-time news and pictures for the five months prior to the
Academy Awards ceremony. She is a deeply boring figure, revolting in her
bottomless self-involvement, not to say repellent with her vacant me-me-me
blatherings, so this experience was painful to say the least. I spent
those months in acute misery, hopping from one foot to the other like a
grizzly bear with a testicular inflammation. Since she hauled away her
trophy, she has hidden her asparagus-like figure away under a rock, thank
Our Gracious Lord. Unlike the activists, though, I refuse to persecute her
for her vile habit. But I will say this: I would not kiss her unless I
were very drunk indeed. Vigorous toothbrushing twice the next morning
would remove offensive Nicole residue, and return the blessed status to a
much-desired quo.
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