by RYAN BOLTON
Why the hell is Paris Hilton “hot”? Seriously, look at her from the side and squint your eyes. Do you see it? Yeah, she looks like an alien. But according to your little brother, a “hot” alien.
We no longer take those judging seconds to determine if the newest celebrity is beautiful anymore, because we are simply told they are picturesque. Let’s run the checklist. Paris has radiating blonde hair. Check. She wears blue contact lenses. Check. Her body is as sleek as an anorexic seal. Check. And she dresses as if the world was fighting over the last scraps of clothing. Check. There you have it, our society’s superficial checklist of epidermal beauty. Let’s throw some other “hot” stars through the hot-celebrity-checklist. Christina Aguilera. Madonna. Marilyn Monroe. Nicole Richie. Lauren Conrad. Heather Locklear. Jennifer Anniston. Charlize Theron. And, of course, our favourite, Britney.
They were all instant-beauties and they are all regarded as beauties. Not to forget Hugh Hefner and his small army of “hot” blonde-haired, blue-eyed bunny rabbits romping around. We have all heard the criticism towards magazines and celebrities for the unattainable beauty standard that they exude and the disastrous complexes that young women develop because of them. But shit, why are we holding onto these ridiculous Photoshoped-porcelain-skinned, thinner-than-a-Barbie-doll-knock-off and intellectually-as-shallow-as-the-kiddy-pools-that-they-wade-in celebrities?
Why are we holding onto these ridiculous Photoshoped-porcelain-skinned, thinner-than-a-Barbie-doll-knock-off and intellectually-as-shallow-as-the-kiddy-pools-that-they-wade-in celebrities?
Like the electric car, whatever happened to us fighting against unfeasible beauty norms? Where did all the beauty-from-within logic float off? Probably into Angelina Jolie’s lips. I really thought that we were over looking to celebrities for vacuous advice and disastrous beauty tips in the mid-‘90s. But like their ability to reproduce the same movies over and over again, they keep coming back and we keep eating them up. Maybe that’s why we have such an obesity problem. We try for so long to look like these limelight-stricken dingbats that we just end up glued to Entertainment Tonight and tabloids uncontrollably ingesting products that they quasi-endorse. It’s not just affecting our jelly-donut filled bodies, but our wallets. In 2007, there were nearly 12 million plastic surgeries, with liposuction and breast augmentation as the most popular. That’s up 457 per cent since 1997. Even heavyweight female powerhouse, Hillary Clinton couldn’t escape society’s harsh realities and had her face “did.”
The worse part: We all understand what I am getting at. We have all thought it over, but worse than the harsh throes of heroin addictions, we’re back studying their stick-figure bodies and Botox-injected asses. We’re shamelessly addicted.
If only we could overthrow the celebrity regime with some sort of coup d’état. Why should they run our lives and dictate how beautiful we are? So what if my eyebrows want to connect? So what if my ears dwarf Barack Obama’s? And so what if my bum waddles to and fro like a couple playing with a beach ball?
I think I’m hot. And I damn well don’t need Paris to tell me so. Seriously, she looks like an alien.
Originally published in TRAVIS magazine’s Sex Issue. Ryan Bolton is a writer living in Toronto.
Categories: TRAVIS Magazine