Let's pretend we're a famous guy's bit-on-the-side. Let's pretend we get knocked up, pretend the baby belongs to someone else, pretend we accept a stack of hush money, pretend we eventually watch our famous guy's entire career deteriorate and his marriage implode before we finally own up our kid's paternity and come clean about everything.
Feelin it?
Ok. NOW, what do we -- as the famous guy's bit-on-the-side -- pretend to do next?
If you said "get almost naked, roll around in our infamous progeny's bed and blab to GQ, dummy!"....um, you're really good at this game.
You must have played pretend with me as a kid.
Yeah, remember all of those times we played "Simon & Simon" and I always made you be the Gerald McRaney "Rick Simon" character because I totally wanted to be the Jameson Parker "AJ Simon" character who wore "suits and ties?" Yep, that was fun. Just like it was fun when we played pretend "Little House on the Prairie" and I made you "feed the chickens" by sprinkling an entire box of Cap'n Crunch all over the living room carpet? That was fun, too.
So, now that we're pretending to be the John Edwards paramour also known as Rielle Hunter and we've got our GQ interview all lined up and our photographer on site and we've taken our pants off and grabbed our kid to use as an unfortunate prop, what do you suppose we pretend to talk about?
If you said we'd talk about the reasons Elizabeth Edwards is to blame for her husband's infidelity you'd also be right! And after we're through pretending to gush about our first night with the Politician We'd Never Want to Emasculate, and after we're through waxing awkwardly philosophical about our culturally unsafe lifestyle and after we're through giggling about our spiritual connection with Jeff Goldblum THEN we'd pitch a fit about how horrible those pictures were that we allowed to have taken of ourselves.
Anyway - excerpts from the article are here if we'd like to stop pretending, bite the bullet, and suffer through some of the most self-indulgent blather I've read since John Mayer last opened his mouth (heh. heh. heh). And yes, if I were here, I'd be embarassed of those pictures, too. You know what else I'd be embarassed about: the fact that I rambled on and on and on about Johnny Haircut's marriage, and the factually inaccurate information all over the webernet about us, and our Oprah issues and our excellently magnetic chemistry with Johnny Haircut, then finally answer the question "How do you describe your relationship with John Edwards right now?" with the answer: Private.
Riiiiiiiight.
The relationship is private, but our daughter's bedroom is open territory. The relationship is private, but our opinion on the DOA nature of Johnny's multi-decade marriage is great meat for the discussion grinder. The relationship is private, but the sex tape discussion......you get the picture. She's not helping herself, basically.
And, as I'm always a sucker for the giggle-value of the comments people leave on articles like these, I found a host of people eager and willing to break out their worst "typing with high blood pressure" grammar in righteous condemnation. They're worth a read. All 40 or so of them. Apparently Americans hate The Other Woman.
If the rest of American was playing pretend, the Famous Guy's bit-on-the-side would burn forever in a fiery hell along with the rest of the world's classless home-wreckers. Frankly, I think the response she gets to her stupid interview is fiery hell enough. Let the woman live underneath the public's disgusted gaze.
You know, alone on that loathesome cul de sac next door to John Mayer.
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