I stand by the retarded theory of celebrity. For those just tuning in, the theory holds that celebrities, defined here as people that we're supposed to commonly know, like George Bush, Julia Roberts, and Manny Ramirez, are to us what gods once were. That is, we compose our modern discourse about these people. They are characters in a shared narrative of ours. And so when I met Cingy truly I walked the heavens, in the form of the vip room of a black club, knowing noone and drinking which should make the time a good time until later when you feel the emptiness of having gotten wasted and watched the black stripper with the blue jean top unbuttoned to her waist taunt the fellows outside who made grasping motions towards her tits through the glass and then when you try unsuccesfully to score drugs unaided by being the only white person in sight, isn't the sight of a large, gaudy necklace spelling out the rapper's name in diamonds a comfort, like the stars of our new home beyond the earth's mesosphere?

And here are pictures of fat renfest-type chicks with big tits. Curiously safe for work, except for the really explicit animated banner ad.