The Kim Kardashian Interview

I can make these fuckers dance. Words, I mean. I've been awarded, you know. And now I'm here to sell you Kim fucking Kardashian.

You understand this is an insult to everyone involved, right? But her team, and her, really, thinks (and at this point let's credit them and say "knows") there can't be bad publicity, so here we are. A self-involved literaturist and Kim K. Internally, I howl in disdain, veering on hatred. Externally, I have resting bitch face. Or whatever that is on a man.

And yet, do you have any idea what they're paying me for this? $34,000 for an interview-centered thinkpiece. They have to be hoping it's a hit job. That's the only thing that makes sense. Some snob bashes Ms. Talentless and it rallies her hordes of failures, the ones who watch her show, and buy magazines featuring her, and play her phone game where I-don't-know-and-refuse-to-look-up-anything-about-it-on-principle. Kim Kardashian is a pet rock come to life. But then it just kept sitting there, being a pet rock, but breathing.

And yet. And Yet. AND YET. Who am I? Because her whole "deal" is offensive to me and people like me because it doesn't just feel like a repudiation, it *is* the repudiation of our entire self-value. Intelligence and accomplishment? Meh.

Can I be honest? Like savagely chauvinistically honest? Fuck it, I’m doing it.

She’s some weird gestalt. She’s her ass. She’s her tits. She’s her face. She’s her flawless complexion. She’s her hair. She’s her uptilted voice. She’s her goddamned family. So she’s her sister, and her other sister (you know, the tall one), and her half-sister and the other half-sister and now her brother and her brother’s pregnant Blac Chyna.

I swear that when I wrote the words Blac Chyna, one of my awards disintegrated on the mantelpiece.

But, anyway, she’s all of those things, plus, somethingorother, plus kanye goddamned west.

Oh, Jesus Christ, I just remembered Kris Humphries.

What important in my mind got pushed out so I could hold on to Kris Humphries?

That’s probably why I hate Kim Kardashian: her insipid bullshit has stolen valuable brain real-estate.

But who is she? And who cares? I mean, who really cares?

I have a bazillion-ty IQ. I’ve been published in Harper’s Weekly and the New Yorker. My great-great-grandfather is the Rhodes from the Rhodes Scholarship (let’s gloss over his racism, svp). I got kicked out of prestigious boarding schools and went and did drugs and joined the Marines and wrote that hard-hitting book (you know the one) that made the intelligentsia swoon (I didn’t use punctuation! On purpose!) and then I wrote that play that bombed and tried my hand at screenwriting and then my second novel had punctuation and sold dick and then I was a columnist and then my third novel was fine, but only fine, and then…and then…and now.

So I’m here and I’m me and I’m waiting for Kim Kardashian to appear and I don’t like her because of course I don’t like her. Do we really have to do this?

There are only so many ways that this can even go:
1.     She shows up and is boring and of course
2.     I’m flabbergasted that she’s an astute and clever businesswoman, the depths to her cleaving me to my core
3.     I hit on her to make her uncomfortable because all of this triggers some dormant ape-dominance gene and I want to assert that I have value and who the hell does she think she is?
4.     Words come out of her mouth and does it matter? Does anything matter at this point? Did it ever? Why, God? Why.
5.     We talk about whatever it is she wants to sell because that’s why I’m here and I am a sarcastic asshole because I really want to do this one please.
6.     We talk about whatever it is she wants to sell because that’s why I’m here and I steal the $34,000 by recording what she says and later typing it, verbatim, with no commentary, and I pray the intelligentsia thinks, again, that a gimmick is brilliant.
7.     We tear each other’s clothes off and have furious, vengeful, disappointing sex. I acknowledge the disappointing part is my fault.  I’m a balding, out-of-shape, middle-aged writer. What?

Why did I have to bring sex up? “Have to”. I had to. Seriously. Ray J. Silver paint. Playboy. Break the Internet. Selfies. Had to. 

What’s she going to do when her sexual currency dries up? Will it?

Why in the hell is she popular?

That’s the question. At least, for folks like me. For the others, it’s not a question; it’s nonsensical. She’s popular because she’s popular. It’s the Law of Inertia. Objects in motion stay in motion. Duh.

She’s a mother and a person and why for any and all of this? WHY?

What’s the point?

Could she disappear, even if she wanted to? Why wouldn’t she want to? She can’t want to, right?

I say I’d take the multi-millions (she has to be over 100 million by now and acknowledging that makes me want to stab things) and slink off, but I’ve made considerably less than that, but still good money (and inherited a decent amount; thanks, Cecil), and I’ve refused to slink off myself. Hell, I’m a remora at this point, aren’t I?

And now I’ve been flown to Paris for this. I’ve literally had to pay for my own gas to drive to Des Moines to sign books at a Barnes and Noble, and that goddamned book (the fine third one) took years of my life and a piece of my soul and now Hearst Magazines paid for me to fucking fly to fucking Paris for this. And they paid for the hotel and gave me a reasonable per diem.

Buy Cosmo.

More.

Can you believe I’ve made it this far and I haven’t mentioned Paris Hilton yet?

Or Orenthal James?

But I’m in this room. It’s a hotel room. Why a hotel room for these things?  There are other private places that don’t have a bed. 

I’m a real sexist bastard for the sex thing to keep popping in my head, right?

:/ (Shrugs)

Oh, Christ. She makes money off emojis or some such, doesn’t she?

I’m not looking anything up for this interview; they can go to hell. Who can go to hell? They all can. All of them.

What are we going to talk about? Maybe that’s my opener: “So, Miss Kardashian…or Mrs. West…or Kim…or what the hell do I call you because I don’t actually know you, even though me and everyone else has taken possession of you because you’re everywhere and a part of our lives even though some of us don’t want you to be, have I mentioned I hate you, and, oh wait, what are we going to talk about?”

I brought a notepad for this. Because I’m a professional. But I’m using it to write this out, now aren’t I?

But I’m sitting here in this Parisian hotel room (of course it’s overlooking the Champs) and I’m writing this and I’m waiting on Bruce/Caitlyn’s (former) stepdaughter and I hate this and I hate myself for being here, but you bastards didn’t buy those last two books, so I hate you too. My play wasn’t that bad. Fuck.

Do I get to meet Kris Jenner? I want to meet her. Just for a second. Just to brush up against pure evil. She has to be, right? The multimedia mogul matriarch. Do I have to explain this? She had money. So none of this is for that. Why push her daughter into the limelight? Y’all have heard the “theory” that she sold the sex-tape to Vivid through an intermediary for plausible deniability to drum up publicity for the upcoming show Keeping Up with the Kardashians, right? Because…well, because…  And then she’s pushing the young ones into the limelight. I think. How the hell would I know?

Will I be able to smell the fear of death on her? It has to reek. Like a widow’s perfume (Kris is a widow, after all). That’s what I assume. For that much chutzpah, that much brazen insecurity, well, she has to be terrified of aging and death. Has to be. She’ll look plasticine in real life, won’t she?  Whatever.

I’ll keep it to Kimberley Noel Kardashian. Kimberley Humphries. Kimberley West.

I did it. I just used my phone and looked up something for this and now I know she was married to a guy named Thomas from 2000-2004. So, Kimberley Thomas. Oh, and that Ray J sex tape was from 2003, so legally, that’s adultery, huh?

Can I hate her? Can I please hate her? I don’t know why I feel like I truly need approval for this, but I do.

When she walks in, am I going to notice her butt because it’s noticeable or because it’s the thing I’m supposed to notice?

Oh! The door’s opening. I have to set this down.

Okay, back. To meet the contractual requirements, this has to be a 1500-word piece about Kim Kardashian and it must include dialogue from our interview. 

She walked in the room and said “Hello” and then other things.