It has come to my attention that in light of my actually having something to talk about last week, some of my readers have grown concerned. Well fear not, because I’m back, and in a big, big way.
I’d like to take my allotted space this week to talk about something as quintessentially American as baseball, apple pie and size 42 waist bands. That’s right, I’m of course talking about the time-honored tradition of the celebrity sex tape.
Many people don’t know this, but the celebrity sex tape has roots extending all the way back to the ice age, when it was very common for prehistoric man to scribble crude charcoal drawings on the wall of the cave of the local chieftain engaging in “the love that dare not speak it’s name” with a mastodon.
Things remained relatively unchanged through the time of the Romans, the Dark Ages, the Renaissance and the discovery and settlement of the new world, all the way up to the invention of the photograph. This is when the celebrity sex tape became some really next-level stuff.
At this point it became possible for people to accurately depict themselves having sex with themselves, someone else or any number of species of flora and fauna. This naturally appealed to the already raging insecurities and vanities of the famous and insecure.
With famous people everywhere now recording their most intimate moments, the public became thirsty – thirsty for porn, that is. Now with the public clamoring for a chance to see famous people having sex, all that was needed was a way for supply and demand to come together. Enter the professional scumbag.
The professional scumbag has also been around pretty much since the beginning of time. These people will do ANYTHING for money, just short of killing their own mothers, which I’m pretty sure they would still do if the price was right.
With the inclusion of the professional scumbag in the equation, the public now had a chance to get a glimpse into the personal lives of the people that they had so much respect and adoration for.
Which of course leads us to not only the first modern celebrity sex tape but also the first moment of pure celebrity sex tape-related unintentional comedy.
I’m of course talking about the Thomas Jefferson-Sally Heming’s flip book, in which lip readers have confirmed that he stops in the middle and clearly asks “Hey, you’re on the pill right?”
This moment ranks, by my estimation, about a 7.5 on the sex tape-related unintentional comedy scale. Somewhere below Paris Hilton answering her cell phone and above the sight of Screech sporting a beard, but still nowhere even near the R. Kelly gold standard (I am 100 percent convinced that joke will NEVER stop being funny).
Now that I’ve found a way to seamlessly include Screech from “Saved by the Bell” into the literary opus I’m currently orchestrating, I’d like to focus on him for a little while. I’d like to brag about the fact that I predicted this moment almost three years ago.
Literally the second I finished watching him beat the crap out of Horseshack from “Welcome Back Kotter” on Fox’s Celebrity Boxing, I remember turning to one of my friends and remarking on how Screech’s career has officially hit rock bottom, as evidenced by the fact that doing porn would definitely be a step up for him at this point.
Apparently Mr. Screech’s (I like to think that this is what he forces people to call him) management team agrees with me because they are seeking a distributor for his little piece de resistance (can someone please tell me what this actually means so I can stop using it whenever I want something to sound important, furthering the idea, in most people’s opinion, that I am an idiot?).
Now a lot of people are getting down on Mr. Screech for starring in a video reported to include an act called “the filthy sanchez.” I swear to God I’m not making this up. But I would like to plead to my readers not to think less of the American treasure known as Samuel “Screech” Powers; this is in fact a man who is so broke he’s started selling autographed T-shirts on a Web site for the express purpose of “saving his house from foreclosure.”
So don’t be too hard on him for taking such a bold career move. Maybe find it in your heart to shell out $29.95 to help him out; I’ll even split it with the first one of my readers who buys it and can tell me what a filthy sanchez is. After all, it’s not like he was having an inappropriate relationship with underage congressional pages (I’m sorry I just couldn’t help myself there).
Kevin Dudley is a senior natural resources major. His column appears every Wednesday in the Collegian. Replies and feedback can be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.