Lil Princess And The Big Fat Queen

Anna Nicole Smith always appealed to me. I didn't really follow her career back in the Playboy days. But once she got that show on E! and I saw how she was this fat hedonist who gorged herself constantly with food and pills, I could definitely see an idol in her.

Hell, if I could find myself an old man to marry and have him die so that I can sit on a couch with a dyke assistant who has a tattoo of me on her leg and a Hebrew lawyer who will jump at my every command, I would never complain. I'd be the same way as Anna was: slurring my speech, fat, whiny - exactly as the show depicted her.

I saw a hero in Anna Nicole. Even though she was doing things that were widely stigmatized by regular society - e.g., being a fat monster and stuffing her face with food at every moment, being on every drug possible, fucking whoever the hell she wanted to, and being a woman - she is a hell of a role model. Everyone around her was obviously obsessively in love with her.

Howard K. Stern, Anna's lawyer and loyal servant, was obviously in love with her. He was hurting himself while watching her exploits with other men but still taking very good care of her estate and making sure she had tons and tons of money.

And then there was that lesbian assistant, who I have not heard much about recently, but I remember she had this big ass tattoo of Anna Nicole on her leg. This "assistant" was talking about how much she respected Anna Nicole as a person and how much the tattoo meant to her, when it was obvious that Anna would sometimes let her lick her snatch and the woman was wildly in love with her.

Obese Anna's pizza-eating, narcotic-fueled ass seemed to cast a magic spell over all around her. It was and remains amazing. Especially since she seemed to have experienced a warped version of the Pretty Woman/Cinderella story, coming from working at a cheap chicken joint, to being a stripper, to being in Playboy, to marrying a dying billionaire, etc. etc. etc. She was a lucky gal.

The whole Anna Nicole saga was always so interesting to me. I really could not picture in my head how it could possibly get any better, and then all the recent stuff happened with her son, her baby, the paternity tests, and her death. Now everything aside, you can say what you want about Anna Nicole, but she is a woman who knew the exact right time to check out to become a legend. She knew when to die. And that is so important if you want to make an impact. Death. You have to know when to do it.

All the crazy tabloid stuff would have gone on for a while had Anna Nicole lived. But not forever. It would have been a crazy circus, but then Anna Nicole would more than likely vanish into Hollywood obscurity. Like most superstars do. Very few make it to being old and having people still pay attention to them.

James Dean made three movies, then he died. He is still all over the fucking place: on mass-produced printed t-shirts, on blankets, on cheap dollar-store posters in frames. Good old Jimmy knew just when to croak.

Kurt Cobain, now a rock legend, if still alive would have probably the same status as someone such as Billy Corgan. I know fame is not what Kurt was (totally) aspiring to, but, again, he died at the exact right time to render himself a legend.

Do you know what makes you a legend? It's hard. I asked myself that question for a long time. But then I went to Tijuana and saw all the velvet paintings.

Of course, there were paintings of Jesus and Mary and that really cool looking Mexican Mary, and the devil taking a shit, but amidst these masterpieces were the portraits of legends. And every one of them had one thing in common: They were dead.

There was Elvis of course, then Bob Marley, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Jimmy Hendrix, Janice Joplin, Jim Morrison, Tupac, Biggie, Lenny Bruce even. They were all immortalized on velvet right next to Jesus and Mary herself.

The only one who was not dead was Scarface, Tony Montana, and he was a character in a movie. They were obviously portraits of Tony Montana, not Al Pacino the actor (although that would have been hilarious). This is what makes you a legend.

I saw no portraits of Marlon Brando, a great actor, and in a whole hell of a lot more films than James Dean. The man worked his whole life. I would agree he is a legend, but he doesn't have a velvet painting, so he isn't a real legend.

The world watched Brando get fat and old and star in some really crappy movies, even though the man is a genius. He died too old. And I'll be damned if I don't see a bunch of Mexicans and tourists like flies on shit surrounding the new velvet paintings of Anna Nicole.

Michael Jackson is a good example. He is a great genius and always will be, but I guarantee you that if he would have just died during all those trials when he dangled his baby or when he was in court with his umbrella walking around with his kids with masks on, he would be on those velvet paintings.

It's just all about the right time to die. I think about it all the time.

One day I will slightly bust out of obscurity. It's already happening. I picture myself someday having the fame of someone like Vincent Gallo maybe. I'm not talking about being like him, just having his level of recognition.

The average American would not know who the hell I was, but I could fuck girls, or guys, or get girls like Chloe Sevigny to suck my dick. That kind of fame. And if I do it right, and it comes at the right time, I will plan it out and make sure I die. Or at least make people think so. And then I will suddenly become a legend.

Garbage that was lying around my house previously who no one could give two shits about except crazy hardcore fans, which there would be no more than 20 of, would start to get taken and everyone would want it.

If I died in the right way - like with a bizarre story attached to it - that might make my fame skyrocket even more.

People may think that I am sick for thinking about the right time to die as to preserve my fame and become a legend, but I think it's really important. Some may say that Anna Nicole's death was a tragedy, as well as the demises of all those other famous folks - and they are - but they all get fucking velvet paintings of them in Tijuana. That's worth it in my opinion. If I had multiple people with my portrait hanging above their heads while they slept, I think I would rest well in my lovely coffin.

It's also good that I think this way, because sometimes (not often, but sometimes) the thought of just letting go crosses my mind, but it is quickly stomped out because of the voice that says, "Dude, Princess, you can't fucking die now, you've got some more shit to take care of. You'll never be on a velvet painting if you die now." And then I know no matter what happens I'll fight until I feel that I am at my prime to end it all.

Legend has it that when Eskimos get old they are considered no longer useful so the elderly are set afloat on ice flows and pushed off into the sea to die. My father told me this. It would be a good idea.

There's a serious talent to know when to die, and I congratulate Miss Anna Nicole for dying at precisely the right moment.

I'm sure there's tons of fun stuff going on in Hollywood, or there's some fat baby or freakish creature living their lives somewhere out there for them to cover. But no. It's Anna Fever! All because the girl knew when to die.

Rest in One Huge Piece, Anna. You will remain one of my role models forever.