4 Reasons Child Stars Should be Made Illegal

It’s obvious that a new crop of  deranged child stars is at its most batshit insane right now, what with Justin Bieber acting like a dick, Amanda Bynes’s sad but hilarious Twitter feuds, and the never-ending saga of Lindsay Lohan and her faithful crack pipe. So why do parents (or legal guardians if they’re, you know, orphans) keep schlepping their kids to and from auditions, trying to get them inducted into the cult that is Disney?

Come play with us, Danny. Forever and ever.

I can’t even begin to delve into the reasons why parents are so obsessed with cementing their kid into an industry where they’ll probably be offered drugs by the age of 10, but I do have a few reasons (read: 4) why child stars should be made illegal.

Girl, I’ll take you on a journey.

1) Child stars often morph into total jerks.

It’s true. No matter what you Beliebers want to belieb, your beloved Bieber is a huge rhymes-with-punt.

Seriously, if I could sucker punch this bitch…

As a Canadian, I used to be super proud of his accomplishments. I would impress my American pals with the fun trivia that the mighty Biebs grew up in a town a mere 2.5 hours away from mine.

I know, I know, calm the fuck down. The Biebs and I are just mad tight, bro.

I forgave him for his gopher-meets-Ellen-Degeneres haircut. I forgave him for “Baby.” I forgave him for “Never Say Never.” I forgave him for literally all of his shitty music, simply because he’s a beaver-head. (In both senses of the word).

Being a child star, however, has completely warped his sense of right and wrong, good and evil, normal and lesbian-esque hair. And he’s not the only one. People constantly cater to him and fluff his ego, turning him into a Barbara Streisand-level diva.

Something about that perm destroys her believability.

I know that if he’d become famous when he was 25, 30, 35, etc. he might have turned out the same way. But he’s still a jerk and should therefore be forced to live on a deserted island with a 1997-era Jeff Goldblum listening to this for 10 years:

A harsh but just punishment.

2) Child stars make everyone else feel like pedophiles.

Teenaged celebrities are sexualized. There’s nothing else to it. It’s like someone read Lolita and said, “Oh man, wouldn’t it be great if we made this a real thing?”

Maybe for fans of statutory rape.

Example: Britney Spears was 16 when she did this Pepsi commercial:

I’m not saying that Britney shouldn’t have been famous, but her entire brand was focused on making money off of her jailbait status. If you haven’t seen her “Joy of Pepsi” commercial, you might have missed that they put  middle-aged politician, Bob Dole, in at the end. He’s watching the commercial with his dog. The dog, in a fit of heated arousal due to Brit’s fierce moves, starts to bark. The Dole-ightful Bob looks over and says, smirking: “Easy, boy.”

They were literally winking at the fact that Britney Spears was untouchable.

That’s pop music, yeah, fo sho, I get that, but it still doesn’t change the fact that they threw this kid to Viagara-popping sharks without a life jacket.

LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!

And don’t even think that mini celeb boys aren’t involved. I feel weird thinking that the twinks from One Direction are good looking and they’re my age. It just feels like cradle robbing. I will take this moment to declare that I will forever resist any cougar tendencies that may spring up in my depraved mind.

RESIST.

What are they popping? A cherry?

3. Watching a child star fall apart is like being a spectator at the Hunger Games.


Seriously.

All these photos come out like:

And:

And everyone has a field day, reacting with INTENSE schadenfreude.

Yeah, it’s funny. It’s fucking hilarious — it just shouldn’t be. They pass out, get caught with prostitutes/drugs/Charlie Sheen and everyone’s like:

I’M SO FREAKIN’ EXCITED.

Meanwhile, all those washed up celebs are experiencing legal action and withdrawal symptoms.

Just because they’re famous doesn’t mean they don’t have withdrawal symptoms. 

Celebrities: They’re just like us!

These people are PEOPLE, even if they do look like a Sun Chip left out in the rain for some time (ahem, Lindsay Lohan). I’m definitely guilty of this, too. I follow Amanda Bynes’s downfall like it’s news of the rapture.

After each breakdown, child stars basically turn to the world, saying:

Unfortunately, as a society that gets bored pretty easily, we’re just like:

It truly is like the Hunger Games. We watch children battle it out in a global arena until only one is left standing. And that is Justin Timberlake.

He just watched Amanda Bynes’s twerking video.

4. We can make children using CGI now!

Why do we need real kids when we can computer animate them?

Look how realistic. Look at the tiny human:

It’s so authentic!

These CGI babies won’t develop jerkwad attitudes OR drug problems! (No promises on avoiding becoming a sexualized object. There are some fabulously strange people out there).

They might bite, though.

Child stars are sources of joy and laughter and whatnot, but what happens after they lose their cuteness and find out that the world doesn’t want them anymore?

A whole lot of horses***, that’s what happens.

All I can say is, thank God for Justin Timberlake.

I’m afraid I might be one of THOSE drunk people…

Until recently, I’d always prided myself on being one of those people who never did anything remarkably stupid while drunk. I’d wake up the morning after a party, grab a cup of black coffee, and laugh at the new and hilarious ways my friends had managed to humiliate themselves the night before.

I was really fucking smug about it. 

I would sit there and listen to their stories, thinking:

Little did I know that the tables were about to turn. In a big way. No they weren’t just going to turn, they were going to fucking shatter into a million little splinters and stab me right in the dignity.

The realization came to me after a party one night which ended with me racing through the underground tunnels at my school pretending to be an airplane. I called one of my friends, referred to as Elektra in one of my previous posts, but for today we’ll just call her The Face That Launched A Thousand Ships, and she came down to find me running through the tunnels with my arms spread wide going: “VROOOOOOOOM!”

That’s not even the noise that an airplane makes. Jesus. 

She tried to get me home, but I was not having it.

And that was only the beginning.

Since that night, I’ve developed such embarrassing drunken habits that I’d make the whitest of the White Girl Wasteds jealous. Not to mention the entire cast of Jersey Shore:

LOOK AT THIS TRAINWRECK

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?

For one thing, I’ve started doing this thing where I try to suck on whoever’s face is nearest like some weird sea slug that just doesn’t understand social boundaries. Once I had a few drinks in me, I’d run around the party like a rabid dog in heat, basically screaming:

No one is safe.

Some of my friends would come up to me the next day and quietly pull me aside, saying: “Hey, man, this is kind of awkward, but at that party last night, you tried to make out with me… and with my boyfriend…”

YES. I KNOW I DID. I WAS THERE. I GRABBED YOUR FACE A BIT AND HARASSED YOU AND YOUR SEX-MATE.  BUT YOU KNOW WHAT?

I was on a Vodka Cloud of Love and I wanted to share my emotions with everyone because internalizing your feelings is bad for your heart. 

AND I HAVE A LOT OF FEELINGS. 

And a big heart.

So I’ve been trying to kick that lil’ habit to avoid the inevitable awkwardness that it brings about, but I guess that while I was doing that, I failed to notice another little tendency creeping into my behaviour.

I’m a photo ruiner. I ruin people’s photos.

Let me explain.

This morning I woke up in a Bed of Pain feeling like my stomach was going to capsize and my head was going to explode. I didn’t really remember anything about last night, only that I almost made it to midnight before several of my friends had to put me to bed. I’m like a little kid that desperately wants to stay up until 12 on New Year’s Eve but can never make it, no matter how hard she tries.

Anyways, later in the day, photos began to be posted on Facebook. And that is when I realized.

I am an embarrassment to the human race and an example for you all of everything you should avoid becoming.

For example:

Rachel is unimpressed with my antics.

Rachel is unimpressed with my antics.

So you see, I run around and make everyone’s night significantly less attractive using skills I picked up from watching Rosie O’Donnell as a kid.

Let’s look at another one, shall we?

547921_3991805287103_538693617_n

Now, let’s take a second here. Note the weird, drooling mouth, the half-shut eyes, and, oh yeah, the vodka cooler shoved down my dress.

Why would I take a picture of this? Why would I put the vodka cooler in that strange location? That’s not where it’s supposed to go. I know this. Every part of me knows this. And yet, we have this photo.

And it wasn’t even my camera.

Sometimes I wonder how I even have friends.

One of my them tried to tell me that I enhanced photos, rather than ruin them. For anonymity’s sake, we’ll call her a total fucking liar.

This is not enhancement:

I also really like food.

I also really like food.

This is total and utter destruction.

I am the Godzilla of group photos.

I stomp around in a drunken daze and destroy everyone’s chance at finding a fun new profile pic. 

I am a destroyer of social media success.

Damn me.

However, while writing this blog, I came to the conclusion that the reason for my change from a peaceful little tipsy gnome to a tornado of drunken destructiveness is:

University.

Damn you, university. With your (sometimes) free alcohol, and lack of rules.

No, you know what? F*** you.

F*** you, university.

Now, beware children (if there are any children reading this blog, which I hope there aren’t, since I could easily be a pedophile lying in wait (except I’m not) but back to the point in these parentheses, you should maybe ask your parents before signing up for a blog website, because that just seems like common sense), a higher education is not all fun and games. It can lead to social humiliation, regret, and remorse.

So much remorse.

My spidey senses are tingling with it.

But on the flip side, university’s also the time in your life when making a fool of yourself is somewhat socially acceptable.

So if you’re like the Old Me, and are scared of embarrassing yourself, stop it. Stop it right now.
You don’t learn anything by playing it safe. You learn by going a little bit crazy and getting a little bit silly. Otherwise, how else will you learn to laugh at yourself?

I’m not saying that you need to get drunk all the time and pass out on the bathroom floor in some frat house. You just need to stop caring what other people think so much. It’s a hard thing to do, but it’s so worth it. Because when you stop caring what other people think, you can actually start becoming yourself.

In the wise words of a class-A drunk, Chelsea Handler:

“Laugh loudly, laugh often, and most important, laugh at yourself.”
So if every Sunday morning I emerge from my cave (read: room) looking like this:
that’s my prerogative. Because I don’t give a flying f*** what people think of me anymore- and I’ve never been happier.
And that’s something to drink to.

I think I might have an unhealthy relationship with TV…

Sometimes, it’s healthy to take a step away from yourself and evaluate your life from afar like one of those Tween Queen bitches from middle school used to do to me in the mall food court.

By performing this judgmental evaluation of yourself, two conclusions can be drawn:

1) “You  fuckin’ rock at life, you hot piece of ass.”

or

2) “Sweet Jesus, what kind of human garbage have you become, you useless future agoraphobe?”

Sadly, I did not come to Conclusion #1. I do not rock at life, and I am not a hot piece of ass.

I am hopelessly devoted and Intervention-level addicted to TV.

It’s unhealthy.

In retrospect, I really should have noticed the warning signs.

For example, when I heard that “30 Rock” was going to be cancelled, my first reaction was something like this:

tumblr_ly60rwzS6k1qbijrn
This reaction quickly turned into:
lemon-crying
After shoving several dozen peanut-butter cupcakes into my tear-ridden face (baked by yours truly- that’s right, this bitch can bake), I took a trip back in time to see if there had been any other signs warning me of my addiction.
Oh god, were there ever.
I remembered a time not so long ago when I explained, in great detail, the process of meth production and distribution to my twelve year-old brother.
As well as the process of money-laundering.
He believed I knew from personal experience and looked at me with a combination of awe and fear.
No, sweet child, your sister is not a money-laundering meth dealer, she is simply delusional.
When my sister suggested quietly that maybe I should set the record straight, I replied with:
ali7
And walked away.
To a well-adjusted human being, this would have been enough for their conscience to say: “Hey man, maybe you should stop watching the idiot box so much… You’re not doing so good, bro.”
But not for this raging beast of TV burden (I know that doesn’t make sense, but I’M DISTRAUGHT).
My friends began to compare me to Abed from Community….and I didn’t even care. Sweet Beyonce on High, I was flattered.
 tumblr_lihheazCQg1qdnjab
FLATTERED.
Granted, he is the best character on the show and he’s pretty awesome and whatnot, but we’re talking about a character whose friends only keep him around because his delusions make their lives more entertaining.
Whatever, I thought.
tumblr_m34cbuMpoZ1qa37hco1_500
The final red flag waved at me like a French prostitute’s TB-infested handkerchief on Bastille Day.
i.e. It was really, really obvious but I was blinded by the promise of television art every night before bed (and no, I do not mean porn, but I still respect you if that’s your vice of choice).
It happened on a day. This day was no different from any other day. I was sitting alone in my room, watching my computer screen with strained, reddened eyes, my irises reflecting the movements of the on-screen images that so mesmerized me.
I was watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, namely, the episode containing the musical, “The Nightman Cometh”. Now, I will defend myself once by saying that this entire episode is a piece of comedy genius, but that is really neither here nor there.
Now, if you haven’t seen the Nightman Cometh, in order to relate to my sad existence, I would suggest you watch it here:
This isn’t a suggestion. This is an order. A desperate order. Please watch.
Anyways, I was watching it and dancing along, as one often does whilst watching an inter-textual musical on a TV show. Like this:
dayman
I was laughing really hard. Like really, really hard. Like harder than an Indian guy at a Russell Peters show.
Suddenly, my euphoria was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I asked, reluctantly pausing my video and fearing the inevitability of real social interaction.
“Elektra,” said one of my roommates, (name has been changed), coming into the room with the trepidation of a visitor to the ICU.
She glanced around my room, her eyes widening in surprise.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought there were other people in here… I heard laughing… Never mind.”
And she left.
She left me standing there, next to my computer, hands frozen above my head in a mid-clap position, shell-shocked.
It wasn’t until I took a step back from my life that I realized what I had become.
A junkie.
And I didn’t take it well.
   tumblr_m1d1dtmlx21qd61j1
Until I decided, you know what? TV is fuckin awesome. And there’s a little bit of Abed inside all of us. Each of us is an Abed, a meth dealer, a perpetually single food-addicted showrunner, and a Nightman who Comeths.
anigif_enhanced-buzz-15443-1359650377-9_preview
And I don’t think I’ll be changing any time soon.
And you can bet your ass that I’ll be tuning into Community on Thursday on NBC, and in the wise words of the now deceased Liz Lemon:
suckitnerds_1x