As a general rule, family members of politicians are usually off limits in my criticism. Unless – of course – they throw themselves in the limelight. At that point, the gloves come off. So when I first read about Bristol Palin being added to the lineup of Dancing with the Stars, my critique-o-meter was in full gear.
Perhaps I live in a bubble, but I thought the show features stars; folks who have actually accomplished something in their lives.
If Sarah Palin was invited on as a guest, that would at least make some sense. As dense as that woman is, no one can deny her star power. No one can deny her influence in the world of politics, even to this day. She can’t seem to walk five yards down the street without cameras and reporters monitoring her every move (also, I ain’t gone even lie: I’d love to watch SP prancing around in a salsa skirt. OK, let me stop).
Oppositely, Bristol’s claim to fame is getting knocked up by an Alaskan redneck who lies about as often as most of us breathe, living out a steady diet of off & on dating, and using her knuckleheaded teenage pregnancy to become an advocate for abstinence. For all of this success (sarcasm), she has landed a gig as a celebrity. Never in a million years could I make any of this up.
Each time I think that as a society we can’t become any more inane than what we are now, I keep getting proven wrong. Rewarding knuckleheads for being knuckleheads represents the most ass-backwards aspects of our society. Then again: maybe I’m wrong. If so, don’t be suprised to see Bristol and her 15 kids riding her newfound success all the way to the White House in twenty years.