In the comments to my Hunger Games blog, the topic of celebrity worship came up.  I was under the mistaken impression that celebrity worship was a bad thing.  In particular, I mentioned that there’s a downtown hotel which I frequently walk past where I can watch the fans of celebrity athletes line up whenever a basketball team comes to town, holding their “Love You Kobe!” signs, and how I found this rather pathetic, especially since the athletes in question don’t give a flying rat’s ass and usually breeze past without even glancing at their faithful.

However, I decided to do more research on this question, since every blog should involve research at least once in a while.  After having ingested large amounts of gossip material, I have located valid reasons for why celebrities should be worshipped:

They wear coats made of purple minks—a creature I didn’t know existed. 

If you’re an artist, they will hire you to paint a portrait of them surrounded by fluttering angels.  (I think Michael Jackson had one of those.)  I live in a family of artists and, believe me, anyone who will buy art in this economy deserves to be worshipped. 

They can have sex with anyone they desire, kind of the way Zeus used to do. 

Also, they starve themselves into malnutrition, which makes them martyrs as well as gods.  When they do eat, they have very strict food rules and they are willing to divulge their secrets to us, so that as their devotees, we are able to follow their dietary laws. 

I have to admit to heresy:  I’m still not really satisfied with any of these deities.  I suppose I could try worshipping political celebrity gods, like St. Ronnie of the Free Market, or the future St. Obama, once his presidency is over and he can be canonized.  But let’s face it, I don’t want to waste my adoration on any of these flawed humans—they are not worthy of it.  Instead, I will do what most people in Portland do, and worship my little pet dog.  Look at the face in that picture—doesn’t he look like he’s enlightened already?

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