Ashton's Ego à Gogo

Ego. To the wise? Ego is a floppy, friendly puppy, forever fetching the wise's wise slippers and so forth. But to the fool? Ego is a ferocious bitch, forever bitching and bitching at the poor fool, who in turn gets bitchy, thereby perpetuating the age-old cycle... oh, what the fuck ever, you see where I'm going. And keeping this rather crippling metaphor in mind, you'll understand why I've made the difficult decision to cease any further fawning moonings over Ashton Kutcher, as the bitch's giganto freaking head has waxed fatter than the rancid black pustules on John Ashcroft's tragic nutsack.

I'm guessing here.

Where's the old Ashton, the sweet Kutcher I recall? What happened to that floppy-mopped, marble- assed ragamuffin--the fancy-loose and fat-free scamp who once swore with me a blood brother's oath that no matter how famous we became or how often (and well) we titty-screwed Demi Moore, we'd always keep it, as it were, real? It certainly wasn't the same boastful and overconfident jerk whining about being "too" famous and then "lashing out at the paparazzi" on a recent late-night talk show, that's for damn sure. (And I'll SAY "David Letterman" when I see a CHECK from David Letterman. And who said anything about David Letterman anyway?) He even sort of threatened a certain amount of the possible attempted kicking of non-specific camerapeople's asses should they rouse his mighty Kutcher rabble. The idea!

And after reflecting at tremendous length, I fail to grasp why Ashton, above all others, warrants every drop of our precious adulation to the detriment of, say, that sweet little dork who plays Eric Foreman on whatever the hell that show is called. (And I'll SAY "That '70s Show" when I see a CHECK from David Letterman.) He's definitely kind of doable. And I wouldn't necessarily toss the fruity little foreigner in the tight pants out of my van, either. And the fuzzy delinquent with the gregarious home perm and the Telly Savalas glasses? Well, he's just darling, isn't he? Of course he isn't. But the aesthetic failings of the few still shouldn't warrant the rest of actordom playing Jack and/or Janet to Ashton Kutcher's Chrissy for the rest of eternity.

And so, in the spirit of finally putting Ashton behind me (ahem), let me assure the world that the decision to do so has almost nothing to do with my scathing new crush on Shemar Moore, the Soul Train host featured in the latest Cold Gravy commercials, who's hotter than Hell's annual chili cook-off, and who--barring digital manipulation, prosthetic enhancement, and/or my own tendency to project--is clearly hung like a Kurdish camel thief.

Love, peace, and cargo pants, baby.

adrian@thestranger.com