Hateful Has A Name

Wow, it's been a nice long time since I've woken up screaming in the night because an image of Star Jones flashed across my consciousness. But today, as I'm confining myself to the sofa to fight a wicked cold that has battled on for more than a week, I'm skipping across all sorts of Web sites, including one that—without flashing a warning—delivered the return of Star in a dress almost as fugly as she.

Which brings to mind a little story. Years ago, when Jones was still somebody as a host on “The View,” a friend of mine who worked for the show used to share daily tales of how evil she was to staff. She’d traipse into the ABC studios and sit down in the make-up chair for her pancake session, uninformed about what was going on in the world, thus requiring a full briefing. Speaking of pancakes, she’d swat at the make-up staff so as not to be distracted from stuffing her fat face with a full plate of eggs, meat, biscuits and a big glass of bacon fat on the side. Star was so hefty—before she had all of her tubes tied—I'm told the heels of her shoes would regularly snap off.

So one night, I’m at a music event and there’s Star. I decide to introduce myself, even though I wasn’t a pork chop and she probably wouldn’t be interested. I walk up and say politely, “Hi Star, my name is Chuck Taylor, I work for Billboard magazine, and [friend’s name] works with you at ‘The View.’” Then I went to shake her gigantic hand—and I’ll be damned if she didn’t withdraw and say to me, “I don’t touch.”

I was admittedly stunned to silence. After a moment of recovery, I maneuvered a full 180-degree turn and walked away. What a bitch. I actually pity the gay man she married, although I take comfort in the fact that he never had to come in contact with her highness. Ew.