Holly Madison is one of those weird celebrities who used to be cute and endearing and now it’s really, really hard to give a shit about.

Also on my list: Julia Roberts. Don’t get me started.

I was always impressed by the fact that she seemed like one of the smarter Playboy bunnies and most “in on the joke”.

It also seemed she really liked Hef and probably never touched his penis, which probably correlates.

But since “The Girls Next Door” has been off the air, she’s just seemed…desperate. She keeps showing up places uninvited, the polar opposite of the sweet and rarely seen Bridget Marquardt. She seems like the type who would call the paparazzi, leave the house, then have them follow her to Starbucks, the gym, the hair salon, the anal bleacher, and then back home.

A rumor going around while the show was on claimed that each of the girls held a secret: one of them was super smart, one of them was much older than she let on, and the other was basically a lesbian.

I think we all nailed Kendra as the lesbian and some people claimed Holly Madison was probably the one who lied about her age, leaving Bridget to be the intelligent one.

And just look at these photos. She looks like she could be Leslie Mann’s mother.

Anyway, she and her soon-to-be-felon husband/creepy looking high school computer teacher got married at Disneyland this week and it was a whole freaking production, requiring Disneyland to shut down early.

Is there anything more narcissistic than shutting down Disneyland?

this is MY fantasy, peasants!

Imagine the family that’s visiting from Prague. The children were born before the Berlin Wall fell, and they’re just getting their first taste of capitalism and pop culture. They watch Disney productions and read Disney tales and they’re fascinated by this land of Disney in the land of opportunity. They save up for years to take a special trip together, as a family, when some douchebitch wants the whole frigging park to herself. They spend a day of their vacation at the Disneyland Hotel, the children sitting in uncomfortable hotel furniture and staring at the ground avoiding eye contact with their parents struggling to contain their grief, the mother comforting the father who, in a rare moment of Eastern European male emotion, is overwhelmingly distraught and openly weeping in front of his wife. The Mickey Mouse ears crowning each of their heads are the only signs of the specific nature of their private tragedy, the TV projecting a pale glow of a platinum blond stripper’s fake tits challenging the structural integrity of a slutty Cinderella dress in the teardrops beginning to flow from their young daughter’s eye. This is the America they found.

This is how dreams die—at the hand of someone else’s dream.