Hollywood ends…

Probably not, but I find myself enjoying Caitlin Moran‘s column at the Times Online lately:

Imagine, then, if the factory of our collective dreams was suddenly uprooted from the West Coast and relocated to, say, Michigan. There’s no Hasselhoff and dolphins there. With Detroit’s average winter temperature hovering around minus 2C, average-sized Hollywood actresses would lapse into a hypothermic coma and die within minutes of landing at Metro airport — compromised by a lack of any subcutaneous fat. Unless their agents had arranged for them to be picked up in a tank of warm water — constantly kept at a cosy 22C — and subsequently transported everywhere in it, actresses would, for the first time in two decades, have to start eating carbs again, simply to survive until spring. These people will become plump, pale and fully-dressed — or, to put it another way, normal.

Those forced to decamp to Louisiana, meanwhile, would immediately enter into a battle best surmised as Bling v Humidity. Remember Jennifer Aniston’s infamously paradigmatic hair? It won’t look like that when it hits the bath-warm, bath-wet atmosphere of New Orleans. It will become simultaneously lanky and frizzy, much like the hair of Ozzy Osbourne, rendering Aniston — and dozens of other hair-based actresses like her — unemployable. Similarly, paunchy males who’ve been relying on secret corsetry to feign svelteness will, in New Orleans’s sauna, be sweated out of their secret in minutes, like badgers gassed in their setts.

A few thousand miles away, and it’s a totally different story for those who move to Utah. For them, living in a Mormon state could prove a useful way of finally, formally ratifying all the entertainment industry’s screwing around — by marrying everyone they have sex with.



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