Reality TV star/failed talk-show hostess Sharon Osbourne is revealing the gory details of her battles with the fat bug.Unable to control her eating habits, Osbourne says she resorted to a having a device surgically implanted which reduced the size of her stomach (guh-ross). Now she has had the device removed and is turning to psychotherapy as a means of curbing her urges.
"I think I have some sort of self-destruction button," says Osbourne of her compulsive eating. "I have to figure out why I do what I do to myself."
Well Sharon, I'm no psychotherapist, but perhaps I could help you with that whole figuring out why you do it to yourself thing (and I won't even charge you; that's just the kind of fellow I am).
Problem # 1: Your husband Ozzy. A mumbling drug-addict who no longer has the motor control necessary to wipe his own ass. Taking care of someone like that can be very stressful, and if you're not going to booze or take pills or exercise compulsively, that doesn't leave much else but slamming Nutty Bars, and chasing them with can after can of Yoohoo (which will tend to make your thighs expand).
Problem # 2: Your kids. A couple of insufferable knuckleheads who are now careening down the very same road as their father, and will soon also be unable to speak coherently or control their bowels. If they were my kids I'd worry about them too. I mean, how long before that little tattooed tart Kelly is in jail for knifing someone, or shoplifting a pair of leggings from a posh clothing store somewhere? And how long before that crazy kid Jack has broken his neck jumping off a cliff to impress some chick, or been discovered face-down in a puddle of foamy pink vomit after ODing on some kind of hip club-drug? That's more cheese-cake down the hatch.
Problem #3: You. Or, more specifically, your guilt. And what exactly do you have to be guilty about? How about the fact that you've spent the last several years pimping your poor drug-addled spouse, who trembles like a hopped-up wiener dog, out for every cheesy publicity appearance and crappy cobbled-together TV opportunity that comes down the pike? I mean, Ozzy Osbourne - that ain't my kind of music, but even I recognize that the man is a legend. One who's spent most of his life beating his brains in with drugs and loud music and sex and bat blood. Who's given you and your idiot spawn a nice comfortable life and would probably like to enjoy his waning years. But no - you've got to milk the poor bastard for every last dime. You deserve to feel guilty. And, frankly, when someone is as consumed with self-loathing as you obviously are, there are really only two choices - suicide or Sara Lee.
A self-destruction button? How about a fat, shameless idiot button?
