Every day, hasty calculations are scribbled on dusty blackboards in Harvard, grey-suited men gather at top secret meetings, strange machines clank and monkeys in fez hats frantically type, all trying to work out the answer to one question: What is a Kardashian?
Now, I don’t claim to be one of the greatest minds of my generation. But I have watched a hell of a lot of repeats of Keeping Up With The Kardashians and Khloe and Kourtney Take Miami with my mouth hanging open, which I feel qualifies me as something of an expert on pop culture, like Perez Hilton but with even bigger tits.
So: what is a Kardashian? The answers are many and varied.
They are a rich family with big bottoms and an obsession with the letter K. They are the children and heirs of Robert Kardashian, who was OJ Simpson’s attorney and died in 2003. They have a reality show, they are a brand, they are a pox on our society, and one of them is going out with Kanye West. They embody the worst excesses of trashy, modern wealth, therefore they’re strangely compelling, like the world’s most expensive sandwich or a dog in a designer bag, or a six-star hotel in Baku.
In the grand scheme of things, the Kardashians are small fry, but still, they’re here, and we are witness to their triumphs, tragedies and small victories, from childbirth and buying new SUVs to appearing on red carpets in Vegas and getting Ass Botox. They never do anything remotely useful, but I LOVE them, shamelessly.
Here is your handy guide so that you can, quite literally, ‘Keep Up With The Kardashians’ (and then kill yourself):
Bruce, who has a face like a decaying, sun-bleached trampoline, is the long suffering stepfather of the Kardashian sisters. He was once an Olympic decathlete, and now lives a sedentary life that includes trying to speak through the slots in his overstretched facelift. The effect is similar to hearing a small, squeaky goblin trapped at the bottom of a post box. Bruce would be the moral core of the Kardashian family if only he could mobilize his facial muscles. Instead he just rolls his eyes behind his rubber mask until they put him back in his cupboard like a de-activated ventriloquist’s dummy.
The former Mrs. Kardashian, who spawned the Kardashians from a special pouch attached to her gills, is a take-no-prisoners sparkly-attired megabiotch. She has managed to manipulate her family into being hot sexy billionaire nobodies through sheer force of will. In her odious position of ‘Momager’, on any given day, Kris might wear aviator shades and bark down the phone, then cheerfully despatch her daughters to pose for the 2013 Buttz and Slutz calendar on pain of death. Of course, her success is also helped by the fact that she’s rolling in money and is a ROBOT.
Kim is the jewel in the Kardashian crown, with a bewitching face that looks like a badly drawn Persian princess in a tapestry once owned by Uday Hussein. Although you can monitor the handful of thoughts that drift through her brain - like cumulus crossing the high plains - Kim seems like a nice enough girl, and you could totally balance a plate of scrambled eggs on her ass cleft. What does she do? Well she’s er, a model. And she also owns a clothing store called Dash, which she doesn’t appear to be bothered with. Instead she ‘shops’ and ‘parties’ and is currently dating Kanye, in an attempt to repopulate the world with people with names beginning with K. They can often be seen drinking mega skinny mochafrappucinos, their toned arms bedecked with shopping bags, reaping the rewards of our shallow, shallow society. In a side note, the cultural significance of Kim’s big derriere can be traced back to Paleolithic times, where fertility statuary showed they liked big butts and they could not lie.
Kourtney is the stern faced breeder of the Kardashian family, specialising in monosyllables and a low key, snarling sexuality. The other night, while I was watching Kardashian Monday in the UK, (yes, like God has Sunday, there is also a special day for the Kardashians) she visited a homeless shelter – and while a poor woman told her various woes Kourtney chomped nonchalantly on a salad and looked like she couldn’t give a fuck. Essentially, you could put Ming The Merciless on Pegasus with a Catherine wheel coming out of his ass and Kourt would yawn and wonder what was on MTV. Often, she can be found procreating with her boyfriend Scott, who is Patrick Bateman from American Psycho without the power tools. Together, they have two children – Mason Dash Disick and Penelope Scotland Disick. Yes, I that’s Dash and Scotland. And DISICK. I know. I know.
Perhaps it’s something to do with the rumor that Khloe has a different Daddy (whoops!) but Khloe is a monumental badass who is about three feet taller and wider than the rest of them. She looks like she could do shots with a football team and then do the football team and then eat a huge doner kebab - like the whole doner on a stick in a massive pita bread – and then drive a tractor. She is all woman. Always on hand to insult her sisters and her overbearing mother, Khloe is the only one who has any sense and eats any food, and for this we must salute her. And once she put some chickens in Bruce’s bath. That was funny. Hurr hurr. Beavis.
Anyway, there are more Kardashians. There’s Kendall and Kylie, and er, Rob (dropped the ball, there). They live lives of immense privilege. They are dumb, but I can’t stop watching. It looks like fun to be a big famous rich idiot, trampling over the environment in your private jet and being an asshole in The Club.
One day, when the revolution comes, they’ll be first in line for the firing squad, but until then, I’m in a K-hole.