"Randall, how many times have I fucking told you to keep the fingerprints under control?" Harry barked at the slope shouldered store manager. "When was the last time you cleaned these? It looks like you've been wiping your ass on them. And why the hell aren't the new Pradas on the middle shelf like they're supposed to be?" Randall gave a sort of halfhearted shrug, the look of a man who didn't give a monkey's damn about sunglass sales - a look that Harry envied. "Is this a job you can handle or not?" Randall responded by leaning way back, tilting his head to face the ceiling, then uncoiling his body and thrusting it forward, violently spitting on Harry from a distance of about two-feet away. Why did everyone always quit that way? Was that normal? That actually hurt. ____________________
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.