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Adopt a Celebrity
It’s time I did something, you know, for the good of the world, but what? First I thought I’d adopt-a-highway. I could visit it and take care of it. But you don’t get much of a warm glow from helping a lump of tarmac. Then I thought I would adopt-an-endangered-species. It would have to be a cute one. There’d be no satisfaction in putting a picture of an Intestinal Tapeworm on the fridge door. Then a little light bulb lit up in my head. Suddenly I knew how I would save the world. I’d adopt-a-celebrity! Celebrities are always helping others. But who helps celebrities when they’re in trouble? And there are many celebrities in real need.
I ran the adopt-a-celebrity idea past my beloved HRH, His Royal Hairiness. He’s never shown an interest in adoption. In fact, the only way we had children was to get him onto the Natural Conception Program. The problem was, of course, once I got him onto the program I couldn’t get him off it. Nevertheless, our kids are older now. We’ve got a spare room. And there are many needy celebrities who could do with a good home.
‘How ‘bout we adopt Keith Urban?’ I suggested. ‘He’s dead.’ said HRH, who wasn’t paying attention. It’s a husband thing. He thought I said Steve Erwin. ‘Keith Urban’ I yelled. ‘If you want to’ said HRH. He doesn’t read women’s magazines. He didn’t know who Keith Urban was. But we’d make ideal parents for Keith. We’d take down the Kurt Cobain and Dead Kennedys posters in the spare room. I’d dig out the old Dolly Parton CD that’s here somewhere. Keith would feel right at home.
Keith has a drinking problem. But HRH and I have been around. We know how to stop the kids getting stuck into the booze. All you have to do is stock the fridge with light beer. They won’t touch it. And you mark the level on the old gin bottle to make sure it isn’t dropping overnight. We could help Keith. But, then again, there are so many needy celebrities, I feel bad helping one and not another.
‘Or, Darl, we could adopt Mel Gibson.’ I suggested. ‘As long as he doesn’t want to crucify anyone in the lounge room’ replied HRH. We’ve got new beige carpet. ‘I don’t think that’ll be a problem. It’s Mel’s tantrums you’d have to worry about.’ But we know about tantrums. I’ve read child rearing books. I’ve watched Super Nanny. I don’t think the naughty chair would work for Mel. He’d never get off it. Tantrums should be ignored. Mel’s had too much attention. We parents would just walk away and let him carry on without an audience. It would be good for him.
‘Or, Darl, we could adopt Kate Moss.’ I suggested. ‘I’d prefer Kate Fischer’ said HRH. ‘You can’t have Kate Fischer. She comes from a decent home. She’s not up for adoption.’ ‘But she’d brighten up the place.’ ‘Your interest in a poster girl doesn’t sound honourable. It has to be Kate Moss.’ ‘Alright’ sighed HRH. Poor little Katie. The girl doesn’t eat. If you handed her a muffin she’d just sniff the icing sugar off the top and leave the rest. She needs some good home cooking and a curfew and some new little friends. I’m sure my book group friend’s could line her up with a nice boy.
Adopting a celebrity will involve problems like red tape, visiting rights and cultural differences. But I’d be sensitive. I’d honour their birth names except for Keith’s, perhaps. Keith is not a Nashville name. He should be an Otis or a Willie. And when the call comes I’ll drop everything, collect my little abandoned celebrity and fly them back to a good Aussie home in their very own private jet.
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