THIS WEE* LOCAL O R G A kick attorney Howard K. Stern — apparently she never leaves home without him. "Its not supposed to be funny. It just is," promised the ads. It's not, though. Its just pathetic. For the benefit of those who've not been keeping up: Smith was born Vicky Lynn Hogan — yes, her name is as fake as her trademark bosom and blonde tresses. She grew up in Texas and sold fried chicken until discovering she could make more money showing breasts than serving them. She stripped for several years and eventually hit the big time as Playboy's Miss May in 1992 — she made Playmate of the Year in '93. That's not why we're talking about her a decade later, though. Miss June, for example, doesn't have her own reality series. The only reason anyone is aware of Smith's existence today is that, when she was 27, she married a shriveled, liver-spotted, fabulously rich individual by the name of J. Howard Marshall. She neglected to hang around for the honeymoon, however, leaving immediately after the ceremony for a "photo shoot." The couple never shared a residence, and she neglected to visit him even once during the final month of his life. Perhaps not surprisingly, the 90-year-old neglected to include Smith in his will. Since then his widow and her attorney have devoted their lives to wrestling the fortune they feel she's due away from the person Marshall did name as heir. An L.A. bankruptcy judge granted Smith nearly a half-billion dollars, despite E.
same viewers who enjoy watching Ozzie tremble and slur his way through the day. If that's the case, they missed the mark widely. The Osbourne household is a three-ring Fellini film with a ringmaster people find legitimately interesting because he's actually accomplished something significant in his lifetime. The juxtaposition of his public and private personae makes for inspired TV. Ozzie's a funny guy, and the motley crew surrounding him are likewise funny and fairly smart. Smith's sole claim to fame? She may be history's most flagrant gold digger but, with all of a ninth-grade education, Anna Nicole is one of the least intriguing people ever to share her intimate thoughts with a national audience. To make matters worse, her entourage is a dull lot, too. I cringed through the first two episodes as her lawyer-puppetmaster took Smith house hunting and then arranged for new furnishings. No explanation was provided as to who this character is, what he's really up to, why he's always around or what the real nature of their relationship is (while driving in episode two, Stern's arm is draped between his client's legs). Likewise, there's no word on who's paying for all this new stuff At the start of the series, Smith was wallowing in a rundown bungalow. Suddenly cameras are turned on and she's making like a movie star. I don't get it. And I have to say, I don't particularly like this Howard K. Stern. Smith was only in it for Marshall's money. My bet is, Stern's
My guess is, executives , L t E! calculated that Smith's \ physical and psychologicaT slide would prove entertaining to the same viewers who enjoy watching Ozzie tremble and slur his wa
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Pierce Marshall's claim on the inheritance, but that amount was subsequently reduced to a mere $88 million. The son's legal challenge continues and, to date, Smith hasn't seen a dime. Smith's principle achievement since her legal battle commenced has consisted of bingeing on booze and junk food and inflating into a virtual Macys Day Ellie May Clampett balloon. My guess is, executives at E! calculated that her physical and psychological slide would prove entertaining to the
only in it for Smith's, should it someday materialize. It's just a sad, sad, barrel-scraping sight — this bloated, blearyeyed woman being put on display by her handlers this way. It's like Fat Elvis lobotomized and sent on tour by the Colonel. Smith confesses she hasn't had sex in two years. She whispers that she can't wait to go home and masturbate. She cries and begs to be put out of her misery. Are we having fun yet? Somewhere, David SarnofF is surely spinning in his grave. ®
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august 21, 2002
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