The Average DataLounger Is Just Like The Creeper From Jeepers Creepers

The average Datalounger is basically the Creeper from Jeepers Creepers if the Creeper were unemployed, bloated on boxed Chardonnay, and had an AOL email address. They spend 99% of their existence festering in the basement—literally and figuratively—only emerging every 20-something years (or, more accurately, 20-something hours) to screech at the daylight and rip apart some poor celebrity’s career, waistline, or plastic surgery.

Like the Creeper, they sniff out weakness: a bad red-carpet photo, a forgotten TV pilot, or God forbid a hint of cellulite. Then they descend on it with claws sharpened by decades of bitterness, tearing it apart in between coughing fits and reheated Lean Cuisines. Once they’ve drained every ounce of life out of the thread, they scuttle back into the shadows, where they’ll chain-smoke and mutter about how “Hollywood used to have real stars, like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton,” until the next sacrificial lamb wanders in.