Unbearable. Unbearable narcissistic Jesus-complexed misery-exploiting megalomanic. I'm quite sure I could think of more descriptions to add to the pile of "Things I Think Oprah Winfrey IS," but let's move on. Today, I bring you to another thing that made me roll my eyes yet again: the annual "Oprah's Favorite Things" Christmas list for this year.

Sigh. It's not like I expect Oprah to live in the world with the rest of us ever again, but I dunno, man...this year her list, offered up to her cultish followers, seems just so...gross. Yes, we know, O...you are super-rich and you poop gold, which you then stuff in Stedman's mouth so he doesn't say anything bad about you, but WERE YOU AWARE that there is a WORLDWIDE ECONOMIC CRISIS? Maybe you think this is like the Great Depression, where the dirt-poor public paid a nickel or dime to go see a Busby Berkeley or Fred-and-Ginger film so for an hour or two they could forget their miseries and look at Hollywood fairytale rich people in sparkly gowns? Or maybe you are just an ass.

When so many are so damn broke they don't know how they are going to keep themselves or their families going one more month, they don't really feel like hearing about...

-- a $22 chicken pie;
-- a $412 cashmere robe paired with $238 cotton pajamas;
-- $50 "mini-cocottes" to "make single-serving mac 'n cheese;" 
-- $60 makeup palettes;
-- a $13 bar of soap;
-- an ugly-ass $70 Christmas ornament with a painting of your stupid dog on it;
-- a $30 milk frother;
-- a $45 candle;
-- a friggin' Josh Groban CD;
-- and a $595 tote bag that looks like I could have bought it at Ross for $12.99.

No one is saying you can't live like the Queen of All Shit, dear; you can spend your exploitation bucks any way you see fit. But this ain't the '80s anymore, and this list is just so tackyYou want to make someone feel "really special" so you send them some gilt-encrusted booze bottle or overpriced soap??? Get REAL. "Pampering" and "indulgence" for most folks now is comprised of a long backrub at the end of the day, and maybe a Pizza Hut delivery on Friday nights. 

It's phony luxury, all this crap you tout, Oprah. I think you probably get that, in all the many nights you are alone except for some wheezing, spoiled, nipping, dunderheaded little dog and the feelings of unworthiness and doubt that you can never seem to buy out.