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Where were you that fateful Monday morning when it all came tumbling down?

No, not 9/11. That was a Tuesday.

Anyone else feel blindsided?

If you’re anything like me (or just gainfully employed), you probably started this workweek hunched over your desk, shaking off the cobwebs of yet another Halloweekend, reminiscing fondly on a handful of poorly informed choices and the cornucopia of corn syrup you ingested. Dutifully dressed to the sixty-nines in your slutty pirate, slutty cat, or slutty mental patient costume, this common theme couldn’t have been more appropriate– for by lunch, slutty flags across America had been lowered to half-mast.

The relentlessly public, forced media suppository that was the Kumphries marriage lasted all of 72 days– 53 fewer than the NBA lockout to date, meaning poor Kris is now out of two jobs. (In their defense, what does last 72 days in this day and age? 72 days is longer than Ramadan, the time it took me to watch the first three seasons of Breaking Bad, and William Henry Harrison’s entire presidency combined, so who am I to judge? Plus, God only knows how many pregnancies in the Palin family haven’t made it that far.)

In this golden age of gossip, it’s tradition for celebrities to hold off on announcing their romantic failures until Friday afternoon, in hopes they’ll slip unnoticed through the cracks of the modern 24-hour news cycle. (I know what you’re thinking, so curb the idealism–they can’t not tell everyone; it’s their duty as civil servants to divulge their most intimate details!) Thankfully for us, Kim went the extra introspective mile and spent her weekend “agonizing over the decision” (Kardashian Kode for “indulging in the usual whore fare, promoting the brand, etc.”), then obliged us with the whole week to toot her giant ass-shaped horn, first thing Monday morning. (She appreciates your privacy during this difficult time.)

It doesn’t stop there. It couldn’t. And even if it could, it wouldn’t. As if the first two days hadn’t been vapid enough, our topic du jour at work yesterday (This is where I mention that yes, I work for TMZ, no, I don’t typically divulge this on a first date, but fine, maybe we can discuss further, should we choose to move things forward and you ask me on a second one) was “feminine father figure” (think Joe Jackson with tighter skin tags) Kris Kardashian’s claim that her family hadn’t profited “one cent” from this so-clearly-not-a-sham-wedding. And she said it on Today, no less– because when setting the record straight by lying through your flawlessly pearly whites, it’s imperative as many people see and hear this as possible. (SEE: Kim Kardashian’s Wedding Special.)

To this, I have only one response for the one formerly known as “Kris Sr.” (with “Kris Jr.” losing his keys to the castle, she sheds the suffix easier than a year’s worth of crow’s feet), and that response is as follows: Go fuck yourself with a $50 Kardashian Kollection kandle. I figure this outlandish statement falls under the same category of logic, were I to say “I won $10 million playing the lottery, but I didn’t profit because after taxes, I spent the remaining $6 million on pot and a jet pack,” or “I haven’t profited from a single paycheck in the last five years because I spent them all on groceries and rent.” You clearly can’t spare yourselves, but please, reKards? Spare us?

I suppose the only question left is “Should we be sad?” Only in the sense that this will go down as a watershed moment for a disturbingly large population–and, as much as a few of us literate, level-headed cultural “purists” may openly despise or ridicule certain facets and forms of entertainment, if you’re under 30, you belong to a generation whose Moon Landing was a drunk frat boy landing a fist on Snooki’s face, whose Berlin Wall was Janet Jackson’s right boob, and whose vampires’ scariest qualities were middle class teen angst. No doubt we’ll be gathering the grandkids around the iPad someday, telling them about all about the good ol’ days when gas only cost $4 a gallon.

Call me old-fashioned, but I’m finding it rather difficult to feel an ounce of pity–or anything too far from righteous indignation–toward the entitled daughter of a decorated attorney who knowingly got a double murderer off the hook, who’s spawned a bajillion-dollar empire from her “regrettable decision” to record herself in the throws of animalistic passion, yet still fancies herself a role model for young women worldwide while touring the Middle East, posing in burqas as an intended fashion statement. (I maintain she should’ve gone all the way and participated in a ritual stoning.) You can also find sorrow in the all-but-certainty that honorary “likeable Kardashian” Ryan Seacrest and his cohorts at E! have already begun pulling out stops for a six-hour divorce special to kick off Season 7.)

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve just arrived at work and have an email entitled “Kim K: ‘I’m So Distraught, I Can’t Function'” to roll my eyes at. Poor Kimmy, I really do hope you find true love someday. I just hope you find it in a burning building.

The Kumphries marriage is survived by Keeping Up with the Kardashians, Kim’s sex tape, and the kollege edukations of kountless offspring of Beverly Hills plastic surgeons.

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