Hey, look, it’s Scott Disick! And he’s on the cover of Men’s Fitness! No, I don’t know why either, but he apparently strung a few words together (I guess he was trying to assume the position of ‘interview’) and talked to them, too, about his former, now-reformed, douchiness. Great.
I’m sorry, I know he’s supposed to be famous or whatever for impregnating one of the untouchable Kardashian sisters, but other than that? I really don’t get this guy. I don’t get his weird, Weekend at Bernie’s-esque cocaine-loving, eighties-vibing half-smirks, I don’t understand his appeal (that’s for damn sure), and I don’t get why people care about what he has to say about the fact that he no longer gets loaded in his backyard, rides his golf cart around like some fucking upper-class hillbilly, while drunkenly harassing his neighbors for merely existing.
But you know what? Scott KNOWS that we’re talking about him, and he doesn’t care. According to the magazine:
“I don’t care how people feel about me. As long as I feel good about the new me.”
That’s good, Scott. I don’t care about how people feel about me, either. Kind of liberating, isn’t it.
Scott also thinks that there’s a possibility that some of us might relive his finer moments by replaying them endlessly on our DVRs:
“I’ve definitely had a couple of low points in my life. I’m sure people think it’s the worst thing in the world to relive something like that over and over on TV, but I saw it as a blessing in disguise.”
Yes, mmhmm. Blessing.
“I was making excuses for running around and drinking too much. I realized on the way to the hospital to get surgery on my broken hand that this childish nonsense wasn’t the right path for me.”
And guys? He was going to the hospital for punching a mirror. PUNCHING A MIRROR. You know, I never understood people like that – those who’d put their fist through something akin to what the results would be if they stuck it in a shredder or something, but hey. They’re apparently out there.
Again, good luck Scott. I still hope you go away, though, and sink back into faceless, interviewless oblivion.