Here’s the thing . . . when asked to pick a side in this Giselle imbroglio, I’m siding with the Brazilian bombshell by way of knockout. Because I believe she was singled out by a ball-less miscreant whose disembodied punk session is testament to just how far man has fallen since John Wayne started paying a heavenly mortgage.
When did men lose the co to their jones? When did machismo jump the shark? And did the term bromance have anything to do with it?
This is not directed at all men, of course. Just those fools who get their kicks by taking pot shots at celebrity wives for no other reason than it grants them seven and a half minutes of Youtube notoriety and a morning segment on the Opie and Anthony Show. These guys are part of what I like to call the NO FEAR tribe. You know the type. They ‘pound’ sandwiches but drink light beer? Them.
Another tribesman made the scene this week, calling out a woman whose husband just lost a Super Bowl whilst hiding behind several offensive line’s worth of cameras and microphones. His “Eli owns your husband!” taunt was cowardly even by today’s far more forgiving standards.
Gisele’s reaction was in direct opposition to the supermodel rep she has to tote around. She showed herself to be human. Here’s a girl who loves her man, who roots him on and who feels downright shitty when he falls short.
There was no indifference shown in that video, no obligatory look-away; her riches haven’t rendered her an impassive zombie who just shows up to sporting events to gorge on media brioche. The girl is worth upwards of 150 mil, after all. She could have bought five minutes of air time on Sunday night and taken a nap inside it.
Knowing she’s THAT invested in his career is some cool shit.
The fact that she threw Tom’s boys under the bus doesn’t make her a sore loser, as some have claimed. It makes her a celebrity wife. This kind of dialogue is an every day excursion for celeb wives. Their friendships are tenuous at best, murderously venomous at worst- and sometimes all within the span of three hours time. Should Giselle have singled out those Patriots who played dropsy with the ball? Of course not. But she was absolutely right to think it. Hell, you need look no further than the fourth quarter to see where she was coming from.
Her response was unfortunate, sure. But it was real time stuff. It wasn’t blanched through a half dozen publicists before it caught the news feed. How many of us can boast of being crystal clearheaded in split second samples? If you raised your hand, you’re either running for office or Sainthood- which makes you a straight up liar in either instance.
Personally, I wish she would have index fingered this joker into a corner with a Vader-like grip and then followed it up with a little verbal judo the minutes of which would have read: “Listen scrimp dick. Just because you’re jealous as all get out over the fact that Tom and I are sexier than you could ever imagine yourself into being, and just because we’re going to have Super Bowl losing sex tonight- which happens to trump any sex you will EVER have- stop your hating, you filthy, bitter, jealous pig!”
Sorry, that was editorial (ahem) consent.
Okay, with a few moments to game plan, she might have devised a non-verbal rejoinder instead. Something like, oh say . . . punching this lightweight in the mouth. And as she walked away, she could have issued a clarion call to NO FEAR tribesmen everywhere.