“Oh, these two are going right in the fireplace when we get home. Right in.”
When one imagines the playthings of Gwyneth Paltrow‘s children whose names escape me at the moment – Cornelius and Harriet Tubman? – one imagines decadent, handcrafted bejeweled gymnasiums fashioned out of stained dinosaur bone and African tusks with each hour of play warmly greeted with organic squash milk served in $12,000 blood diamond juice tumblers. What one doesn’t imagine is a public park infested with pedestrian machinery and the downtrodden breath of the poor, so it’s safe to say Gwyneth Paltrow is trying to murder her kids. She’s murdering them dead.