It’s comforting to know that no matter how mortifying our own cringeworthy embarrasments—those memories that still make our ears burn, they’re nothing compared to the catastrophes of A-listers far grander in their self-regard.
They mess up in front of hundreds, thousands. And, true to the laws of spectacle, their disasters don’t just land; they mushroom into something so colossal we have yet to invent the unit of measurement.
Their collapses are louder, their cringe eternal–so much so that decades later, our ears burn–not from our own blunders but from the memory of theirs.
