Gene Simmons: Is there a bigger douchebag alive?

By pure happenstance I have been without a TV for roughly the past 2 years. By and large I find that life is rich and full without one. Once, walking along Haight Street in SF I saw a dead television propped in an open window at street level. On the screen in black electrician's tape were the words "Electronic Life Waster". That made a real impression. This past weekend, I was relaxing at LM's (who not only has a TV, but has cable) when I came across the eminently execrable and mildly entertaining Family Jewels program, featuring the above-referenced Douche of Douches. I have long loathed Kiss and its sub-par (and that's being generous) "rock". Everyone about them sucks: their songwriting, instrumental prowess, and lyrics are all shite of the first order. They have no groove whatsoever. I had the opportunity to validate this long-held opinion a few years back when I saw Kiss on a double bill with Aerosmith at the Forum in Inglewood. Aerosmith was everything that Kiss was not—tough swinging grooves and memorable songs performed with brio and panache. Kiss relied on fire-breathing, blood spitting and wires (for Simmons' demon to fly about) where their music was lacking (which is to say, in every conceivable respect). Kiss had all the rhythmic drive of toxic sludge, painfully oozing from a waste pipe and pooling, unwelcome, in my ear canal.
So there is Gene Simmons on the telly, seated at a restaurant with Bill Maher. When giving his order to the waitress he says, "I'll have the salad, and a lap dance". The waitress, who would have been within her rights to both slap him and report him to management for ejection, good-naturedly says something like, "I can't help you with that last one". This deeply shallow man, who, time and again trumpets his mantra that money is all that interests him, lacks the most basic instinct to treat women—not women that have signed up for leering or wholesale shtupping like his extensively inventoried groupies but a strange woman whom he encounters in public— with even a modicum of basic respect.
All the money in the world has not bought this prick talent, graciousness, or respect for those without his money and the standing and impunity that it buys him. What a fucknode.
And What the FUCK is that dessicated weasel that he has draped over his obviously bald pate?! You would think that all that money could buy him a more convincing hairpiece (or better stylist).
Van Gogh wasn't acknowledged as a great artist while he was alive. One can only hope that the same principle holds in reverse for Simmons and his trail of dross.