I had never heard of the rich "playboy" Steven Bing until he knocked up Elizabeth Hurley, and since then I've seen his name linked to other pretty young things whose names escape me right now (lucky for them) but who are pretty well able to support themselves and therefore don't really need to be with him unless he's either hot or charismatic.
But what really gets me about him is the moral fuggitude of his decision to contest paternity of Elizabeth Hurley's baby and claim they never really dated, because -- aside from it possibly leading to palimony he can amply afford and which she doesn't need -- God knows it's torturous having to confirm that he both dated and slept with a beautiful, internationally known model.
FRIEND: Hey, man, what did you do last night?
BING: Uh, nothing. I... hit on that cross-eyed video-store clerk and then tried to have sex with her and her hermaphrodite cousin, but, uh, they turned me down. Yeah.
FRIEND: Steve... I don't think you're being completely honest with me. For one thing, that's the same line you tried to use two days ago.
BING: Well, patterns, you know...
FRIEND: Steve. Talk to me. Are you... I hate to even say it... are you sleeping with Elizabeth Hurley?
BING (buries his face in his hands, weeping softly): I don't know what's wrong with me! I can't seem to stop! Why, oh, why, am I cursed with this freakish fetish? Why?
FRIEND: It's okay, Steve. I'm here for you. We'll get you some therapy and you'll get through this.
BING (sobbing): It's so GROTESQUE ... just... want the madness... to stop...
What a damper on your reputation, right? Especially when you yourself are completely plain-looking, dipped in liquid fug and topped off with a crispy doofus coating. I can just imagine him getting home, scrubbing himself raw in the shower with a loofa to get off any lingering cooties from the body of a famous hottie. God forbid they should infect him and somehow make him good-looking, too.
He's way better than The Donald and his mystifying comb-over any day!