Saturday, December 27, 2014

Memoirs of a Young Biddy: The Annual Gynecologist Appointment

Semi-annual, at least. This is the doctor's visit that requires at least three pre-appointment shots (of Buttery Nipples, of course), one run through the rosary and at least seven good glances of Dirk Diggler's dong in Boogie Nights. It is a wonder that us biddies even manage to make it out of bed on the morning of this barbaric violation.
Your day begins with going through the list of various scenarios that would make it okay for you to cancel the inevitable 10 AM appointment. 

"UGH, I have a huge deadline at work coming up, gotta cancel!"

"I have no more Special K cereal left in the house, it is absolutely vital that I pick it up from the grocery store at precisely 10 AM."

"Today is just not a good day, it's the thirteenth anniversary of my pet bird's death (Mr. Jerry). It also just happens to be the thirteenth anniversary of the day that we bought him."

"My vagina is in a very bashful mood this morning, I just can not do that to my precious baby right now."




Just about anything you can think of...

But then, you realize, all this will do is delay the inevitable sense of degradation and humiliation you will feel while your feet are in those fateful stirrups, your junk is under a spotlight and you have some stranger's face directly staring at your lady parts. Judging, inspecting and probing you at your, arguably, worst angle ever. 

So, you just bite the bullet, and you get your ass (and vagina) to the doctor's office only to wait in waiting room for what feels like a million and one episodes of Friends. What's more, everyone in the doctor's office seems to be staring at you because they know you are about to be penetrated by a metal object that looks like a swan's beak (and not in a good way!!!!)

Then... just when you were getting settled into your chair, just when you were really getting into your People magazine article about Kourtney Kardashian's newborn demon in the making, your name is called. After this, things begin to become a blur.
A blur of peeing into a cup, finding out you have gained 15 pounds since your last visit and finally... and the most terrifying... getting butt ass naked. Once you are naked, the struggle becomes real, the struggle becomes impending and you realize it is no longer a distant thing to be anxious about, but rather, a thing that is in your immediate future. Nothing can save you now, nothing can stop what is about to happen.
After a series of unimportant sexual questions by a nurse (sometimes even the perplexing occasional, "are you post-menopausal yet?") you are left in the room with your own thoughts. They say that during this time you can see your whole life flash before you but... I see nothing. All I see is that tube of lube, the speculum and those stirrups below me--taunting me, mocking me and ruining any chance I had for happiness (for next thirty minutes...) The lube seems to whispering "Jules, you are nothing... you mean nothing... you will never amount to anything"... and the speculum seems to agree.

And then... the doctor enters. Energetic (A LITTLE TOO ENERGETIC) and happy (A LITTLE TOO HAPPY), just ready to tackle the day, one vagina at a time. She immediately tells you to lie back and to place your feet into the stirrups, the stirrups that you have been eying all along, the evil stirrups of...evilness. And there you are... in all of your glory...
As you are being probed you hear the, "Relax, just relax...breathe," over and over and over and over and over and over. AND ALL YOU CAN FUCKING THINK IS, HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO RELAX?! How, in the name of Jesus H Christ himself, can I fucking relax? 

But, you try, you really do because at the end of the day, what choice do you have but to try?

You try to think of nicer thoughts: s'mores, bunnies, a fresh box of Crayola crayons, the smell of a Christmas tree, Harry Styles's hair, the song "Party in the USA," marathons of America's Next Top Model, slapping Taylor Swift... not being here...getting robbed... death... I mean, you are literally grasping at straws and then--- then the door opens, as a nurse barges in, revealing your vagina for the entire doctor's office to see... (but at least I got a thumbs up from a nice looking fellow just trying to be supportive). Yes, that actually happened. 

But I digress, after a series of curse words, derogatory slurs and cries for your mother, you are finally finished with the probe. You are on top of the world, you are queen of biddyland right now because it will not be for another year that you will subjected to this nightmare of vaginal oppression.

You are out of that doctor's office like a bat out of hell. You practically are running to your car and speeding out of the parking lot--liberated and redeemed, a hero in your own world. 
A hero to the biddies.



Thursday, December 18, 2014

The Fallon Theory

I have said it once (more like a million times) and I will say it again: there is something very, very wrong with Jimmy Fallon. Even during his days on SNL, I could always tell that there was something quite amiss with that fellow.
You may be asking, why should we believe you? What do you know about people having PROBLEMS? Well, I know a lot, if you must ask. I can spot a bad seed from a mile away. In fact, I have quite a history of weeding out the bad eggs. For instance, at a young age I was completely terrified of Bill Cosby on The Cosby Show. I have never been one to trust a person who talks like a prophet.

Slooooowwwwlllyyyyyyyy annnuunnnnnnnncccccciiiiiiatttttttinnnnggggg every word. Like a REAL rapist would. Rapists ALWAYS annunciate.

I was in tune to his rapey ways at such a young age and here I stand before you with a big ol', "I told you so!"

Then there was the priest dad on that 7th Heaven show. It is hard to believe that I was the only person who could tell he was a child molester. Some may say he was just an avid method actor and got way too into the whole "priest role," but I think he was just a bad seed to begin with. I could hardly watch that show without getting the chills. 7th Heaven nightmares plagued my childhood and landed me in therapy week after week. I was tortured by 7th Heaven, a slave to the Camden family's drama.

I had to stop watching. It was just too much for such a young girl to bear. And here we all are, years later, talking about what I knew all along.

Okay, but back to the absolute horror that we call: Jimmy Fallon. This is a man that everyone has been tricked into thinking is a sane human being, with human emotions and blood running through his veins. No, people, Jimmy Fallon is a sociopathic maniac and you heard it from me right here, right now.
Jimmy Fallon has never changed his facial expression once. His face seems to be frozen into a vague, unemotional, ambiguous mold that shows no sign of any type of feeling anytime soon. His eyes are black holes, holes of nothingness, holes of terror, holes of... doom.

I heard a news story, about a year back, that Jimmy Fallon was stabbed by a man on the street and he did not even bleed. The man who stabbed him was absolutely terrified. He quickly reported to the police that Jimmy Fallon's facial expression showed no sign of pain, sadness or even anger when he stabbed him! In fact, Jimmy Fallon replied with one of his usual robotic jokes and then kept right on walking.
Disturbing, I know.

Now, I am not trying to alarm you all and I am not trying to cause trouble. However, recently, I had a very disconcerting dream about Jimmy Fallon. A dream that I can not shake from thoughts, a dream that has stayed with me. Long story short, my dream more or less revealed that Jimmy Fallon was and is the Zodiac Killer. I woke up screaming, uncontrollably. I had the image of Jimmy Fallon's face, covered with blood (and semen) imprinted in my brain for the entire next day.

And that is when it occurred to me... Jimmy Fallon IS the Zodiac Killer. He must be. All signs point to yes on this one. I mean here he is, with his creepy jokes and his suits, playing mister "nice-nice," when all a long he's been slaughtering people left and right!

So maybe Jimmy Fallon was not born until after these killings began but that's neither here nor there... he could be lying about his age anyways. Who knows what else he has lied about?!?!

I for one do not want to wait around for when he strikes next. I am a Scorpio, after all, and everyone knows that Scorpios are always the ones sacrificed first. Jimmy Fallon must be stopped. Jimmy Fallon must be exposed for what he truly is...

...a monster.



Friday, December 12, 2014

Brains, Boobs, Bras & Brats

I write to you today with a heavy heart and a heavy flow (just kidding, but I AM especially bitchy today, so beware!) But mostly, with a heavy heart. Well, not JUST a heavy heart, but also a great deal of confusion and perplexment (yes, perplexment is now a word!)
I write to you today to talk about the most popular and highly anticipated, annual meeting of the minds. This is a gathering of intellectuals near and far. At this event, we have all of our modern day Aristotles (if you will), joining together to answer the BIG questions and discuss PRESSING matters. Matters such as:

Is a push-up bra the answer to world hunger?

Are g-strings more practical than thongs?

How do you wear nipple tassels but still keep it tasteful and wholesome?
No, I am not talking about the State of the Union, but good guess! We are talking about The Victoria's Secret Fashion show--the single most important event of every dumb biddy's life! Yes, more important than Valentine's Day and even more important than the opening day for the movie 50 Shades of Gray (and, let me tell you, that is an IMPORTANT day!)
 This year, Victoria's Secret fashion show received the same irrational attention as it has every other year. For straight men or lesbian women this attention is understandable and kind of whatever. But, I can not for the LIFE of me accept the obsession that straight dumb biddies insist on having with this fashion show.

Some may argue that it has to do with a woman's vanity. As a straight and severely jealous (to the point of practically needing to be locked up with a straight jacket) biddy myself, I understand this sentiment. One can not HELP but gaze enviously at woman who has been blessed with perfect tits, a perfect washboard stomach, a perfect face and who is just all around, you know, perfect. However, I am not going to sit here and lie to you and say that this makes me happy for them or that it makes me happy in general.
In my humble opinion, these moronic biddies who plague the country, swallowing up all our air and using all of our Essie nail polish, are full of doggy doo-doo. They do not LOVE Adriana Lima or want to see her succeed in being hot. They are merely PRETENDING to have some kind of "sisterly camaraderie" because that is their cute little "feministy" defining moment.

(*said in an English accent*)"Oh, Adriana, I am so HAPPY for you that you turned out to be the perfect human being, carved by angels and shitting flowers. Here I am just little old me with my cellulite-ridden ass and bacne haunting my life (even though I am at least fifteen years past puberty) but I rest peacefully knowing that you do not suffer from the human condition of blemishes, fat and poop that smells like, well, poop."

Yes, let us continue this elaborate ruse that we are celebrating other women's beauty by watching this ridiculous fashion show year after year.
Yes, let us continue to pretend that we do not dread the day, every year, where we are reminded that our push-up bras that we purchased from Victoria's Secret do not come with the breasticles that the models have been advertising (these accessories are apparently sold separately... batteries not included).

Yes, let us continue to celebrate a mindless, pointless fashion show that makes us hate being naked in front of even our pet hermit crabs.

AND, for the love of everything holy, let us continue to celebrate the Taylor Swift disease that is far worse than any Ebola outbreak...



Monday, November 24, 2014


Ah, the annual Thanksgiving post. A post where I take note of all the things in my life that I am thankful for. These are the things that keep me going, the things that stop me from shooting myself in the head or requesting a pre-frontal lobotomy (okay, I lied, there's absolutely nothing that can stop me from requesting one every time I go for my physical. But hey, you will never know unless you ask, right?!)
Usually I spend my time ranting and raving about all the things I hate and all the people I would like to cunt punt, but for just one post a year, I like to take some time out and pay my respects to the people I love most.

This year I am thankful for...

Tom Hardy:
Yeah, I have been privately (and intimately) giving him thanks for the past year, every night...but now I want to do so publicly. Tom and I are in it for the long-run. Our relationship has been a real roller-coaster of emotions but, at the end of the day, we are just two people who are in love with each other and who really want what is best for each other. Now, all we gotta do to take things to the next level is, ya know, meet each other.

But Tom, for you, I am thankful.

The Security Guard at school who always checks me out as I move through the turn-style entrance:

Yeah, don't think I forgot you for a second! I see you checkin' out my backpack as I walk on by. I want to thank you for being my one and only. If it was not for you, no man would check me out. But, you, my dear sixty-something year old creepist, you go where no man has gone before. 
And, for you, I am thankful.

Friendly's ice cream, you better believe I am talking about you. For years you have made your delicious ice cream egg-free, so that I can enjoy your delectable treat while motherfuckers and asswipes likes Ben and Jerry's and Haggen-Dazs continue to poison their ice cream with the one thing in this world that can kill me (well, besides a Taylor Swift concert). You are my hero and my savior.

And, for that, I am thankful.


This is a special, special thanks to New York's finest for not shooting me. A small but appreciated gesture that I seriously can not be more grateful for. All a girl really needs in this world is a cappuccino machine and not to get shot.
And for you, sweet piglets, I am thankful.

Ryan Gosling
Ryan, although we broke up a year ago and you broke my heart in twenty different ways, I learned a lot from you. I learned a lot about self-worth and even a little something about delusional relationships. In essence, I learned we were never in a real relationship at all. In fact, my flicking the bean to you every night meant absolutely nothing to you and never will.

And for that (harsh but necessary) lesson, Ryan, I am so very thankful.

My sweet, sweet, beautiful princess. You are the love of my life, the fire of my loins, my sin, my soul.  But also, you do a really fine job keeping me fucked up when I want to be.

For you, I am so very thankful.

My biddies

Yes, that's you! Thank you to all of you sick, sons of bitches who read my posts week after week. Although you are (without a doubt) psychotic for returning to this perverse and sociopathic prose, I would be no where if it was not for you.

And for you, young biddies, I am more than thankful.


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

When I Walk Into the Room, I OWN It

I am assuming that all of you tuned into the season premiere of Real Housewives of Atlanta, Monday night on Bravo. Okay, now that my assumptions have been made, I will begin dishing my scoop on the drama that is unfolding before our very eyes.

Before I begin getting into all of the individual story lines, I need to address the opening tag lines. The opening tag lines are, arguably, the most anticipated aspects of the entire season. In addition, the tag lines are a great indicator of how a season will play out. That being said, I am terrified of what I witnessed on my flatscreen television Sunday night. The tag lines were an absolute disgrace. They were an embarrassment to Real Housewives (and future Real Housewives... aka me) everywhere.

Now, Atlanta has been on thin ice lately. With the banishment of Kim Zolciak, there has been a whole lot of uninteresting drama that I have been forced to watch. Yes, forced. Last season they dedicated a whole episode to Kenya Moore's dog's funeral for fuck's sake. And while you all know I love myself a cute little pooch, I hardly find this worthy of even more than five minutes of an episode.

Here are my current thoughts on all of the Real Housewives of Atlanta:

Cynthia Bailey:

I have very little to say about Cynthia Bailey (as per usual). She is one of those housewives that brings absolutely nothing to the table (kind of like the whole Real Housewives of New Jersey cast). She has prided her self on being Nene Leakes's bitch for the past few seasons but now with their relationship disintegrated and their "friend contract" nothing more than embers in her kitchen sink (like literally embers, as shown in the preview for the season), there is very little to even remark on. Her husband's white beard, however, continues to look like a salt bagel... and let me tell YOU, I love myself a good salt bagel every now and again.

Nene Leakes:

That brings us to Ms. Nene Leakes. Nene is probably one of the most humorous housewives in all of the Housewives franchise, but I really hate to admit that. Nene is so far up her own ass, she pretty much has herself mistaken for Beyonce (and Beyonce acting like Beyonce pisses me off enough...) And I can not be the only one who is deeply troubled by Nene and her husband Gregg's graphic descriptions of their sex life. It makes me just hate sex and... everything in general.

Kenya Moore:

Kenya has always been "the wild card," as she rightfully stated last season in her tagline. I started off really disliking her. I mean, between having a fake boyfriend, Walter, and obsessing over her very non-coveted Miss USA title, there was very little to be admired or understood. However, things started to change. Was Kenya actually FUNNY?! As last season progressed, I was pleasantly surprised by some of the witty bon mots that were leaving her well-lipsticked lips. It's a great thing when you realize that these Real Housewives still have the ability to surprise you.
                                                                  BUM DUM CHHHH

Phaedra Parks:

Phaedra's storyline is promising to be the most dramatic of the story lines this season. With Apollo, her hot ex-convict husband, now being sentenced to nine more years in jail, Phaedra faced a not-so-tough decision of whether or not she's done hittin' it and quittin' it. In typical Phaedra manner, she's given him the old boot. There are even supposed rumors a flitter that she is bangin' some dude named Chocolate. I do not hate this rumor. In fact, I pretty much LOVE this rumor and am almost positive that it is either completely true or completely false. Although, I do very much hope it is true. Who doesn't wanna bang someone named Chocolate at some point in their life?

Kandi Burruss:

Don't get me wrong, I do like Kandi a lot AS A PERSON. But as a real housewife, I am starting to think she is just a little bit too normal. Her story line has been a snooze fest for seasons and seasons. I just do not think she is cut out for this reality television trash. I mean, Momma Joyce would be a much better real housewife than her. (Side note, Todd is totally a goldigger. Hasthag team Momma Joyce).

Now, this leaves us with some questions. Is Porsha still a real housewife? I mean, she made an appearance in this episode but she was not shown in the beginning introduction tag lines. Not to say that I care if she is gone, but the previews for the upcoming season seem to suggest that she will be a regular on the show. Also, we have yet to meet the two new housewives that have been added to the show. Will we like them? Will we hate them? Only time will tell.

Ugh, for god's sake, why do I still watch this shit?



Monday, November 3, 2014

Halloween Shmalloween

This Halloween season has come and passed before my very eyes and, I must say, I barely even noticed it was here at all. Ever since my mother insisted I was "too old" to trick-or-treat (last year), I have had very little interest in the holiday. It was not until the other day that I was reminded disturbingly of its inevitable approach...

As a graduate student, I often frequent preposterous places like the library, for instance. This is time well-spent judging undergraduates or basically anyone who steps into my line of vision. I always pick the "talking" floor so that I am not subjected to pure silence and, furthermore, subjected to actually doing my work. Equipped with my Nalgene (filled with iced tea, of course) and a notepad that simply consists of doodles of my signature, Julianna Mcconaughey, I prepare myself for an hour of what one can consider the only thing better than television (and there are NO commercials).

For one thing, I am regularly astounded by the number of people who are named "Nigga" in the library. them. Same name. Fascinating!

But I digress, we are talking about Halloween here, Jules. Thursday afternoon, I sat, you know, pretending to mind my own business when a dumb biddy sits at the table next to me. She was on the phone with the bae, of course. She was a little bit hipster and a lot bit annoying looking. It was safe to say that she now had my undivided attention.

Immediately after sitting down she began yelling into the phone at her boyfriend, telling him she's going to be a pirate for halloween... but not just any pirate, a COOL pirate.


This same line was repeated several times until she finally decided to hang up and mosey on to the bathroom to, undoubtedly, drop a well overdue deuce.

There I was, thinking about the conversation that just unfolded before me and about all of the dumb biddies that I have judged in the past for dressing like skanky skanks on Halloween and, suddenly, it occurred to me: "slutty" is the new "non-slutty."

Confused? Well, so was I at first but let me break it down for ya. For many years, scantily clad girls frolicked around in their "costumes" every Halloween. Girls were "granted" a "free-pass" at dressing however they want without jeopardizing their "modesty." This became the norm. Cowgirls turned into "sexy cowgirls," nurses turned into "sexy nurses," Santa Clauses turned into "sexy Santa Clauses," and french fries turned into "sexy french fries."

Now, some girls (generally hipsters or more forward thinking attention whores) caught onto this trend and figured out how to get the attention of studs on Halloween amongst a sea of Nipple pasties, g-strings and loin cloths. These clever attention-seeking biddies decided to take the non-skanky route. All of a sudden, sexy nurses turned into just plain nurses (with scrubs?!?!), sexy cowgirls turned into cowgirls, sexy Santa turned into just plain Santa and finally French Fries were no longer sexy French Fries.

Now, for girls like me, who would prefer to bathe in a bath full of maple syrup than leave the house without ankle to toe covered, this was our regular Halloween attire. And here, these annoying attention-seeking hipsters are (like this girl I witnessed in the library) trying to steal our prude thunder.

These FUCKING cunts.

ALL of a sudden it is "hot" and "cool" to be not skanky. My whole life I have been dressing like an anti-skank and no one mistook me for being cool... like, ever.

This whole incident with the "cool" pirate in the library and the evolution of Halloween in general is making me re-think everything I used to believe. I am starting to think that those biddies with a good head on their shoulders, those biddies who are not thirsty attention whores, have no choice but to dress skanky to remain under the radar. We have no CHOICE but to wear nipple pasties to keep our modesty intact. No choice.

Next year, I am trading in my California Roll costume for a Sexy California Roll Costume.
...Oh, Life.




Monday, October 13, 2014

Girl, gone

So, despite the recent Ebola epidemic that is spreading fast and sure to kill us all, I decided to venture out of my house this weekend (an event that rarely happens unless I am low on grapefruits, half and half or bubble wrap). This was a risky venture but, at the time, I thought it would be well worth-it. I went to go see the movie Gone Girl.
I have read the book and very much enjoyed it. In fact, Gillian Flynn has written an array of fucked up books that I did not hate. Although, I will admit, I have spent many hours up at night contemplating whether or not Flynn should be locked up in a jail somewhere, due to all the fucked up shit she has concocted in her novels (Sharp Objects and Dark Places were were equally disturbingly entertaining). Regardless, I had semi-high hopes when going to see this movie, as I do with all movies that I splurge 12 dollars for (instead of watching it illegally online like a logical person).

But, you know what happens when you have high hopes for movies... especially when that movie stars Ben Affleck (do not say I did not warn you Batman fanatics!).

Gone Girl was a disappointment almost from the get-go. Ben Affleck's emotional range is nothing to be desired. He pretty much makes Miranda Cosgrove look like Meryl Streep, in comparison.

The truth is, Ben Affleck needs to break glasses when he is mad because you can not tell what he is feeling otherwise. He stayed with the same flat affect throughout the entire movie. Happy Ben, Sad Ben, Mad Ben, Anxious Ben, Nervous Ben, Horny Ben... each one of these Bens looks exactly the same. Ben, it may have worked for Voyage of the Mimi back in the day, but now you gotta put on your big boy actor panties and you gotta, you know, act like an actual person who smiles, who laughs, who cries and who gets mad (without breaking things).

Not even his side-dick could save the movie from itself (and that is when you know the situation is dire). Quite a cheap move, if you ask me. I mean, we were all subjected to two sets of boobs, would it kill you to give us a proper look at a johnson for once, David Fincher?

I will admit, Rosamund Pike did a decent job portraying Amy. However, was I the only one who was semi-annoyed by her voice? Half of the time I could not quite understand what she was saying. Her voice almost sounded like a distant, low murmuring that was making me think I was perhaps turning into one of the geriatrics that were swarming the theatre that I was in. The geriatrics that I was shamelessly making fun of moments earlier (karma?!).

Besides these issues, as a person who read the novel, I felt that the complexity of the characters was absent. For instance, the movie portrayed Nick's character as a sort of protagonist to Amy's antagonism. Whereas, in the book, both of the characters seemed equally unlikable and, without a doubt, a lot more complicated and three-dimensional.

For one thing, one of my favorite quotes in the entire book was butchered up and seemed quite out of place in the movie. The "Cool girl" speech that Amy recites, perhaps is what made Amy's character so interesting. Here we had a seemingly, completely psychotic biddy stating very real truths about femininity and relationships:

"Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)”

I think most heterosexual girls relate to this monologue in some way, shape or form. The main idea being that the "cool girl," or the girl that all guys want, is a person that girls are forced to pretend to be. You know how girls all throughout football season post on Facebook, pretending to watch games? And you know how they pose like bro-hoes with their cute little jerseys, pretending to give two shits about any of it? In reality, they do know know the difference between the Super Bowl and ComicCon. That is the "Cool girl." That girl seldom exists.
For the record, I actually do like hot dogs. Do not be fooled though, I am anything but cool (I put ketchup on them!!!)

Although the character of Amy is malevolent, the book can be interpreted as a sort of radical feminist rebellion. Amy is rebelling against the constraints of females in relationships (perhaps drastically and not in a sane matter, but a rebellion, nonetheless). 

The real issue I had was that this monologue was butchered and somewhat overshadowed in the movie. The film focused so much more on making Nick the character we empathize with and Amy the psychobitch (echoing the motif of the "Mad Woman in the Attic"), that this speech was easily ignored and somewhat presented out of context. By simplifying these characters, the complexity of the story was lost on the audience. Instead, we are presented with a narrative that is male-dominated, with its female protagonist essentially muted.

The film did not do these characters justice. So often in mainstream film, (the middle-brow media, in my humble opinion) the writer and director is forced to water down characters and make everything a lot more simple for the assumed moronic audience to understand. Nick, a character in the book that was misogynistic, is made into a different type of character in the movie. The film version of Nick Dunne seemed to have the volume turned down on his misogynist tendencies (aside from the occasional "cunt" outburst... but haven't we all been there?!) to make him more likable and to give the viewer "someone to root for," so to speak.

So, while those who skipped over the book and saw the movie may presume that Gillian Flynn simply made a film about a psycho-bitch who married a horny dude, perhaps it would do you some good to read the book and then make your feminist critiques.

For those of you who have not seen the movie yet, save your 12 dollars to buy the book or maybe just use it to go out to dinner to Cheesecake Factory. I hear the Oreo cheesecake there is to DIE for.


Sunday, October 5, 2014

Tragedy Hits Jersey

These past couple of days, I have been completely beside myself with grief. Many have told me that I have looked distant and, often times, on the brink of tears. But how can anyone really go back to life the way we knew it? How can we go on with our lives knowing that Teresa Giudice and her husband are going to jail?

Teresa Giudice and her husband Giuseppe Giudice were sentenced to jail time on conspiracy and bankruptcy fraud charges. Theresa was sentenced to 15 months of jail and Giuseppe, 41 months. But, DO NOT WORRY, Teresa will not have to turn herself in until January 5! The judge did this so Teresa can spend the holidays with her family one last time before getting locked up for what will, most likely, be for a few days.

The reality star shit dicks will serve their terms at different times so there will be at least one parent with their four kids at a given time.

I know, we are all thinking the same thing. What has this world come to? Sending white people to jail?
This is not a world that makes sense, this is not a world that I am comfortable with. Maybe the Ebola has gone to everyone's heads. Maybe this is, FINALLY, the sign of the ACTUAL apocalypse  (an apocalypse that I have incorrectly predicted about four times already...)

White people being held accountable for their action? I am just as shocked and appalled as the Giudice's Real Housewives co-stars. If anyone has caught an episode of the current season of Real Housewives of New Jersey (a show that I have regrettably picked up recently due to boredom and Housewives withdrawal, as all the other housewives locations are on hiatus). All of Teresa's fellow Housewives' and husbands have spent the entire season, thus far, lamenting the "tragedy" that is the Guidice's life. Scene after scene we see rich white people crying...

"I can't believe this is my life," Teresa says into the camera, sitting in her 14 million dollar house. And neither can anyone else, apparently.

In hopes of helping Teresa get through these trying times, I created a list of things she could bring to the spa-- I mean jail, when she gets locked up.

1) A poster of Ariana Grande: Ariana is pretty. She needs a pretty girl in her life.

2) A copy of the film Garden State: the pseudo-poignant soundtrack and unnecessarily "deep" dialogue  have been said to lead to some fake epiphanies for some basic bitches, I hear. She needs a fake epiphany.

3) A foot massager: foot massagers are a must-have in rich people jail. She needs a good foot massage in her life.

4) A CD containing only songs written and sung by Vanessa Carlton: Explanation not necessary. She needs a little Vanessa in her life, as does everyone.

5) A piece of poop scented air freshener: this way, Theresa can feel like she's at home in New Jersey at all times. She needs to feel at home.

6) A year's supply of Kleenex tissues: Theresa is a Taurus, after all. Those idiots are constantly crying. She needs crying in her life.

7) A two year's supply of Mallomars: Teresa needs Mallomars more than anyone I know. The situation is dire.

Happy jail time, Teresa! If I learned anything from Orange is the New Black, it is that prison is kind of a ballin' time.