Things that Really Fuck Me Off, No. 2,345,221; Girls that think they're Carrie Bradshaw
Let’s get this straight for a start: Sex & the City fucking sucks. Whilst I’d be the first to admit the pilot series started off as quietly insightful and mildly amusing, subsequent series ran like a Helios 737, the entire shambles plummeting into the solid ground of reality, exploding to leave only the nonsensically dismembered body parts of kitsch, slavishly fashionable, wannabe-“it” girls.
Carrie Bradshaw – a braying, corpulent bint with spindly limbs and a nose that could plough icebergs – heads this gravy train for girl-powered confusion and one-dimensional depth, by being involved with so many men it’s a wonder she doesn’t charge for it and make ten times the money she could from her career in NYNY Z-list journalism. Her friends are equally vacuous, each confused to the point of dementia, which I suppose is the reason some folks like to watch the show – no matter how intensely bewildered you are about your own life, it’d be but a fly to a god when set against these – these towering apotheoses of mind-numbing claptrap.
Argh.
That’s not really what I mind about the show. The show can take a running jump over an Underground ticket barrier, be brought down by non-uniformed officers and have its face repeatedly pulped by eight point-blank rounds for all I care. I don’t watch it anymore. No, the bits of the show that fuck me off are the bits that somehow escape from the TV screen, roaming into the world like invisible fucking homunculi, infecting and manifesting themselves in morons throughout the galaxy; until no matter where I turn, where I go, I just cannot get away from the soul-destroying mind-fuckery of Bradshaw’s staggering cuntishness.
What infection?
It’s this fucking labelling gimmick that’s being passed around like an airborne AIDS virus – you know the one I mean. Where people, instead of referring to people by their names (or the first letter of their names in the case of public blogging), have reverted to the following fucking shit:
“Sooooo. Friday night I was scheduled to meet Eccentric Artist to see Wedding Crashers,”
“I had to cut things short after about an hour and 40 minutes, since I was meeting Hairy and Little Drunk Girl to see The Aristocrats”
“I thought about Coldplay and how fun and hilarious he was.”
I pulled all those quotes, within paragraphs of each other, from a site I’m not picking on so I won’t link it. This is a general attack. Tonnes of people – almost always women – have picked up this method of labelling from either the clique-centred shallow grave of S&TC, the spreading fad-cum-disease that it’s birthed, or perhaps even the fevered lay-bys of their own little minds. Whatever. I hate it.
Labelling is fucked at the best of times. But this type of labelling – this self-assured, righteous slashing of a person’s character into a single word or phrase – is just absurd. What’s wrong with calling them A, B or C? Not fucking pseudo-Bradshaw enough? I know that it’d be so much more trendy to label your friend “Little Drunk Girl” rather than “Rebecca”, but you know? Unless Rebecca is a certified member of the Dwarvish AA, why put that idea in our heads every time you fucking mention her? It’s a disrespect to her, to drunks, to dwarves and to your-fucking-self.
It’s also more confusing to use ludicrous names!
And the thing that really puts the bleach in the juice, is that girls are usually great in terms of not labelling people. They actually stand high and mighty over guys for being reasonable and considered when weighing up all aspects of a person. It’s guys that are more often guilty of labelling women, summing a girl’s entire persona as “yeah she’s funny” or “great norks” or “bit of a double-bagger”. But now women are doing the same.
So when I look out across the land, and see Carrie’s legacy being propagated like some trend-laden harbinger of the sociocalypse, I just want to put pencils in my nostrils and slam my head into the desk.
But for now, I’ll suffice with labelling all the people that label others. Starts with C and ends in UNTS.
Have a fantastic week!
Carrie Bradshaw – a braying, corpulent bint with spindly limbs and a nose that could plough icebergs – heads this gravy train for girl-powered confusion and one-dimensional depth, by being involved with so many men it’s a wonder she doesn’t charge for it and make ten times the money she could from her career in NYNY Z-list journalism. Her friends are equally vacuous, each confused to the point of dementia, which I suppose is the reason some folks like to watch the show – no matter how intensely bewildered you are about your own life, it’d be but a fly to a god when set against these – these towering apotheoses of mind-numbing claptrap.
Argh.
That’s not really what I mind about the show. The show can take a running jump over an Underground ticket barrier, be brought down by non-uniformed officers and have its face repeatedly pulped by eight point-blank rounds for all I care. I don’t watch it anymore. No, the bits of the show that fuck me off are the bits that somehow escape from the TV screen, roaming into the world like invisible fucking homunculi, infecting and manifesting themselves in morons throughout the galaxy; until no matter where I turn, where I go, I just cannot get away from the soul-destroying mind-fuckery of Bradshaw’s staggering cuntishness.
What infection?
It’s this fucking labelling gimmick that’s being passed around like an airborne AIDS virus – you know the one I mean. Where people, instead of referring to people by their names (or the first letter of their names in the case of public blogging), have reverted to the following fucking shit:
“Sooooo. Friday night I was scheduled to meet Eccentric Artist to see Wedding Crashers,”
“I had to cut things short after about an hour and 40 minutes, since I was meeting Hairy and Little Drunk Girl to see The Aristocrats”
“I thought about Coldplay and how fun and hilarious he was.”
I pulled all those quotes, within paragraphs of each other, from a site I’m not picking on so I won’t link it. This is a general attack. Tonnes of people – almost always women – have picked up this method of labelling from either the clique-centred shallow grave of S&TC, the spreading fad-cum-disease that it’s birthed, or perhaps even the fevered lay-bys of their own little minds. Whatever. I hate it.
Labelling is fucked at the best of times. But this type of labelling – this self-assured, righteous slashing of a person’s character into a single word or phrase – is just absurd. What’s wrong with calling them A, B or C? Not fucking pseudo-Bradshaw enough? I know that it’d be so much more trendy to label your friend “Little Drunk Girl” rather than “Rebecca”, but you know? Unless Rebecca is a certified member of the Dwarvish AA, why put that idea in our heads every time you fucking mention her? It’s a disrespect to her, to drunks, to dwarves and to your-fucking-self.
It’s also more confusing to use ludicrous names!
And the thing that really puts the bleach in the juice, is that girls are usually great in terms of not labelling people. They actually stand high and mighty over guys for being reasonable and considered when weighing up all aspects of a person. It’s guys that are more often guilty of labelling women, summing a girl’s entire persona as “yeah she’s funny” or “great norks” or “bit of a double-bagger”. But now women are doing the same.
So when I look out across the land, and see Carrie’s legacy being propagated like some trend-laden harbinger of the sociocalypse, I just want to put pencils in my nostrils and slam my head into the desk.
But for now, I’ll suffice with labelling all the people that label others. Starts with C and ends in UNTS.
Have a fantastic week!
posted by Juliet is Bleeding... | 3:26 pm
Brilliant. If I were to apply the labelling rule in my life I would have to constantly talk about, Permenantly-pregnant-looking Friend, Psycho-Hose-Beast Friend, Inverted-snob mother, old fart father and an endless supply of total cunts that don't even merit a label. And that just wouldn't be very nice now would it?
I don't know what you're talking about, since I spent my freshman year of college not watching the show but participating in chain emails with three of my closest girlfriends wherein we delicately sorted out our own characteristics, hair colors and respective shoe collections in order to determine who was, in fact, "the Miranda". I am so not the Miranda, because I have long hair. That show makes me want to blow up bus stations.
Guilty!
I do it myself. But I hate Carrie Bradshaw (and especially her outfits).
However, I was labelling people way before SATC came on the scene.
Even ten years ago my friends and I were referring to people as "Thick Steve" and "Bondage-Fetish Brian".
I think it's a classic trait of women, not just SATC mimicking.
"Tonnes of people – almost always women – have picked up this method of labelling from either the clique-centred shallow grave of S&TC, the spreading fad-cum-disease that it’s birthed, or perhaps even the fevered lay-bys of their own little minds."
Don't feel too good about yourself...
Fab, I always wanted a nickname of my very own.
You're number 2,345,222.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Neat cartoon, Juliete! Worthy of a broader public, seriously...
But, all of ya, aren't we getting just a tad frantic, here? SATC was a decent show most of the time. Occasionally seeing re-runs doesn't make me like it any less. Nobody said the four were role-models. It was honestly abot sex; how many shows can you happily say that about? The City in question is freaky enough that Carrie & Co. actually seem pretty normal there. And, shit!, it was howlingly funny sometimes!
Get a (sex) life!
Now, now Jules. I think we need to find our Happy Place hmmmm?
The last time I tried to find my Happy Place I needed seventy-three stitches in my jugular and a new lawnmower.
Finally! Someone else that isn't slavishly in awe of that vacuous programme!
A glimmer of intelligence in the human species. Ahhhh... I feel so refreshed.