Social media spoilers

Let me let you in on a little secret.

I'm pathetic.

Yep. I'm one of those people who sit on my increasingly fat ass, watching the latest realobotomy TV or awards shows while simultaneously writing on a laptop. Being extremely Caucasian, not to mention cliché, I have an unhealthy relationship with Mad Men, Downton Abbey, and now Girls and The Newsroom. I take these shows seriously, often discussing characters as if they're real people, perhaps even my friends or coworkers.

"Can you believe what Pete said to Joan? And did you get a load of his leisure jacket? 

"Lady Mary and I have so much in common, not the least of which is our ability to bungle every romantic situation that presents itself."

Yes, I really do talk like that. Out loud.

So I'm rather put out (i.e., en-fucking-raged) when some Facebook or Twitter premature e-proclaimator decides to discuss an episode or plot point while it's still airing. In a different time zone! You're not an early adopter; you're a co-opting snot. I can't even imagine how the poor kahunas in Hawaii cope with the likes of loose-lipped or trigger-fingered mainlanders hashtagging #jaguarfail or #phillipphillips while a show is airing on the East Coast. Show some discretion and stop giving away the gasp-worthy moments. If you don't, let me clue you into a spoiler of my own: #iwanttopunchyouintheface.

(This post was inspired by blogger Ryan McRae, who writes Geek in Afghanistan.)

(photo: brandwang.wordpress.com)

Archie

Even if you are Howdy Doody’s dopplegänger, I’ve always liked you. Loved even.

Until today.

That’s when I heard that, instead of finally realizing that Betty Cooper is the best thing since sliced bread, you proposed to that douchebaguette Veronica Lodge. Yeah, she’s loaded. And her Super Sweet 16 party was off the hook. I mean, who can forget Moose doing Jell-O shots off of Miss Grundy? And how she got Kings of Leon to perform is still a mystery. I suspect incriminating photos are in play…

But I digress. Yeah, Ronnie’s a stone-cold fox with that glossy black Megan Fox hair and Fembot body, but she is a serious pill. She treats you like her lapdog (for which I hear she paid a fancy-pants breeder a small fortune). She could have bought you a car with that money to replace that deathtrap of a jalopy you drive. Running boards are so 1935! Even a PT Cruiser would be acceptable to the hunk o’ junk you pollute the streets with.

And hello, check your papers! You’re both 17. Teen marriage is so 1835. Focus on graduating from Riverdale High and get your associate’s degree, why don’t you? If you still want to get hitched to Blair Waldorf’s role model, well then, have a good life as Mr. Veronica Lodge. If you persist in tying the noose, I mean, knot, then I'll have no choice but to hit you so hard the freckles fall off your face.

(photo: christiancomicsinternational.org)

Steff from Pretty in Pink

Dear Steff:

You think you’re such a fox. Strutting through the halls in your white Tony Montana suit and your purdy mouth, you fling contempt right and left with those lidded “I’m so bored I’m surprised I’m even alive” eyes. But then you shake that feathered hair—do I detect frosted tips?—out of your lazy eyes and light on Andie.

As if.

While she’s sure to be a firecracker in the sack, that’s not going to happen at the stable, in your sportscar, or at your nouveau riche wreck of a house. As Blaine told me in the computer lab last period, “she thinks you’re shit.” He should know. He got all up in that on prom night.

So move on, Less than Zero. Graduate with a C+ average, buy your way into Northwestern (before your dad is indicted with Michael Milken on charges of security violations), rush Alpha Epsilon Asswipe with Hardy Jenns, and watch your back. Duckie’s planning on joining ROTC at the community college and picking up some life skills. When you see him ride by on his bike, get ready to say hello to his little friend.

Sincerely,
Me (i.e. the girl with the bi-level haircut and the neon green double-wrap belt you tried to cheat off of on last week's calc test)

P.S. John Hughes, U R 2 good 2 B 4-gotten.

(Photo: listoftheday.blogspot.com)

Mr. Darcy

Over the years, I’ve been sucked in again and again by your sang-froid, your stateliness, your brooding tall, dark, and handsomeness, your ability to make me hot just by climbing out of your pond, soaking wet and fully clothed.

Since you are, well, not real, I’ve looked from here to Hampshire for a flesh-and-blood Fitzwilliam. I have not fared well. I entertained one yahoo because I thought he’d look dashing astride a horse wearing one of those long coats you fancy. I swoon at the sight of those things, the way they sweep the ground as you walk with determination, legs encased in breeches and knee boots…

I digress.

I dated another gentleman who, like you, was sensitive and felt deeply. But he didn’t act on shit. He just stewed in his emo juices. Miserly compliments and infrequent attentions kept me wondering about his intentions until he laissez-faired us to death. I mean, how long is a girl supposed to hang in there, in hopes of securing moody blues like you?

Let’s not forget the know-it-all narcissist who had clearly spent some time at Pemberley in your company. He was a real treat, spamming familiars and strangers with his prideful advice and prejudiced judgment. Proclamations as pillow talk don’t exactly blow my petticoat up, sir.

Darcy, you’re a prick. You don’t like to dance. You throw your best friend around like a ventriloquist’s dummy, telling him what to do and say. Bingley's one step away from sitting on your lap. Not cool. You publicly skewer a gal for her lack of connections and lowly parentage—we can’t get enough of that—while secretly admiring her moxie and form. You bottle up your feelings until they bubble over and you blurt out your affections, telling her you love her despite your better judgment. Be still, my heart. This is going to take a lady off guard, particularly since she’s spent nigh on a year avoiding you, wondering what she ever did to irk your shit, and thinking you’re a grade-A, navel-gazing jackwipe.

Yeah, you came through in the end, saving the Bennet family from social disgrace and all that. Always the hero, Mr. Darcy, you’ve ruined me for the real world of dating. No man can measure up and yet, I don’t want to hold them to your standard, since you—how can I put this delicately?—suck.

You’ve screwed me, and, indeed sir, not in a good way.

(photo: friendsoffirth.com/pride/index.html)

Punch Bowl Winners' Circle: The new Chester Cheetah

Imagine my shock when I am watching television, at an hour just late enough to forget about my ability to fast-forward through commercials on the DVR, and am assaulted by the presence of a long-forgotten figure from my childhood. Only something was wrong. Desperately wrong.

No longer is Chester Cheetah the loveable cartoony tiger always in a hurry to get more cheese coursing through his veins. Now, he is, well…what he is exactly is somewhat of a mystery. Is he an evil super villain, come to infect the world with his version of Agent Orange? Or is he simply a giant dick encouraging others to make equally dickish moves while using his product?

Enough is enough, you personality-morphing, shades-sporting, king of the cheese. Though I am all for your apparent movement to equalize the class structure, you are still the trademarked figure of a snack brand that no one over the age of 16 will ever admit to eating. Isn’t it bad enough that you stain our fingers with your powdery proliferation without creeping us out with your deeply voiced dogma?

It is time for my fist to make high-velocity contact with your face. The punch will be crunchy, your face will be puffy, and the result will surely be flaming hot. Serves you right for spreading your cheesiness all around town.

In case you need some video references:


Or this one at a laundromat:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hokQnWm-rjM&NR=1

—Cameron Smith, Bag Stranded

Damn, I love Cheetos. This Chester, not so much.

(photo: www.cartoonbrew.com/wp-content/uploads/cheetahspot.jpg)

Scrappy Doo

When thinking about characters that single-handedly torpedoed a TV show, yippy Scrappy Don’t tops the list (Cousin Oliver, I'm gunning for you next). What the fuck were Hanna and Barbera smoking when they introduced this punk-ass bitch into the pack? Even Cesar Millan would lose his shit after watching you for one episode.

The Scooby gang was handling their mysteries just fine when Scooby’s Great Lame nephew arrived on the scene. Puppy power my ass. Freddy should take off his porn star kerchief and strangle Crappy Doo. Shaggy could get hopped up on Scooby snacks, get behind the wheel of the Mystery Machine, and run down Scrappy Poo. Velma should fit him with a choke chain and dump this cocky little canine in pound prison; I'm sure a few older pooches would be happy to take him in hand and make him their bitch. Maybe one of the geezer ghosts could haunt Scrappy Doo Doo for all of eternity, the way this shrill pill haunts my Saturday-morning nightmares. The beat-down possibilities are endless, but the ultimate responsibility lies with family. Uncle Scooby needs to suck it up, ball up a paw, and thrash this whippersnapper within an inch of his short life.

I’ve got two words for you, Yappy Doo. Rut roh.

(photo: newsfromme.com/images8/scrappy1.jpg)

Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker

I waited almost thirty years to see Anakin get his Vader on. Instead, I was subjected to Christensen’s whiney little bitch with bad hair and a slightly congested voice. If being jealous and misguided were enough to turn someone to the Dark Side, we’d all be lousy with the Force.

Anakin wasn’t supposed to be Emo, he was supposed to be fucking E-V-I-L. Slink off to Tatooine, keep a dream journal, front a band, stop washing your hair. Torture the Republic with your music if you have to, but get over yourself, Little Orphan Ani. You’re no more than Chancellor Palpatine’s butt boy

The only satisfying thing about Revenge of the Sith was seeing you lying there without arms or legs as the magma inched closer. Since the lava flow and Obi-Wan didn’t quite finish you off, you pissy wet noodle with light saber envy, let me inflict some additional pain in exchange for the 140-minutes of cinematic torture I endured. Let the Death Star that is my fist rain fury on your respirator, and may the Force be with me.

(photo: www.talk.ph)

Sneezy

Word around the cottage is that you're irking everyone's shit. Snow White's too much of a pussy to say anything so I thought I'd spell it out for you.

Quit stopping to smell the roses. Every fucking time you do, you start sneezing. When are you going to catch a ride on a clue bus? You have allergies, you immune-challenged twit. Frankly, I'm tired of asking if you have a cold only to be told, "I don't know what it is. I've never had allergies before but it seems like something in the air has been bothering me over the past couple of years."

Duh. Are you Dopey?

Your nose is red and chapped, your eyes are watering, you're running through Kleenex, and you're giving Grumpy a run for his whiney money. I'm starting to think you like the attention.

Quit trying to steal the thunder with your thunderous eruptions. Down some Claritin, rock a neti pot (I bet you could borrow one from Doc, who I understand is dabbling in homeopathic treatments these days after concocting an herbal poultice that was quite effective in leeching poison out of Snow White), and get a humidifier. And for the love of whatever god you worship in the forest, please stop the sweeping; dirt floors are not exactly ideal for someone of your delicate disposition.

If this continues, I'm going to have no choice but to go boy-in-the-plastic-bubble on your wee ass and stick you in a dust-free sphere, away from your peeps. If this sneezing continues, you can call me Punchy as I break your nose and hope the blocked nasal passage stops the sniveling. Or maybe I'll just put us all out of the misery by smothering you with a hypoallergenic pillow. Sneeze on that, bitch.

(photo: disney2go.disneyfansites.com)