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Fashion/Style
by
Liza Van Horne
July 22, 2008
Listen, kids, I'm going to save up the fashion for
Friday's column this week and instead regale you
with a laundry list of Things That Piss Me Off.
I swear to God, dear readers, I have freaking HAD
IT. Everyone has her breaking point and I honestly
feel like I've reached mine. What is it, you ask?
Could it be Sharon's relentlessly flappy stripper
hair which she refuses to change in any way? Could
it be Sabrina's repetitive, lippy "mon amour"?
Nikki's mind-boggling stupidity in the face of the
obvious train wreck that is her husband?
No, my darlings, it's much, much worse. Many things,
accumulating in a slow burn of haaaate until finally
they simply must be unloaded or I'll lose my mind,
shave my head and be found over in the corner,
rocking and gibbering. Let me begin with the most
egregious. (You may want to stand back because I
have a tendency to accidentally spit when
screaming.)
takes deep breath; closes eyes; raises clenched
fists in a desperate plea
WILL SOMEBODY GET THAT FREAKING SASS-MOUTHED SHITTY
LITTLE MOTHERTRUCKEN SINGING KID OFF MY GODDAMNED
TV?!
Dear. God. In. Heaven. I can't take any more of this
bullpuckey. Look, for one thing, it's completely
inappropriate and ILLEGAL IN Wisconsin for a kid her
age to be performing at a bar or any establishment
that serves alcohol. You have to be over 14 and it
can't be on a school night. Last week Ana was 11 and
apparently now she's suddenly 12, neither of
which is 14--and though it is permitted by law for a
child to be in such an establishment if her parent
or guardian is with her, who thinks it's in
any way good for a child to be sitting at the bar
reading up on different liquors and wondering what
they taste like? "Hey Unca Neil! If it taste like
the swamp water then how's a come you useta drink so
much of it? Was you a skid row bum like my daddy?"
Oh, aren't you adorable! Run along and read the
tabloids, cutie pie! There might be another shot of
Brit Brit's plucked chicken--she just gave up
custody of her kids so she's bound to be out
celebrating! How's THAT for some "summer reading'?"
Chuckles all around.
Plus, the junior dipshit isn't even very GOOD. All I
know about singing is what the three American Idol
judges have taught me, so in light of that, I have
this to say: Dawg, dawg, dawg, I don't know, man; it
really wasn't very good for me. Or in the words of
Simon: Perhaps you should ask your vocal
coach for a refund. For one thing, she's
nasal as hell, and for another, she uses her weak
vibrato to disguise pitch problems and breath
control and I ain't buying it. Lord have mercy. Yet
the adults are utterly dazzled by the annoying
little troll. Whatev's!
Next up: moronic detectives who WORK OUT OF A COFFEE
SHOP. "My contact in Jersey tells me--oh whoops
there, buddy, what's that? Can I hand you three
sweet-n-lows? Sure, here you go, no
problem!--anyway, as I was saying, my contact in New
Jersey..."
Jeebus H. Crackers, this guy has more contacts than
a Lenscrafters. And yet he still comes up with
brilliant deductive reasoning like "I've got a
feeling David Chow changed his name because he was
running from something!" Oh really, Columbo? Why
doesn't Paul go ahead and set up a little wooden
kiosk on the porch of the Jitter Joint and paint
"OBVIOUS CONCLUSIONS 5 CENTS" across the front?
And, an oldie but a goodie: really stupid continuity
errors. Yesterday Neil clearly said that Lily
was 20, though she's 21 and had had a party to
celebrate being 21. Last week Phyllis referred
to the luncheon having taken place the previous day
when she was wearing the same dress that she
wore to the luncheon! Holy crap, is it really that
difficult?! Porniel is suddenly, out of the blue,
sketching everything that isn't nailed down and is
so amazingly talented that Sabrina thinks anyone in
the actual art world would like a peek at his
Trapper Keeper? 'Cause people do that all the
time--they just pick up a sketch pad and, with zero
training, go "Say! I do believe I shall sketch my
way through Europe. Well looky here! I've got a real
knack for it, haven't I?" God. God. GOD!
Give me a second to bang my head against my keyboard
before we move on.
Okay, that's better. Whew.
This may be a brief one-time-only gripe, but it
packed a mighty wallop--or me at least. It's only
one small line, and a few seconds on my screen, but
I am telling you I wanted to knock Vicky off her
chair and stomp on her face when she gazed
mournfully into the middle distance and glumly
intoned:
"I guess we won't have all those millions to
look forward to..."
Seriously?! Fuck you. I mean, it may be true
and I'm sure we'd all be thinking it, but
that's the kind of shit that's better left unsaid.
Waaah! Waaah! My precious millions! I thought I
could pout and whine and complain and make sad puppy
dog eyes at Daddy and be mean to his new wife and he
would still bankroll my worthless ungrateful
existence!
Think again, sister. I'm with Brent on this one:
yeah, Daddy's kind of a prick, but you've never
wanted for anything and it wouldn't kill you to show
a little gratitude and respect.
Last one for today: these people are technologically
retarded. Kay Chancellor dictates her memoirs to
Amber, who writes them in longhand with a
friggin' pencil. A pencil! Phyllis throws
some piddly little website together, they call it a
"webzine" and act as if they invented the concept of
online content tied in with print. "See? This here
is called a "link" and what it does is take you to
another web page. Can you believe it? I know, I'm
not sure how it works either. Nick has a theory that
little gnomes live inside the monitor and help move
things around."
Most recently, Sabrina insisted that she was going
to personally send Porniel's drawings to New York.
That's a great idea except... what if the originals
were damaged or lost?! If only there were a
way to either duplicate the doodles and mail
those copies OR somehow make an exact replica appear
on your computer where it could be saved and then
sent as an attachment of some kind through a
sort of electronic communication system.
OH, IF ONLY.
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