Monday, June 02, 2008
Daily Douchebag: Sex and the City
DOB: May 30, 2008
Occupation: making women look like a bunch of desperate, haggard, vapid idiots
Hometown: New York, New York
Current residence: a theater near you
Douchebaggery: I've gone off on Sex and the City before, and thought that I exorcised my annoyance with this show then. Now that this trash has been made into a movie, I've realized that I have a bottomless well of hatred for Carrie Bradshaw et al.
"But Razzy," you might say. "This show is all about women having lots of sex! Isn't that exactly what you are all about?"
Perhaps, if these women were having lots of sex and being awesome about it, I would raise a glass of scotch in honor of this show. However, any sex that actually gets had on the show does little to mitigate the abhorrent characters that, as a woman, I'm supposed to relate to. While I'm currently sitting on my bed in my New York City apartment typing away at my MacBook like Carrie Bradshaw always does, and while certainly some readers will suggest that I'm also a geriatric, unattractive, withered 29-year-old prune, that is where the similarities end. I'm not thinking a bunch of trite thoughts about my "woman's right to shoes" or pondering the ins and outs of how men and women relate to one another in a heavy-handed way, and I'm certainly not doing voice-over in my head about what I'm writing.
Sure, every once in awhile I post my dumb girl thoughts about being a dumb girl, like about the boys I like, boys I liked, boys I liked once but now hate, etc. However, those introspective, oh-yeah-I-guess-I-am-a-girl posts are usually few and far between. I certainly am not going to waste anyone's time regularly debating whether or not I like so-and-so and trying to present my own personal drama as a microcosm of how all relationships are or should be. First off, God help the world if a completely incompetent relationship-haver like either myself or Carrie Bradshaw is considered some sort of sage with great philsophical insight into love or relationships. Carrie Bradshaw is all hung up on Mr. Big--who is WAY better when he's playing Detective Mike Nolan--the same way I'm hung up on my former paramour the R-uh. I don't talk about that much, because nobody wants to hear me vacillating about my feelings concerning old relationship skeletons in the closet. Besides, HotLawyer once pointed out that when I talk about the R-uh, I go to "a very dark place" and that's certainly no good for me. Therefore, all you're ever going to hear about regarding the R-uh are gross stories about anal sex bloopers, not a bunch of sad stories about the many, many reasons things between us got fucked up (or were fucked to begin with) and trying to make emotional sense out of it. I'll save that for my shrink. If only Carrie Bradshaw's lame ass would follow a similar policy regarding Mr. Lameass Big. I could care less whether she ever finds her peace about that douchebag, and I certainly don't care to watch a movie that features their presumably doomed attempt at nuptials.
I also truly hate the generalizations about women that Carrie's dumb ass makes as she writes her shiteous columns. If she's any indication, then all bitches are like her: superficial, frivolous fag hags with careers that are secondary to their shopping habits and their boy problems. Sure, I like new clothes and cute shoes, and I sometimes get distracted by drama in my love life. However, there is NO FUCKING WAY I would drop everything and move to Paris to be with some snobby, old Russian ballerina, just like there's no fucking way I would drop everything and move back to be with an asshole like Mr. Big. Of course I know many women who have changed their plans to accommodate their relationships, and this is fine. In most of those cases, my female friends made some sort of compromise with their partner, which you have to do to make a relationship (or a marriage) work. However, when Carrie acts like it's a perfectly normal female response to ask "how high?" when a douchebag says "jump," she does women everywhere a disservice. This show doesn't demonstrate that a woman can have a career and a relationship at the same time; it demonstrates that a woman can have a career until some dude shows up, dickmatizes her, and makes her throw it all away so that she can be with him. Even Samantha, the only bitch on this show I remotely like, eventually falls into the trap of accommodating her gay-looking model boyfriend unconditionally.
It's hard enough to get through one paltry 30 minute "Sex and the City" episode, much less a two hour movie. If they cut out every part except where Samantha is screwing around, then maybe I would consider illegally downloading it. However, one of my neighbors told me that she saw it and there was hardly any sex in it, so that's all I need to know in order to not see this trash. My friend JerseyGirl once said of my movie taste, "If there's not murder, explosions, or people getting fucked, Razzy's not going to like it." Since I suspect that there aren't any murder or explosions in Sex and the City, and since there's apparently minimal people getting fucked, I'll pass on these dried-up old shoe whores permanently. Unless by some miracle the sequel to this movie (which has already been given the go-ahead) is called Sex and the City vs. Predator, I'm staying the hell away from these cosmo-swilling grannies.
Labels: Daily Douchebag, movies, retard rage, Sex and the City, sluts
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