I watch a lot of poor quality television, and while I stand by my Designing Women, one bargain basement I won’t venture into is the exploitative dankness of TLC.
The TLC network is a Bristol Stool Scale of mediocrity and while it stands to reason that eventually, they will choose to replace at least one component of their overweight, pregnant, little person trifecta with actual substance, it now seems more probable that they will just combine them all and mix in the ups and downs of owning and operating a frozen yogurt shop.
But, until they find their new star of Twist and Shout: Pregnant, Obese and Little, they will have to do what they can to glorify pregnancy and parenthood through average women. Reading through the casting description reveals that this will be a “web video series,” which is second only to internet petitions in efficacy, and will likely consist mostly of women displaying their morbid collection of unused baby paraphernalia on suspiciously nice couches.
I admit, my knowledge of TV production is so crippled that well, TLC would probably want to come film it and turn it into a desperate quest for ratings. But, I do know that using women to film their own experiences while solidifying a lucrative deal with Church & Dwight in exchange for closeups of the golden shower that their First Response pregnancy tests will receive is pretty savvy. Savvy here means the same thing it does in TLC’s show description – shameless.
However, in their defense, subtly perpetuating the intrinsic xenophobia and subordination of the Quiverfull movement is a full-time job. So while TLC is still actively searching for ‘triplets or more’ in a casting for Make Room for Multiples, it’s only fair that women who can only produce one uninteresting, non-obese baby at a time film their own “emotional passage to pregnancy.”
The best part though is that they use a gmail address, which clearly reflects all the foresight you can expect from a network that boasts a show dedicated entirely to babies being born in toilets. Come on TLC, I use gmail and it’s usually just to order pizza online. Get your shit together or at least honor this colossal joke with a hotmail account.
I am rarely ever able to take advice. And, despite what you may be thinking, this isn’t a roundabout way for me to say that I listen to Papa Roach and fasten my pants with a belt buckle shaped like a gun. Instead, it’s a way to express that sometimes I am just a different kind of moron.
When I was in middle school, I made myself look like Eddie Munster’s twin, only with more hair product and eyeliner. My dad, as delicately as could be, suggested I go the more natural route. However, that only caused me to increase the amount of hair spray I used, which curiously seemed to have a direct relationship with the number of people who would be willing to see my boobs.
When I was in high school, my parents pleaded with me to take driver’s ed so I could get my license and have a life outside of watching Shipmates and fashioning dildos out of tampons. I refused, mostly because I was too busy taking Latin online. As a result, I got my license at the age of 21.
When I was in college, I was urged to major in anything other than Art History in order to ensure that my degree would mean more than my ability to offer up the history of the paper it was printed on.
But, I own my mistakes. I would even go so far as to say that I cuddle my mistakes at night and seductively whisper in their ear that they’re not mistakes in my eyes and they’ll be all like ‘You’re just saying that’ and I’ll just kind of smile since they have no idea. Because for me, my mistakes comprise a chain of the happiest accidents I could ever hope for. I was hideous for years, which meant that it didn’t matter that I had no life in high school, which then led to me majoring in Art History because really, the only thing more tailored for losers would’ve been ‘Anime’, and here I am – grateful for all of it.
This is why I think Steven Ward should be hung by his scrotum from a meat hook and forced to drink Clamato while watching re-runs of Night Court. If you’re unfamiliar with the name, I don’t blame you. But, Steven Ward is a self-proclaimed matchmaker who asserts that he is, “on a mission to bring love into peoples’ lives one soul at a time.” Since bringing love into peoples’ lives goes hand in hand with having a reality show on VH1, guess how I know about this poor man’s Matt LeBlanc?
They're totally fucking.
He, along with his mother JoAnn, host Tough Love – a show full of so much bullshit, it makes Dick Cheney look like the kind of guy you’d go out drinking with and trust to drive your car back at the end of the night. The premise is simple – assemble a group of women who can’t find men because of commitment issues, career obsession, body image or all of the above. Then, he fixes them by instructing that they all stop being such sluts. With its assumption that women need to take it upon themselves to keep a relationship or risk being thrown away like an old pair of underwear because the elastic has broken, Tough Love is a feminist’s worst nightmare. Luckily, I’m not a feminist. I’m just kind of irked in a way that makes me uncomfortable. The differences may be negligible, I understand, but I don’t want to harp about slut shame or how this show, along with Tucker Max, hurts society.
My issue is that choice is stripped of these women all so they can find a man with just the right amount of tribal tattoos as to be bad ass, but at the same time employable. They are advised on how to conduct themselves in the company of men (usually this means that they don’t say anything at all) and since most of these women are both dependent on alcohol and estranged from their child’s father, it is not pessimistic of me to assume that they will make mistakes along the way. The biggest one most likely being that they signed up to be on a VH1 reality show. But they’re Steve Ward’s mistakes as delivered to him by the umbilical cord he undoubtedly still shares with his mother.
Point is – never take anyone’s advice seriously. Unless of course it’s coming from a 20-something who just ate a sleeve of Oreos in her Snuggie. Only then does it make sense.
I went to the post office today. Do you know all the hoops they make you jump through before renting a PO Box? I’ve felt more at ease during a pap smear. But whatever. I choked down my discomfort and approached the woman with a sassy I’m-not-50-yet haircut so I could receive mail as Vagina Drum.
She immediately noticed that I, like a dumb ass, authorized my own proof of residency on the form and flatly told me, “That’s not your job.” Yeah OK I know that now, but it wasn’t her job to make me feel like Corky that time he got behind the wheel of a car and almost killed his entire high school. Unlike a pap smear, I couldn’t comfort myself with the fact that she’s probably seen much worse, because coming off as someone who is paying for her genitals to receive mail is like rolling out the droopiest set of beef curtains ever.
Eventually she handed over the keys and promptly told me she was going on her break (to fan herself, I guess) so I would have to seek someone else for help in the event that the keys didn’t work. Spoiler: they did.
Which is why I can tell you that I am now able to receive mail without fear of anyone coming to my physical address and stealing my Troll doll collection. The address can be found here or copied down here:
VaginaDrum.com
P.O. Box 6331
Bend OR, 97708
I accept all forms of fanaticism and contempt. Also a plus: drawings that depict me riding some sort of large cat while doing really cool and awesome things with Justin Timberlake.
Earlier this week, I hit the very artery from which copious amounts of bone chilling cautionary tales gush about what happens when you piss in the face of consensual relationships and decide to get a cat. This artery is better known as Cat People, a fairly low budget special on Animal Planet that documents the lives of show cats and their life partners. 
I got through only about half of the show on my high horse, pitying these people for turning their cats into giant dildos that they lube up and use for their own personal enjoyment. Then I realized, I have a lot of cat stuff (shirts, figurines, plates–the usual fare for any budding Gary Ridgway) and am probably one Tabby away from perming and bleaching my hair, dressing like Barry Gibb and taking my cat to Sears so I can share a loving embrace in front of a delicately diffused background that just happens to compliment our eyes.
I blame my dad, because years ago, he bought me a t-shirt in NYC that said “Cats Fifth Avenue” with a stylishly dressed cat on the front…shopping. Thinking back, I guess I can’t really fault him, because all he was doing was making a hunch that maybe his daughter, who practiced slow dancing to Boyz II Men with her life size Bugs Bunny stuffed animal just in case the opportunity ever arrived, would enjoy a nice cat pun on a t-shirt. Unfortunately, he was right.
Still, I never thought I was one of those people. The kind who refers to their cat as a PMSing teenager and then takes a private bath with them in their cat themed bathrobe. And I’m not, but that could be because I don’t actually have a cat…yet.
The dangerous thing about cat people is that the pictures they keep in their wallet of their cat dressed up like a pumpkin for Halloween are cute until you find out that the wallet was made by collecting materials from its hairballs and you touched it. Then, you see a list about why cats are better than people and only then do you realize that you should’ve never loaned out your favorite cashmere sweater to one of them because it’s probably being used as ceremonial de-flowering sheath this very moment. How do I know that? Probably because some of the items on the list look like this:
- You don’t have to worry that your cat will do drugs or join a gang
- Your cat usually won’t leave you for another human
- Light petting is always enough to satisfy a cat
- Cats won’t drink beer and pass out on the bathroom floor
- Cats don’t brag about whom they have slept with
Even though I was reading this in my own home, I still wanted to slowly back out of the room. The content is obese with vivid details concerning the reasons why every relationship ever in a cat person’s life dissolves because of drug abuse, infidelity, or most likely…cat obsession.
Living in the 90s bestowed upon me two things: an aversion to plaid and an inability to enjoy the last 2-3 seasons of most sitcoms from that time because a few writers and producers decided to jerk off into a bowl of Jello just to see what would happen. What resulted were a few of the most embarrassing attempts for ratings that had laugh tracks working overtime to compensate for the deafening silence that occurred after everyone collectively realized that a dirty diaper isn’t really that funny.
Nicky and Alex Katsopolis–Full House:
Nicky and Alex were the twins of Rebecca and Jesse Katsopolis, who for a moment thought about actually moving out of their Quasimodo-esque digs, until realizing that it would totally ruin the plot. First of all, any parents who live in an attic are usually referred to as unfit, and are then confirmed as clinically insane once they explain that the reason behind this is so that they can be close to Bob Saget and his children. However, much to my disappointment and despite many calls to CPS, Nicky and Alex remained on the show. Meanwhile, I was told to stop calling over a fictional issue, even though the ability for two children to ruin everything and do nothing all at once was very real to me. I mean, I know we’re talking about Full House here- a show that, if you can get through an episode without Joey doing his Popeye impression, is considered a success, but ideally, a synopsis should go beyond: ”Nicky gets a cold, Alex stands up in his crib because he wants uppies.”
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