Hey, America. It’s Blaria. Just thought you should know that if you apologize one more time when you don’t mean it, I will burn your car down a la Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale:
That’s right. I will put on my sexiest negligee, sew in a weave, throw every last pair of your Fruit of the Loom into that Nissan Altima you own and light that shit on fire. Do I have your attention now? Good. See, there you go again. Stop saying you’re sorry. Stop hiring a camera crew to record you with a somber look on your face. Stop hiring some tool to write an apology that’s the equivalent of Steve Urkel’s “Oops, did I do that?” Don’t apologize for anything ever again. Because you don’t mean it. Not only do you not mean it, but you don’t even know what the word “apologize” means. It used to mean, “a written or spoken expression of one’s regret, remorse, or sorrow for having insulted, failed, injured, or wronged another,” but now it means, “please get over what I did, so I can resume being a Summer’s Eve without you bitching about.”
Damnit, Shonda!!!!! You ruined my past Friday night. I planned on having night home alone like Sandra Bullock’s character in While You Were Sleeping (which consists of me chilling at home in J.C. Penney pajamas, eating take out while pining over Bill Pullman and Peter Gallagher. But instead of pining over guys, I’d make pretend afro bangs with my ‘fro. I think we can all agree that pretend afro bangs is only slightly less pathetic than Bullock pining over a Pullman/Gallagher two piece peen special). Seriously though, Hollywood, those dudes were the best you could do?! Just to let you know, this was one of my friend’s well thought out response to that casting: “those white niggas ain’t shit.” How profound.
Anyway, that was my plan. Then I decided to check out the pilot episode of your new show on ABC called Scandal. Cut to FIVE hours later, after I finished all five episodes and looked at my clock and saw it was 1:30 in the morning:
Exactly. I got pulled back into Shonda Rhimes’ tomfoolery after breaking up with her over “Grey’s Anatomy.”
I mean, I haven’t gotten so hooked on anything since I had a sleepover with girlfriends and we watched the movie Showgirls, went to bed, woke up and watched Showgirls again in the morning. I’m not ashamed.
For serious. This is your ad campaign, Brooklyn Industries?
Good thing there wasn’t an Asian woman in this ad because it would’ve been called “Yellow Fever.”
S mad D, southern style with a side of grits. This is ludicrous. And not for the reason you think. Although, the fact that the words “Jungle Fever” are plastered over every picture in this ad campaign is obnoxious. It’s like, “LOOK! THEY’RE INTERRACIAL AND FUCKING. AND THIS BLACK DUDE IS WEARING SANDALS! WHEN’S THE LAST TIME YOU SAW A BLACK DUDE WEARING SANDALS??? DO YOU SEE THIS SHIT?”* Um, yes, I have. I have ESPN, so I’ve seen my fair share of Black dudes rocking sandals while walking around with their White girlfriends and wives.
I love romantic comedies. That’s right, Blarians, little miss feisty over here likes cheesy, schmaltzy, Colin Firth-y, sappy and completely unrealistic happy endings (even there’s a teeny tiny part of me – my vagina – that wishes life really turned out as neat and tidy). I get a high watching rom coms, a high so great that I like to imagine it’s the same kind of high that Oprah has when she wakes up in the morning and remembers she’s a billionaire.
Don’t believe that my little heart of coal can like something so utterly barf-inducing? This is how much I love rom coms: they make me like songs I’d otherwise hate if I heard them somewhere else or make me feel like, “damn, if only this song was used in Julia Roberts movie, I’d be all about it.” For example, we all know that Citi Bank commercial with the rock climbing woman and then that stupid song kicks in: SOMEBODY LEFT THE GATE OPEN! Every time I hear that part of the commersh, I think, “Bitch, close the damn gate already.”
However, if that very same song was strategically used in a rom com like Jerry Maguire, I’d probably feel different. If, during the scene where Jerry confesses his love to Renée Zellweger by saying, “You complete me,” (ugh, barf. Go fuck yourself, Tom Cruise, but real quick, can you fuck me first?) and then SOMEBODY LEFT THE GATE OPEN! started playing, I’d be like, “Preach, girl” and then cry.