I'm aware that it's been a blog free week thus far. I blame this on the fact that I suffered through the Sex in the City movie on Sunday afternoon and have been formulating my thoughts ever since. I'll admit to watching the show on occasion while it was still on the TVbox. I certainly didn't take those online quizzes to figure out if I'm a Carrie or a Samantha (I'm obviously a Miranda minus the ginger hair and androgyny), but I did witness the Carrie wears nothing but brightly colored bras with backless dresses phase. I was indeed illuminated by the glow of my friend Wackalyn's big screen in a basement crowded with girls for the unsatisfying finale. I then assumed that the show would rest in peace in syndication. It is the natural course for TV programing, otherwise we end up with a Clooney free ER and the catastrophe that is Grey's Anatomy. I mourned the death of Six Feet Under with no hope of big screen revival. Albeit, it was difficult time for me, but on the bright side, we now have True Blood and Dexter.
But alas, those S.I.T.C. skanks just refused to die. They had to re-emerge with a zombiefied three hour long episode of what was ultimately a mindless show, and charge ten bucks to the jackass women who flocked to watch it. I only succumbed to the madness because I was trapped at my apartment by several loads of laundry and it was on HBO On Demand. I had a hangover to fight, and I figured I could doze through it.
I did drift off here and there, but I caught the gist, and I must say that while I did not like it, it did perplex me. I've been struggling to reach some sort of conclusion ever since the credits started rolling. I've gone over it in my head and tried to pinpoint just why I hated it, and also why the fuck it was created in the first place. The end result I reached was of course, "Damn, I wish those bitches woulda stayed dead," and I am justifying it thusly:
1. It was too fucking long. I'm not entirely sure what needed to be trimmed from the plot to knock off an hour or so, but it needed to be done. The finale five years ago was certainly unsatisfying, so I suppose the vaginas of this world needed some more adequate closure. A nationwide email sent to every woman in America reading: "Carrie and Big made it. Miranda and Steve are fine. Samantha obviously dumped that Ken doll, and Charlotte got knocked up," would have sufficed.
2. I hate your clever one-liners, Samantha Jones, and yours, Narrator Carrie. They are completely obnoxious. There's only so many penis size jokes I can handle in a week, let alone a three hour period. And Carrie, you sound like David Caruso on CSI Miami. Stop it.
3. Where the fuck are Carrie Bradshaw's parents? Does she even have parents or did she just grow like a fungus when a toxic Cosmopolitan spilled on a pair of Manolos? Whether or not mother of Bradshaw showed up in the movie to knock some sense into her shallow, soulless daughter wouldn't have made me like it better, I was just curious.
4. Charlotte shits her pants. I like a good poop joke as much as the next guy, but chicks shitting their pants is never funny, it's tragic. I've been known to discuss all sorts of bowel movements with various of my close friends, but an actual fecal accident is still taboo. Gross.
5. Sorry, John Cusack, but I hate romantic comedies. I wish they would stop being made. Nora Ephron*, that means you.
Ah. So there you have it. I'd like to see Carrie Bradshaw get hit by that bus with her picture on it. Wow. That was unnecessarily harsh. Sorry, folks, I forgot to put on my claddagh ring this morning. It's screwing up my equilibrium and making me all off kilter. An uncomfortable Kate is a hostile Kate.
*imdb has just informed me that Nora Ephron has written a screenplay for and directed the movie adaptation of Julie & Julia. Kickass. If you fuck it up, Ephron, I will hunt you down.