Tweet of the Day

Right.

Not-So-Spectacular Bid

The answer: She doesn't.

Rotten Tomatoes: 18%: Sarah Jessica Parker's I Don't Know How She Does It Takes in Dismal $4.5 Million at the Box Office

Oh, wait -- you mean "continue to get work in movies." Yeah, that I don't know.

DXM History Repeats: Sarah Jessica Parker

Our look back at how we've beat a dead Sarah Jessica Parker here at DXM over the past five years continues with a visit from everybody's favorite recurring character and lovably reprehensible asshole: my evil twin, Garth.

The DXM Fifth Birthday Jubilee

Topic: Sarah Jessica Parker

Number of Posts: 39

"And Now the Last Word on the Whole Sarah Jessica Parker Thing, from Chez's Evil Twin, Garth" (Originally Published, 3.25.08)

Look, enough already, okay?

Most men think Sarah Jessica Parker is fucking ugly -- the sooner we admit this, the sooner our long national nightmare will be over.

The readers of Maxim said as much, and although most of them are blithering idiots, debating them on it -- claiming that they're wrong either for voicing this kind of opinion or for having it in the first place -- is just goddamned ridiculous. They're entitled to think whatever the hell they want and to shout it from the rooftops. This is America, after all.

Once again, though, if you can't see that the average heterosexual man isn't the least bit turned on by Parker's Witchy-Poo mug, you're either blind or in denial. Seriously, go up to any guy on the street and ask him what he thinks of Parker -- there's a 90% chance he's first gonna roll his eyes because his wife, girlfriend, or booty-call just loves fucking Sex and the City and spends every Saturday night out with her borderline-retarded friends debating which character from the show she is -- then he's gonna choke back a little vomit at the thought of anyone having to look at Parker's face during sex. (So that was rude, what do you want -- I'm evil.)

But here's the thing to keep in mind: It shouldn't surprise anyone -- least of all Parker herself -- that she doesn't do it for most guys.

The character that made her famous -- the very show she was chosen to star in -- wasn't written by guys.

Sex and the City is basically the kind of fantasy that only a conference table full of women and gay men (and that metrosexual douchebag, Greg Behrendt) could've dreamed up. They're the only ones who could honestly believe that straight men living in New York City would fall all over themselves to be with a woman who looks and acts like Parker's character, Carrie Bradshaw. Only a woman or a gay man would legitimately think straight men give a shit how many pairs of repulsive Jimmy Choo shoes or how many dresses that look like pink, couture garbage bags a woman has in her closet. It's like a person who's been blind since birth trying to paint a sunset, then mass market it.

Parker's entire image is the neo-feminine ideal of what a man should be attracted to. Her character was never really meant to appeal to men, which is completely cool until Parker starts bitching up a storm about how she doesn't, in fact, appeal to men (and no, Ferris Bueller doesn't count, since he's gay himself). The women who created Parker's character and the show she inhabits -- including Parker herself -- now react with comically righteous indignation because life doesn't imitate "art" and real straight men don't give a rat's ass about Sarah Jessica Parker the way poorly-written straight characters on Sex and the City do about Carrie fucking Bradshaw.

So, no folks -- Parker's not very attractive and, as anyone not delusional would've been able to see coming, by complaining about her "poor treatment" at the hands of Maxim, she opened herself up to a shitload of fresh ridicule from all directions.

Including this one.

To close, and along those lines, I think I'll borrow a phrase from an idol of mine -- a certain oil man by the name of Plainview:

"If you have a horse face, and I have a blog -- and my blog reaches across the world, and starts to mock your horse face...

I. MOCK. YOUR. HORSE FACE.

NAYEEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!

I MOCK IT UP!"

Oh yeah, and by the way -- if you honestly think that a dislike of Sarah Jessica Parker and a willingness to get into these kinds of things automatically makes someone anti-women or anti-feminism, you're probably a fucking idiot.

(As usual, the opinions of Garth do not necessarily reflect those of Chez, who may not find Sarah Jessica Parker very attractive, but who does, in fact, like milkshakes.)

DXM History Repeats: Sarah Jessica Parker

Sarah Jessica Parker's rein of terror around here over the past five years has been nothing short of spectacular (bid). Our big DXM Fifth Birthday Jubilee just keeps galloping along with a look back at a couple of the best Sarah Jessica Parker-related pieces (our coverage has been pretty thoroughbred) beginning with this post(time). Seabiscuit for yourself. Two dollars says you'll think it's a winner.

The DXM Fifth Birthday Jubilee

Topic: Sarah Jessica Parker

Number of Posts: 39

"They're Just Not That Into You" (Originally Posted, 3.21.08)

Let's just get this out of the way so that you can make all appropriate fun and we can move on: I love Smokey & The Bandit.

Say what you will, the 1977 Burt Reynolds vehicle (no pun intended) is a classic; it provided my friends and me with three decades worth of quotable lines and taught us to approach life with the understanding that there's no problem that can't be solved with a Trans-am, a CB radio, a big-ass truck full of warm Coors and Paul Williams in a leisure suit. Take my word for it -- the next time you're facing a seemingly insurmountable crisis, just think to yourself WWBD?: What Would Bandit Do?

Problem solved.

While the original Smokey was probably the most mindlessly entertaining movie of all time, its sequel -- the cleverly titled Smokey & The Bandit 2 -- had not a redeeming quality to be found anywhere (unless you take into account the fact that it birthed Hollywood's gag-reel-over-the-credits trend, as the bloopers are generally the funniest part of any big-budget comedy these days). That said, I liked the movie, for reasons I'll probably never quite understand; I imagine it's the same inexplicable thought process which causes me to insist that the Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way is the best pop song ever.

Although Smokey 2 was, I admit, almost entirely forgettable, it contained one particular scene that somehow managed to stick with me throughout the years, simply because -- believe it or not -- it actually said a hell of a lot about not just the culture of celebrity, but about celebrities themselves. And while I have no doubt that any profound theme or underlying esoterica to be found in the film was wholly unintentional on the part of the producers -- this was the same movie, after all, that played a pregnant elephant and Jackie Gleason doing a flaming gay stereotype for laughs -- that doesn't mean it wasn't there.

Hear me out: As the movie begins, the Bandit is a burned out shell of his former self. He's heartbroken over the loss of his one true love, played by Sally Field, but he's also bitter and angry because he understands that it was his own arrogance and narcissism that drove her away. The audience comes to find out that at some point after the events depicted in the first film -- and, one would have to assume, because of those events -- the Bandit became a nationwide sensation. If this entire premise isn't a textbook example of post-modern meta-fiction, I have no idea what is, given that it's impossible to imagine a bootlegger, one whose most notable achievement involved outsmarting a dimwitted Texas trooper, becoming a household name -- unless he happened to be a character played by Burt Reynolds in a hugely successful movie. Then again, I could be wrong about the ability of a Georgia beer-runner to become famous, in which case Smokey 2 isn't so much "meta" as it is the most subtle and prescient indictment of the media's growing ability to create insta-stars (because you just know that it would be the local news coverage of the Bandit and Snowman's highway antics, and the resulting traffic nightmare, which catapults them into the spotlight) since Network. As the film unfolds further, the Bandit attempts to regain not only the love and affection of his adorable inamorata, but his former notoriety. Unfortunately, these two goals are mutually exclusive, as the Bandit finds out, namely because the cocky swagger that's required to reclaim his "World's Most Famous Bootlegger" crown will drive his girl away, while the humility sure to earn him undying love will likely make him a nobody. It's the ultimate Faustian conundrum.

The whole thing comes to a head in what I think is the pivotal moment in this particular story arc -- the scene to which I'm referring.

At one point, the Bandit is forced to stop for gas -- Trans-am enthusiasts are familiar with this necessity -- and that's where he gets into a row with a clerk whom he believes is guilty of an unforgivable transgression: While the guy does, in fact, know just whose presence he's being graced by -- he's aware of the Bandit's status as a celebrity -- he doesn't give a shit. He thinks the Bandit's an arrogant asshole. This snub causes the Bandit to throw a juvenile tantrum, grabbing the clerk by the throat and shouting in his face: "Women love me! Little kids love me! Now you're gonna love me or I'm gonna kick your ass!"

That one line says everything you need to know about how those who've been in the spotlight too long -- who've gotten used to the warm and comforting glow of perpetual adulation -- can come to feel about themselves and their place in the cultural strata.

It's called believing your own hype.

Why do I bring this up?

Because Sarah Jessica Parker is furious that Maxim men's magazine dubbed her "The World's Unsexiest Woman."

In a recent interview in Grazia magazine, Parker reveals that she and her husband, conspicuously effeminate actor Matthew Broderick, were hurt and offended by the insult -- which Parker calls "brutal" -- and had a difficult time putting the whole ordeal behind them.

Feel free to take a moment to grab a tissue if you need one -- I'll wait.

Parker throws down the gauntlet in the interview, simultaneously defending her "sexiness" and attacking Maxim's core audience of 20-something, stripe-shirted potential date-rapists by saying:

“Do I have big fake boobs, Botox and big lips? No. Do I fit some ideals and standards of some men writing in a men’s magazine? Maybe not."

While Parker makes a valid argument, albeit in a referential way, about the unfortunate female ideal in our society -- to say that she's both missing the point and in no legitimate position to be making a point (not this one, anyway) is an understatement.

It's no secret that I find Sarah Jessica Parker startlingly unattractive; I state as much in my personal bio, which stands as the first thing most readers see when they visit this site. I say this not because I'm some troglodyte who's personally offended that she doesn't meet the Americanized standard of perfection that I believe all women -- certainly celebrities -- should aspire to. I don't care that she doesn't have silicone breasts or surgically enhanced lips. I don't stand on the virtual playground throwing rocks at the "ugly girl" because, when compared to a predetermined set of others, she doesn't stack up (once again, no pun intended). Parker's beauty, or lack thereof, isn't a relative thing. I just don't think she's the least bit attractive -- far from it.

What's worth noting, though, is who I'm really taking a shot at in my bio. Here's a hint: It's not Sarah Jessica Parker. For reasons I wish I didn't understand, the slavish, celeb-obsessed media have anointed Parker -- a somewhat homely, unspectacular actress -- the patron saint of high-fashion and feminism-through-sexual-empowerment. In a staggeringly audacious parlor trick, Hollywood and the media have managed to convince an impressionable public that Parker actually is the character she played on television: Sex & The City's hideously dressed bed-hopper, Carrie Bradshaw. This isn't the first time that docile consumers have plugged into the Matrix and either forgotten or chosen to ignore the line between fantasy and reality; Sex & The City in particular has turned such oversight into a cottage industry. (Case in point: Kim Cattrall surreally penning several sexual self-help books, the apparent implication being: "My character fucks a lot on TV, ergo, I'm qualified to help you with your sex life." If you follow this idiotic line of reasoning, we should be sending Stallone over to clean house in Iraq and you'll want to give Hugh Laurie a call the next time you're puking up blood.) Which begs the question: Would I be singling-out Sarah Jessica Parker for a mild amount of mockery if she were just your average actress or quasi-celeb -- and not pushed 24/7 as a style-maker and one-woman cultural zeitgeist?

No, of course not.

And neither would Maxim.

Maxim's shot at Parker, like mine, wasn't aimed at her; it was aimed at her image. The magazine doesn't truly believe that Sarah Jessica Parker is the unsexiest woman in the world. (There's no goddamn way she's less attractive than Amy Winehouse.) It's implying that she's the unsexiest woman we've all been conditioned to believe is sexy. There's no doubt that Parker doesn't fit the Maxim mold -- and that by hitting her hard, the magazine also insults Sex & The City's legion of vapid, clownish female acolytes (the women your average Maxim reader will claim to detest but who, ironically, represent the easiest targets at the bar on Friday night). But that's all sort of the point, and it's one that Parker is apparently too self-absorbed or insecure to take into account. She's not Maxim magazine's type.

So, why the hell should she let it bother her that a magazine not aimed at her -- in fact, aimed at a demographic she considers rather Neanderthal -- has labeled her "unsexy?"

Why is it necessary to be all things to all people?

For the record, Grazia magazine -- the one in which Parker's interview appears -- is a fashion glossy based out of London. This week's issue invites readers to enter a contest, the grand prize of which is an invitation to an exclusive Emilio Pucci fashion show. For the extraordinarily obtuse, allow me to rephrase: An interview with Sarah Jessica Parker appears in a London fashion magazine. If you haven't been to the grocery store lately, you've also missed Parker's airbrushed face peering across the conveyor at you from the covers of Vogue and Cosmo. Add to that the fact that the Sex & The City movie and all the accompanying publicity will soon be dropped onto America's doorstep like dogshit in a flaming paper bag, and you realize that Maxim magazine's juvenile decree hasn't hurt Parker's career one bit. Even if you think she's monstrously repulsive, she's the most successful monstrously repulsive woman on the planet -- dragging her big bag of money from her home under a bridge right to the bank. Maxim's readers and editors shouldn't even matter. Personally, I wouldn't have known about the Maxim poll had it not been for Parker's decision to, apparently, take a stand for the rights of ugly girls. While I'm willing to concede that this entire "controversy" may itself have been concocted by a clever studio publicist, it doesn't alter the fact that Sarah Jessica Parker suddenly looks like nothing more than a petulant child who's crying because the big meanies said bad things about her.

She suddenly looks like someone who's been in the spotlight for so long -- who's become so used to the comforting glow of perpetual adulation; who's become such a believer in her own hype -- that she's shocked and confused when someone doesn't see in her what everyone else seems to. Another possibility, one far more alarming, would be that she's come to believe not only that her status is a right as opposed to a privilege, but that it's also made her unassailable.

"You're gonna come out here and love me, or I'm gonna kick your ass!"

Or there's always the chance that Maxim simply reminded her of the truth that she knows full well: That under all that makeup, after all those cover shoots and fashion shows, in spite of all that acclaim and lionization -- she's really kind of unattractive.

Quote of the Day

"You don't want to see me topless. You really don't."

-- Sarah Jessica Parker

She could've stopped six words in.

Cosmos at the Allah Hu Ak-Bar

Despite my best efforts, I haven't been able to ignore the fact that Sex and the City 2: Postmenopausal will be exploding into theaters on a wave of needy girl excitement later this month.

There's already been an amusing little controversy over just how extensively the four leads had to be airbrushed to make them appear even mildly palatable in the movie's posters and ads, given that they're all well into their 70s by now and one of them is a horse. But lately, after paying a little more attention to the commercials for this thing, I've noticed that there seems to be something else at work in the film that pushes the suspension of disbelief well beyond the breaking point.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't a major plot point in the Sex and the City sequel that our plucky heroines jet off to Abu-Dhabi for a "girl's" vacation?

It's true, yeah?

So let's see if I've got this right: Four sexually liberated American women, at least one of whom openly brags about how she drinks semen for breakfast -- whose entire ethos, at least in theory, is rooted in the modern metropolitan woman's refusal to render herself subservient to the tradition of male superiority -- these four "girls" decide they're gonna take their act to an Arab country.

You know, if this movie had anything even approaching a realistic ending, I'd be the first in line to see it.

Oh, and if somebody could please make the obvious joke about Lawrence of Arabia "riding" Carrie -- that'd be gold.

Big Dumb Sex

As if on cue, like some Christmas anti-miracle, the day after I posted Jay-Z's Empire State of Mind as one of the Best Singles of 2009, I find that it's featured prominently in the new trailer for Sex and the City 2. This of course isn't the least bit surprising since it would've taken zero imagination to make that connection and use the popular and bombastic paean to New York to pimp something Sex and the City-related. It doesn't diminish the song in any way -- aside from making me suddenly think that Jay should've included a line about the horses in Central Park -- but it is a little amusing to conflate an urban hip-hop star's experiences all across the city to the adventures of four badly-dressed perimenopausal white women who for the most part wouldn't be caught dead south of 14th street or north of 86th.

You know something, though? Since it's the day before Christmas Eve, I think I'll pass on once again mercilessly mocking Sex and the City and its aging, ahem, "stable" of stars. Today, I'm outsourcing the ridicule to Opie and Anthony. Listen below to hear them make all kinds of fun of the last Sex and the City movie.

Enjoy!

Quote of the Day

"An unlucky in love everyman and his attempt to satisfy his insatiable beastiality by mounting the mare of his dreams atop the Empire State building. Tom Hanks and Shebiscuit Jessica Parker in: Sleepless In Seattle Slew."

-- Pajiba commenter "John Denver's Wingman" parodying the "high-concept" pitch formula that likely crapped forth Did You Hear About the Morgans?

And now, just for the hell of it because it's a holiday week and I'm all about cheap and easy content, here are my two most popular (read: patently offensive) takes on the entire romantic comedy genre.


From "Bride and Prejudice" (Originally Published, 4.30.08)

There's no point debating why it is that "chick flicks" generally fall into one of two categories -- they're melodramatic, celluloid psychotherapy aimed at dredging up dormant mother/daughter issues, or Prince Charming fantasies designed to fuck women into an orgasmic frenzy with the gargantuan penis of unrealistic expectations. Either way, the endgame is generally the same for the men and smart women forced to suffer someone who's adopted the belief system of these movies as gospel: indulge her when possible, pity her behind her back and hope that a new and better girlfriend/friend comes along at some point to replace her and her neuroses forever (thereby confirming her latent suspicions that she's "not good enough"). If you're a man, you don't want to be anywhere near someone who plans to drop ten bucks on Made of Honor. In fact, a love of Patrick Dempsey and the desire to see this movie might function as a sort of litmus test to weed out the women you should run screaming from -- the ones whose hopes and dreams involve crap you'll never care about. As for the XX-chromo opposites of the rom-com crowd -- the sharp, funny, worldly women who represent the brass ring within the American gene pool -- you'll probably need to avoid the Dempsey fans as well, since I can't see a smart girl wanting to listen to a man-crazy basket case whining to her on the phone at 3am because her one-night-stand hasn't called back or her boyfriend won't ask her to marry him.


From "The Princess Diarrhea" (Originally Published, 2.6.09)

Needless to say, I caught a lot of crap for (the above) opinion -- and now I'm willing to admit that I was, in fact, wrong.

There's actually a third formula that I completely overlooked -- one that's really nothing more than an offshoot of the Prince Charming fantasy but has become a cynical cash cow in its own right.

Let's call it the Designer Princess premise.

Movies like The Devil Wears Prada, Sex and the City and now, of course, Confessions of a Shopaholic, fit into this category. They're stories that suggest to women that independence is something that can be bought and worn like a kind of couture merit badge; that Prada is pride; that superficiality is success. Whereas the Prince Charming fantasy will undermine the relationship (to say nothing of the sanity) of any guy unlucky enough to be involved with a woman who subscribes to it by creating an unachievable emotional standard, the Designer Princess narrative will make the man go both crazy and broke trying to satisfy the materialistic lifestyle which the woman buying into it has come to believe she's entitled to. What's more, can the label-crazed heroines of these movies (and the novels from which they're adapted) really be idolized and emulated considering the state of the economy? I mean, can you honestly enjoy the fashion-tastic antics of Carrie Bradshaw -- even as escapism -- when your home's about to be foreclosed on and your neighbor's eating Alpo for dinner? Who the hell wants to watch a bunch of self-pampering wanna-be socialites get exactly what they want right now?

The answer: nobody you want to know.

My Little Ponies

I was gonna make one of the many possible obvious cracks about Sarah Jessica Parker's twins being born today -- since let's face it, the woman really is such low-hanging fruit on the joke tree.

But you know something? The picture to the left is funnier on its own than anything I could've come up with.

The New York Daily News: Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick Welcome Twin Girls/6.23.09

(For the record, I'm just trying to get Matthew Broderick to punch me.)

The Horse Deliverer

Jesus, I'd be concerned too. The woman's about to push two ponies out of her vagina.

The Huffington Post: Sarah Jessica Parker Concerned for the Safety of Her Twins' Surrogate Mother/5.19.09

Somebody Get Sarah Jessica Parker's Agent on the Phone

(h/t Oliver Willis)

Bust a Caption

As much as I hate to steal material wholesale, this little diversion from Gawker is just far too good to pass up. They asked for a caption for this picture of Sarah Jessica Parker, snapped today in New York City's Meatpacking District.

Some of the best entries:

"Every time this thing breaks down, I have to get out and pull."

"No choice but to hoof it."

"That looks like a bad break to the right leg. Hope she avoids the glue factory."

"As previously suspected, SJP's hooves are in fact cloven."

"You're a little big for a jockey, but hop on!"

"Vehicle Loses Horsepower"

Picture of the Week (And It's Only Monday)

From Gawker, a photo snapped in the 28th Avenue subway stop here in New York City.

Fail? Oh no, my friends -- win.

The Cynicist Manifesto: Addendum

It's been a while since I've done one of these, but I think it's time to once again add to the list of random thoughts and observations that don't necessarily merit a full post.


Prole Food

When did Wendy's restaurants get brought under the control of the Ministry of Truth? The TV commercials for their new garden fresh salads feature a perky female announcer asking the following question: "If warm chicken is good, and cold, crunchy veggies are good -- then wouldn't a warm chicken and cold, crunchy veggies salad be good-good?"

So it's official: Wendy's is the first fast food chain to translate its menu into Orwellian Newspeak.

The next time you stop in, try ordering a doubleplusgood salad, a potatofry and a big-big Victory Coke.


One Is a Relic from the Past, Rendered Obsolete by Changing Times -- The Other Is an Old Cell Phone

I can't get enough of this picture. It unintentionally sums up the essence of John McCain's campaign in just about every way.

Somewhere David Spade is saying (to himself), "Hey John, 1984 called -- they want the phone they called you on back."


Berkley Students

Speaking of ancient history: Remember not when MTV played music videos (because that was just too long ago) but when the worst complaint you could level at MTV was that it didn't play videos anymore? You know -- the days before it began airing nothing but toxic crap like The Hills 24/7? Well, apparently Tila Tequila and that dunce Heidi Montag haven't done enough to prepare America's next generation of young women for regret-stained futures in the prostitution industry, because the network is now bringing out the big guns. Elizabeth Berkley, star of 1995's rape-tastic film classic Showgirls, is in talks with MTV to develop a show aimed at empowering adolescent girls. Berkley wants to base the show on a series of workshops she currently hosts which addresses self-esteem and body issues in young women -- because, as you know, these days no one's more qualified to convince girls that they're attractive just the way they are than a goddamned living Barbie doll who hosts a reality show and once pretended to go down on Gina Gershon.

If I might suggest a title for the show, how about Stupid is the New Smart?


Ferris Bueller's Lay Off

If you believe what you read in the tabloids, there's major trouble in the marriage of New York's homeliest celebrity couple. According to this week's Star Magazine (motto: "Fuck It, We Can Retract Later") Matthew Broderick has been cheating on Sarah Jessica Parker. The magazine says Broderick met someone at a bar a few months ago and that the two of them have been slyly tooling around town together ever since. The most entertaining thing about this story, however, is the specific angle that the Star has wisely decided to play up for shock value. The magazine's cover points out that Broderick's affair is, surprisingly, "with a 25 year old woman."

For the record, the tabloid could just as easily have said that Broderick is sleeping with someone who doesn't look like the business end of a Tijuana donkey show, and the effect would've been the same.

(The Cynicist Manifesto: American Idol Edition/3.6.08)

Resistance is Futile

To: Chez Pazienza, AKA "Deus Ex Malcontent"
From: General Malaise, Cmdr. DUNCECOM Allied Forces
Date: June 24th, 2008

Mr. Pazienza,

First, allow me to say that you have fought the good fight and, as such, have been an honorable opponent in the face of overwhelming odds. There is no condescension meant in the demand which I must now make, nor should any shame be taken by you regarding what, I believe, you now have no choice but to do. You've stood valiantly against our assaults for more than two years, weathered the daunting firepower of some of the strongly and most finely-crafted idiocy we could bombard you with: the Don Imus "scandal," Sex and the City mania, Ben Stein's "Intelligent Design" movie, anything Al Sharpton has had to say, Hannah Montana, NBC's "All American Summer" lineup. Once again, to your immense credit, you have withstood it all, and even fought back vigorously.

But you must now, this morning, concede that you have been beaten. It is time to put down your pen, take a step back from your keyboard, unplug your MacBook and surrender, if for no other reason than to prevent any further anguish to either side in this fierce battle.

Surely you understand -- after reading the recent article on CNN.com., originally posted on Oprah.com -- the hopelessness of resistance at this point. We hesitated for some time to commit to the nuclear option against you, but we feel that you left us no alternative but to publish the aforementioned article, entitled "Empathy Deficit Disorder: Do You Suffer From It?" and documenting, mostly through a series of testimonials from the dumbest women we could assemble, a completely new disorder that pop psychologists (in our employ) just pulled out of their asses on a whim. The forces of DUNCECOM were fully aware when we contracted the creation of this so-called "condition" the fact that it sounded a lot cooler and less threatening than sociopathy (think "Sociopathy-Lite, for Housewives!") and was essentially the same thing. We also understood that upon reading it, the inside of your brain, Mr. Pazienza, would detonate in a massive explosion that would kill millions of innocent brain cells; despite the awareness of such collateral damage, however, we once again felt that this drastic action had to be taken to force you to finally concede defeat.

Please know that this will only be the first strike in a larger campaign of atom-splitting stupidity against you and the dwindling few intelligent members of the general public, if you do not surrender immediately and unconditionally. We have several more nonsensical media-driven, Oprah-approved cultural and medical breakthroughs -- complete with guest shots on the Today show and best-selling self-help books -- waiting in the wings, all carefully engineered to produce the kind of physically painful chain-reaction of catalepsy in your brain that will render you completely unable to crawl out from under your covers and utterly terrified of the world beyond your home.

It doesn't have to be this way, but make no mistake, we will not hesitate to mentally crush you if we have to.

Just wait until we unleash the new season of VH-1's "Celebreality."

Believe me, you don't want to see Richard Grieco and Peter DeLuise in 43 Jump Street, or Wentz and Simpson: Swinging Celebs.

Please, do the right thing. You have no choice.

We await your reply.

-- General Malaise

To: General Malaise, Cmdr. DUNCECOM Allied Forces
From: Chez Pazienza, AKA "Deus Ex Malcontent"
Date: June 24th, 2008

General Malaise,

Fuck it. Meet me at the Starbucks on 75th and 1st (the one on the southeast corner) and bring the paperwork -- and a bottle of Effexor.

-- Chez

(CNN.com/Oprah.com: Empathy Deficit Disorder -- Do You Suffer from It?/6.18.08)

Shallow Grave

In "honor" of the opening of Sex and the City this weekend, the best of DXM's references to the show and its equine star, Sarah Jessica Parker -- dating all the way back to the beginning of this little experiment of mine.

DXM: Anatomically Incorrect/6.2.06

DXM: Return of the Attack of the Creeping Surrealism/9.20.06

DXM: They're Just Not That Into You/3.21.08

DXM: And Now, the Last Word on the Whole Sarah Jessica Parker Thing, from Chez's Evil Twin, Garth/3.25.08

(And then there's this: Just a few minutes ago, I found a couple of ticket stubs for Sex and the City on the floor of the elevator in my apartment building. Almost makes me sorry I didn't live here when I was single, since there are obviously at least two dumb, impressionable women with low standards somewhere in this place. Yes this is an incredibly crass thing to say -- feel free to direct your complaints here.)

Bad Sex

It's the little things in life that make it worth living.

Like the fact that The New York Times -- let me repeat that: The New York Times -- just called the new Sex and the City movie "vulgar, shrill, deeply shallow -- and, at 2 hours and 22 turgid minutes, overlong."

While I'll avoid the obvious joke about anyone keeping it "turgid" for 2 hours and 22 minutes with someone whose face looks like it should have a bag of oats strapped to it, I appreciate the irony of these drag queen look-alikes and their legion of vapid fans being pimp-slapped by the paper of record for the city they worship so unabashedly.

It's sort of like Big suddenly turning and pushing Carrie down a flight of stairs.

(The New York Times: Sex and the City Review/5.30.08)