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August 03, 2006
You Say I Only Hear What I Want To
So at first I didn’t like her for petty reasons.
Elisabeth Hasselbeck won the spot on The View when I was clearly hoping, praying, wishing, needing Rachel Campos-Duffy of Real World San Francisco fame to get that job. Call me crazy, but when one Real World person does something network, something primetime, something movie-ish, something legitimate then I think there’s hope. Not for just me, but for like, humanity. And privately to myself I say, Go Real World person that made it. Make it seem like there’s a reason to differentiate the ones that actively seek jobs on- or off-camera that they actually know how to do from the ones that get wasted and later find themselves looking like Tonya Harding in a mug shot taken after being arrested for biting some mother fucker’s hands. I thought everybody knew that when it's mugshot time, you smile it up like Kimora. Really, I think these things. Privately, of course.
I mean, I am sure all the Real World people are cool on some level, behind the walls of their own carpeted townhouses. And I’m not putting this out there to make it like I’m the shit. This is so not the case. I’m fucking retarded every day. I’m sitting in my pajamas right now at 8:28 this evening because, you know, it’s hard to get dressed after a full day of reading Looking for Alaska by John Green and On Writing by Stephen King and hoping, praying, wishing, needing to get some spark of inspiration to write something real. Gotta read a lot to write a lot. Yeah, like I said, I’m retarded every day. And every night for that matter, for tonight I will be hosting Long Island’s premiere gay party. This is a party where the city gays (woot woot) drag their glittery selves all the way to fucking Levittown to grace us with just a little of that Manhattan magic so we can feel less 516 and more 917. Heeeeeeey! Can't wait to see Amanda Lepore's outfit. I gotta get in where I fit in…
However, this is not about my deep almost-totally-resolved-all-of-six-years-later-Real-World insecurities slash fears of never being taken seriously in any realm of human existence, be it professional or social, for the rest of my life. (Wow, that was unintentionally deep.) This is not about my secret conversations with myself and maybe God to make one of us out of the 146 or so do something profound that makes the president talk about us like he did Pedro (RIP). Actually, no. President Bushington (as my favorite five-year-old friend calls him) need not talk about any of us for that would be a sad black comedy of errors for sure so scratch that.
This is about Elisabeth. I will need to restrain myself. My fingers are tingling as I type this. Really, you can’t know how furious she makes me and I don’t even watch The View regularly.
But the few times that I did catch The View – and really Star was the main reason to watch – Elisabeth would always say some raw stupid shit. I happened to catch the episode where she passionately stated in the dumbest analogy ever that gay marriage is a threat to America, something about allowing gay marriage would be akin to allowing people to marry dogs. That it would ruin the sanctity of marriage! I swear she trailed off saying something about dogs. Please someone find this on YouTube and send it to me.
Bitch, look around. Straight people are doing a mighty fine job of ruining the “sanctity” of marriage all by themselves. Hello, The Bachelor is a fine example, dummy. If you can allow drunk over-accessorized women who never left that sad state of sorority life behind them to marry a meathead millionaire that the network never really proves is a millionaire, after only 8 TV weeks of dating, then damn it, gays can get married. So shut it.
I don’t even need to get political about this shit.
I don’t need to spout off a bunch of politically heavy words and laws and shit. The fact is gays should be allowed to experience the same shit I’m experiencing every day. If Will Wikle (love him) and his boo are feeling each other and everyone likes them as a duo, then they should have to suffer the “Sooo…when are you two getting married?” monotony of Long Island life just like I have to. This is on top of the fact that gays should not be denied this right. Period.
So, I got to a really sad part of the Looking for Alaska book and I wasn’t quite in the emotional space to go there because I have, you know, some serious partying to look forward to. I put the book down and went on the Internet to read my celebrity trash and there it was. Elisabeth went and got all Elisabeth-y again.
And here comes the part I don’t really want to talk about because hate mail, however entertaining, is so time-consuming and emotionally draining. By the way, I was thinking I might start a monthly column on this page of the most amazing hate mails you’ve ever laid your eyes on. Would you enjoy this? Would I seem petty in doing this?
Seriously though, one time this lady wrote me totally pissed off about my tirade on Britney Spears’s appearance on Dateline. The best part is that she told me it was wrong to make fun of a celebrity but all the while made fun of all the plastic surgery I and my mother had. Mercy? I thought. She wrongly thought I, Melissa Howard was Melissa Rivers. And she spelled Britney Spears Brittny Spheres. I said hi pot, meet kettle dumb ass. And the exchange went on for a couple hours and I was howling, laughing, crying, gut busting over here. And I thought, hmm, I’m on to something. But then she told me I did not have her permission to post her name or her email address to which I reminded her that I didn’t need her permission because hello, this is like, the Internet. I spared her because I'm nice sometimes, I swear it.
This exchange took a full day of my life but it was sure entertaining. Grown ass adults arguing over the Internet. For real though, if you must send hate mail, create a new email account specifically for your hate mail needs so that your real email address can’t be posted unless you really want to be schooled for having made such a mistake. After you’ve spent all that time doing that, then compose your hate mail, but be sure the spell check because you’ll just make it easier for me to clown you, you see. And if after all that time you spent on little old me, you still hate me, then wow, you got problems. And I will make this other suggestion which is to close the browser. Little x in the corner? Click. Boom. Game over.
Elisabeth. So yeah.
This time she’s against the morning-after pill. Fine, be against the pill. Have your opinion. All that is great. But don’t sit up there and not have an answer when Barbara and Lisa Loeb calmly and rationally point out that maybe this pill could be of use to victims of rape and incest. She just stumbled all over herself and got all huffy and ripped up her little cards. Well, what is her answer to that? So she really thinks a woman who was raped should be forced to carry the seed of her rapist to full term because life begins the precise moment the egg and the sperm meet (in her opinion)? Really?
Sorry if I cannot speak with eloquence here.
I mean, having never been put in that position, I can’t really say much. However, I do know that I might be hard pressed to carry the child of my rapist and then look at this child, this person, quite possibly this personification of the worst day of my life every day. It’d be painful, not to mention a huge mindfuck, to even go through whatever emotionally difficult (to say in the least) process a mother goes through to give up a child for adoption. A child that she can’t help but have grown attached to as it is a part of her body and her spirit but a child that she can’t help but resent because it is a physical manifestation of the day (or weeks or years) she was violated in such a horrific way. I mean seriously, Elisabeth, what is your answer for that? And if your answer is that this pill should only be okay for those with these special circumstances, how then, do we decide what the requirements for a special circumstance are? What if the rape victim is so ashamed she cannot come forward and speak? Is she just screwed because she doesn't have the personal strength after such an ordeal to speak up? Well, that's crazy don't you think?
Elisabeth, if what you really mean to say is that you hope all the evil sluts and whores or uneducated poor people of the world don't use this pill as an easy form of birth control because really, they're all just lazy welfare abusin' boozin' humpin' idiots, just say that and deal with those ramifications. Has that NON PC idea floated around her head? I feel like it has and instead of facing the issue head on, she just talks in circles and like a child says, "But Joy was talking too!" Ugh.
So she’s anti gay, obviously. And yeah, I purposefully left the “hyphen marriage” off because I really feel like she’s anti-gay altogether and whatever, it’s my blog I can say that. So boooooo!
And she’s one of those scary anti-choice no-answer-for-you-but-have-fun-in-hell-you-liberal people and I can hardly catch my breath saying it.
And she got a job that a Republican Rachel - whose views I’m sure I disagree with from time to time - should have so gotten. But Rachel isn't wack like Elisabeth so there’s that.
Combine all of that with bad outfits daily, no charisma and nothing to add to the show while still getting a sick check. All that equals BOO.
Elisabeth is lucky that she didn’t join in on Barbara’s incessant need to question the authenticity of black guests’ hair. Did you see Barbara rake her hands through Brandy’s wig! I. Have. No. Words. She’s done this to Diana Ross too. And this other lady. My blood sugar is low, y’all. I’m delirious with quiet rage. And before you go to your little inbox and press compose to say Oh Melissa, everything is not about race I ask you this:
Would she ask Regis if his hair was real or fake as she proceeded to rake through his shit? Yeah, you do want to know what Donald Trump's hairline is really like, but do you touch it and ask a bunch of questions? No. I do think it's one thin long piece, that when wet, falls only to one side like a rat tail except on the side of the face leaving the rest of the head bald.
Now, would she ask Christina Aguilera if her breasts were real or fake as she proceeded to poke at her boobs? Would she even ask Ashlee Simpson, who we all know had work done on her nose, if her nose was surgically altered as she proceeded to feel her up like Laura Dern feeling Rocky Dennis up in Mask? Um, probably, I say probably not. Well maybe she'll ask Ashlee because that's a hot topic to her, but even still she'd probably say that it's none of our business after she went and asked the shit. So leave me be with my rage. You can believe it doesn’t have a weird/bad/prickly racial quality to it all you want but whatever it is, it is uncomfortable for that guest (and this viewer) and entirely inappropriate, especially for a person who is paid to be worldly, open-minded and well-traveled, and that cannot be argued.
Moving on.
The only hope that I have is that Rosie is going to come on the show and fuck this bitch up. There’s no other way of saying it. I could be all polite and be like, Perhaps there will be some interesting discourse on The View after all. But nah. I’d rather say I hope Rosie gets on there and tears her ass up with straight verbs yo and sends Elisabeth running to reality oblivion.
The only cool thing that is coming out of this is that tonight I will fulfill a dream that I never even knew I had. I get to say on a microphone to a crowd of fine-smelling gay men, Long Island’s finest, FUCK YOU ELISABETH and even if they don’t know what I’m talking about, saying it and sending it to the universe will be a relief. Then hopefully, they’ll crank up the Yung Joc (they won't) and bring my bottle service so I can drink this pain away.
Word is born.
Posted by melissah at August 3, 2006 02:46 AM