Hey, ladies. Do you have troubles with your man? When you're out on a date, do you catch him peeking at other women? Does he have a bad case of what the poets call "Wandering Penis Syndrome"? Can he simply not keep it in his pants despite your very, very serious and earnest monogamous commitment? Well, first of all, it sounds like you have a really healthy relationship there that is totally worth saving at all cost. And secondly, don't even worry about it! Science has figured out how to keep your man faithful, and all it takes are four simple words: "BREATHE INTO THIS RAG."
A new study has uncovered some surprising effects of the hormone oxytocin (you know, that stupid orgasm chemical that gives you love feelings) on monogamous heterosexual men. When dosed with a nasal spray of oxytocin and then introduced to a sexy laday, the monogamous men were all, "Ugh, GAH-ROOOOOSSSS" and then pushed her into the garbage. Or something kind of.
Are you happy now, humans? Are you happy? It's 2012 and the prognosis is not good. The glaciers are melting, the polar bears are drowning, the people of Vanuatu are floating around their living rooms in washtubs like Pippi Longstocking or some shit, and I never even got to look at a glacier or pet a polar bear OR hang out on Vanuatu with dry feet! We did this. Our planet is fucked. And it's getting worse. It's all bugs and poop from here on out. Really. I'm serious.
The protein of the future is bugs. Because bugs, you see, are the only sustainable protein we've got left. Meat farming is disastrous for the environment. Growing enough corn and finding enough fresh water to feed all our livestock is double disastrous. Cows fart big hot farts all day, which sail straight up to the North Pole and melt as many yeti dens as they can find with their fart heat. We're cutting down rain forests to plant cows. It is RIDICULOUS, and I say this as a complete cow-eater. I am part of the problem. Lucky for us, science is on it. On a one-way Greyhound to BUGTOWN.
As we all know, love is complicated. So many feelings to contend with, so many variables, such high divorce rates—sometimes it seems like maintaining a healthy, happy, long-lasting relationship is impossible. Lucky for us, SCIENCE. Using science, I have pinned down the exact steps a couple must take in order to never, ever, ever break up (even if they want to). And you can do it too! True love for everyone!!!
Gif parade!!! For when there are no words.
Today's gif parade is brought to you by this column from Fox News Opinion, in which one Steven Crowder explains that he's better than you because he didn't put his penis inside anything for hella years and then married a stranger. Take it away, Steve!
As the world's foremost expert on school being out, Alice Cooper took it upon himself to shepherd this year's graduates toward success with the WEIRDEST OP-ED EVER. Titled "A Rock Star's Guide to Coping After Not Getting Your Grades at School" (catchy!), the "advice" is like 75% Alice Cooper talking about how awesome it is to be Alice Cooper (if you can figure out how to be Alice Cooper, he recommends it) and 25% TOTAL NONSENSE. Like, a "WTF did I just read" level of nonsense. Like, a "Am I having a stroke or did human language lose all meaning" level of nonsense.
Bachelor parties! That storied rite of passage wherein dudes, horrified by the prospect of a lifetime chained to the woman that they picked, give themselves carte blanche to drink near-fatal amounts of tequila and get erections in the presence of their closest male friends. Ah, love. But times are changing in bachelor-party-land, media reports tell us, as more and more dudes forego paying a nude stranger to half-heartedly -dry-hump them in favor of activities that they actually enjoy—like hiking, fishing, watching TV, and genuine human interaction. Sometimes they even let the wives go! Blasphemers, all of them.
It's the time of year when the internet is deluged with condescending lists of "advice for graduates"—stuff like "experience Paris" and "learn to wear purple until you laugh until you cry until you laugh"—and since all of that shit is just literal barf smeared on a laptop screen, I decided I might as well take a stab at it myself. Let's help some kids.
1. Experience Paris. Just kidding.
You know what? International travel is great and all, but it doesn't magically turn you into a genius or a good person. If you make it to 30 without ever having had the financial flexibility to purchase a $1000 plane ticket, then you're pretty much just normal—not some barefoot hill-goblin. And you know what? Everything in Paris is fucking covered in gruyere. You're only 22-years-old (or something). Do you really want to get sick of gruyere already? Seriously. You want gruyere in your life for as long as possible.
Not getting intercoursed enough, lads? It's probably because you're too fucking helpful around the house. A new sociological study has the gender traditionalists a-buzzing, because it says exactly that—it seems that couples who stick to gender segregated housework have more sex than couples who don't. Slightly more. Like, 1.6 times more. In other words, if my boyfriend cooks dinner every night while I work on the car, and we have sex 7 nights per week; and YOUR boyfriend, uh, plows fields all day while you embroider your trousseau, then you guys will be having sex a totally weird and excessive 11.2 times per week. Congrats! Personally, I'll hang on to my egalitarianism and this braised pork shoulder.
But the study got me thinking: What ARE the "traditionally masculine chores" that have these Henry Wadsworth Dongfellows constantly paddling up their girlfriends' Gitche-Gumees? Well, I did a study of my own (in my brain, using science) and ranked them for you in order of manliness, from Arnold Schwarzenegger to Vaginatown, USA (Population: Yeast!). I also calculated how many Sex Bucks™ each chore will earn you—redeemable for sex prizes at any area Silver Platters. You're welcome in advance for the UNENDING FONT OF PUSS I'm about to send your way, frustrated johnsons of America.
Hello, muffins. Here at this site, we spend a lot of time railing against the shitty shit that dudes do, because, come on, shitty shit is shitty. It's shitty to act like women owe you attention and/or genital touching simply because you're noble enough to refrain from being an abusive dick-monster. It's shitty to tell women that they're incompetent at handling their own lives, simply because their life choices don't include handling your genitals. It's shitty to treat a woman like a math equation instead of a person, and then take her rejection as an outrageous wound to your personhood. Can we maybe agree that those behaviors—cornerstones of modern "pick-up" culture—are shitty?
Because if we can, gentlemen, if you can get my back on that, I'd like to extend an olive branch and get your backs a little bit.
You are being exploited. "Dating coaches" are cynical charlatans who are exploiting your insecurities to make money. This is unacceptable.
Season 3, Episode 11Show Show
Approximately ten seconds into this episode, the characters onscreen (most notably Kurt, sporting a fur-upholstered overturned bucket from Alexander McQueen’s “Gayvy Crockett” collection) throw their conversation in the garbage and just start singing, as if to say, "Oh, fuck it. All these words we're saying are terrible." Which they were! So, GREAT CHOICE! This episode is full of great choices — specifically the choice to do tons of songs (nine!!!) and almost zero dialogue, exposition, or plot advancement. It’s a ratio that makes for a relatively entertaining and brisk episode of Glee. The gist of this opening scene is that everyone (“blah blah blah blah” —everyone) wants to do Michael Jackson songs for regionals, and so, proclaims Mr. Schue, Michael Jackson songs they shall do. Blaine sings “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” because he wanna be startin’ the episode (sorry). It’s officially “Michael week.” Here we go.
Finn corners Rachel to bug her about that time he proposed marriage even though they are both baby children. Rachel says she still doesn’t have an answer — she wants to marry Finn “someday,” but right now she “doesn’t understand.” Finn explains that he wants to use Rachel’s wedding ring as a very tiny miniature shackle to keep her forever tied to him and tiny-town Ohio instead of to her big-city dreams ("Those rings will always be a reminder of exactly how we feel right now”). Weirdly, Rachel is not convinced.
Over at the Lima Bean, Rachel announces that she never really “got” Michael Jackson (OF COURSE), to which Santana replies, "I'd throw this milk in your face but it's not nearly scalding enough,” which is not EVEN Santana’s best burn in this episode. Then Sebastian Smythe shows up to let everyone know that — seeing as he is a one-dimensional evil god-king, basically Sauron in a blazer — he is deliberately yoinking their idea, and the Warblers will also be performing Michael Jackson songs at regionals this year. Oh noooooooooooooooooo!!!
Back at choir practice, the kids present their intel to Mr. Schue and everyone starts crying. If the Warblers are going to sing Michael Jackson songs, how can they sing Michael Jackson songs too? To help solve their problem, Mr. Schue asks perhaps the most unfortunate question in the history of question marks: WWMJD? What Would Michael Jackson Do? (Um, I don’t know — probably some impulsive jewel shopping followed by a lethal dose of prescription narcotics?) Blaine thinks he knows what Michael would do. He would take it to the streets. "I think I know what Michael would do. He'd take it to the streets." So they do. They take it. To the streets.
New Directions challenges the Warblers to a “Jackson-off,” and whichever group “wins” (who is the judge? and what are the rules? and how is the verdict enforced? and etc. etc. etc. forever) “gets” to do Michael at Regionals. Song No. 2 is a rendition of “Bad” sung in an abandoned parking garage (another thing Michael Jackson might do is sing this song better). At the end of the song, Sebastian throws a slushie (the Black Slushie of Mordor) into Blaine’s gorgeous doe-eyeballs, which would be fine except that this evil slushie is filled with tiny knives!!! Or something else sharp and terrible! Blaine falls to the ground dead. I mean, not dead, but his eyeball hurts. He has to have eyeball surgery. This means WAR(blers)!!! (Sorry.)
Suddenly, overcome with grief about Blaine’s eyeball (we all are, Artie, we all are), Artie has a complete nervous breakdown: "I want them to feel my pain, because frankly, that's ALL I HAVE LEFT TO GIVE." Ooooooohhhhkaaaaaaaaay. This brings us to song No. 3, “Scream,” starring dream-sequence Artie with fully functioning legs — as if we need to be reminded that Glee didn’t bother to hire an actual disabled person to play their semi-condescending disabled-person role — and Mike Chang in the part he was born to play: Janet Jackson.
Next, Quinn tells Rachel that she has to break up with Finn, because "I'd hate to think of dragging an anchor from my past into the bright lights of my future." Which is actually kind of solid advice, if you think about it (I WONDER WHAT RACHEL WILL DO). Then Quinn sings “Never Can Say Goodbye,” which is a really good song. During the song, she opens her locker and there’s a picture of Artie hanging in there (what aren’t you telling us, Ryan Murphy!!?!?). Then Quinn announces that she got into Yale, to which Mr. Schue replies, "YALE YEAH!" You know, instead of “Hell yeah.” You know, like words that humans talk.
In other stuff: Sam and Mercedes meet in the auditorium to sing an almost-chemistry-free duet of “Human Nature,” followed by the world’s most tepid kiss. Kurt finds out that he is a NYADA finalist and he poops his pantaloons. Rachel didn’t get a NYADA letter, so then she spends a bunch of time crying about how hard it is to be young, pretty, smart, talented, and in love.
Rachel, Kurt, and Finn go over to Blaine’s house where he’s recuperating from his ruined eyeball (God, why couldn’t it have been KURT instead of Blaine? Can you imagine the eye patch flair???). Then Rachel pulls out a pitch pipe (why? Where is your invisible orchestra?) and Kurt leads the group in a touching rendition of “Ben,” Michael Jackson’s theme to the 1972 movie Ben, which is about murderous telepathic rats. (Sample lyric: "Ben, you're always running here and there [because you are a rat].") Hella romantic, Kurt.
Santana confronts Sebastian about being a dick, and to get “revenge,” they perform “Smooth Criminal” accompanied by overenthusiastic cello. Good revenge, Santana. Then Sebastian admits that he put rock salt in the slushie, intending to lacerate the eyes of Kurt, but hitting Blaine instead. He does not regret it. Then he throws another slushie in Santana’s face.
Turns out, Santana had a tiny tape recorder taped to her “underboob!” She’s going to get Sebastian convicted of slushie tampering and salt crime and sent to the big house!!! Except all of a sudden nobody wants revenge anymore, even though the whole episode up to this point has been about getting revenge. Kurt gives a condescending nonsense speech, culminating in "We're not going to punish the Warblers, we're going to teach them a lesson." Yes. Fighting back the logical, grown-up way — with MUSIC! To the auditorium!
Oh, God. Before we get there, Finn and Rachel stop and sing “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You” and Rachel tells Finn that he’s the love of her life and also she found out that she is a NYADA finalist. And yes, she will marry him. Are you dead now? Did you die of surprise? Are you a ghost? Okay. To the auditorium!
New Directions lures the Warblers to the auditorium, where they announce that they’re done fighting: "We're show choirs and we're supposed to support each other.” (What? No you’re not.) Then they sing “Black or White” (mostly white), complete with that whole face-morphing thingy from the original video, which almost made this episode worth it. One by one the Warblers come up onstage and join, because they’re show choirs and they’re supposed to support each other. Then Sebastian commits ritual suicide by drowning himself in a comically oversize knife slushie. Good episode. Pretty good episode. Next week: Ricky Martin.
Originally published at Vulture.
Read all of Lindy West's Glee recaps HERE.Show
I propose a Useless Female Celebrity Exchange. We Americans will keep your Sarah Ferguson if you take our Fergie.Show Show
As you may have heard – if you have a Google alert for "world's most non- vital information" like I do – Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, has been busy of late: she got hypnotised by a sorcerer, made a groggy speech about how she wishes she was still married to Prince Andrew (oh, you don't say, unemployed broke lady who tried to sell her family to a tabloid grifter!), and plans to broadcast the entire ordeal on American television with the help of billionaire attention maven Oprah Winfrey. In exchange, Ferguson hopes to receive gobs more attention, lots and lots of Oprah bucks (I firmly believe that Oprah's face will appear on American currency in my lifetime), and not to be made fun of any more. Yes. Good luck with that last thing.
This whole bit of "news" got me thinking about the Ferg. (Does she mind that I don't care whether or not she minds if I call her the Ferg?) I realised that I have been aware of the Ferg for my entire medium-length American life and I have no idea why. She has nothing to do with me, my country, or my culture. She doesn't seem to do much of anything, beyond count Weight Watchers points, give birth to offspring in funny hats, and get yelled at by the Queen. At most, she should have been one of those middle-tier celebrities that no one outside of the UK has ever heard of. (Seriously, what is a "Katie Price"?)
But instead, I know all about her. I knew all about her when I was 10. I even like her – she always seemed like a cheerier, goofier, more relatable counterpart to Diana (plus, prettier hair!). And when she started bumbling into outlandish, farcical mishaps every five minutes, all the better! What use is a useless celebrity if it doesn't even accidentally expose its bosoms once in a while? None. None use. That's what.
But the mystery remains: why now, in 2011 – when she does even less than she used to do, and what she used to do, remember, was nothing – is the Ferg all over my American television screen? The credit, or the blame, can only lie with the Ferg herself. This isn't organically generated interest; it's an aggressive and calculated pay-attention-to-me campaign. Having burned up all of your goodwill over there (honestly, it's a little creepy how much you hate her), she's hopped the pond to feed on what's left of ours. And it makes perfect sense. Here's why.
The Ferg is famous for being famous, because she makes herself famous – and that is an extremely American type of celebrity. (We may not have invented this type of fame, but we have ground it into a fine paste, heated it in a spoon, and injected it directly into our national jugular.)
In America, land of dreams, you don't ever have to have a job as long as you have a broke-down past and a daughter in a funny hat. All you have to do is be willing to go on television and embarrass yourself in front of God and Oprah (if they are indeed separate entities) and your family and the Queen and David Bowie and "Katie Price" and that sorcerer and the nation of Thailand and the entire earth. In exchange, we will pay attention to you and maybe even give you some money that you can use to purchase some cosmetic surgery that we will then immediately mock. (Make sure you film it for your new pilot!)
This dream is what the Pilgrims sought when they landed on Plymouth Rock, why Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves, and why the pioneers colonised the lawless West (don't quote me on any of that – our public education system is not so good), so that some day, some British lady with nothing better to do could come to America and pay down her debts by acting bewildered on television for our amusement. If the Ferg doesn't have a drunken paparazzi boob-flash within the year, then the terrorists have truly won.
So, fine. America can absorb one more reality show about the reality of being famous for being on a reality show about being famous (although, reportedly, the Ferg's programme has already been delayed by Oprah's network for being "too boring"). And as long as we're doing a Cross-Cultural Useless Female Celebrity Exchange, can I interest you in a Kardashian or three? No? If you're looking for an older model, I have about 36 varietals of Real Housewives (none of those cut-rate imaginary housewives) in various states of dementia and Botox-palsy. Or – oh! – I hear Jessica Simpson's weight is fluctuating again, and the American tabloid press assures me that this is fascinating. Still no? Hmm.
Well how about this only slightly used American Fergie (I hear the Black Eyed Peas singer is "Fergalicious")? Our domestic American Ferg is semi-house-trained – plus, her "singing" wards off coyotes! We'll take your Ferg if you'll take ours. Because really, I love your sweet old Ferg. What can be said about Sarah, Duchess of York, that hasn't already been said about a half-tranquilised cat that just got home from the vet? It's clumsy, it's confused, it's bad at making plans, it's kind of cute, it has pretty orange fur, and it wants you to pet it. Also it might pee in the wrong place (oh no, wait, that was our Fergie). Seriously. Fergie swap. Think about it. Think about it.
(Originally published here.)Show
A Primer of Ice and FireShow Show
Basically—here is the dark, mewling shame-baby that's been calcifying for years in my brain-womb (medical term)—I will read anything with a fucking fictional map in the front.
Ohhhhhh, how I crave a fictional map! Oz, Middle Earth, Narnia, Neverland, Fantastica, Tortall, the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, the one with the talking war-bears where everyone gets to have a magic otter that is their best friend... uhhh... Dinotopia... ummmmm... you know, all the other ones. All the main ones. I love that shit. So imagine my delight upon discovering that not only does each volume in George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series have a fictional map in the front, IT HAS A FUCKING FICTIONAL MAP IN THE BACK, TOO. That's two fictional maps. Two. (Plus sometimes a third supplementary fictional map that I really can't get into right now because I need both hands for typing, if you know what I mean [MASTURBATION JOKE].)
Now, I know that A Song of Ice and Fire has gone rather mainstream and de rigueur these days (more on that in one second), so it's not exactly a radical statement for me to openly read this shit on the bus, but just indulge me in one quick personal moment of liberation. Because do you know what time it is, shame-baby? ABORTION O'CLOCK. Flush. My name is Lindy West, and I will just read whatever I want on the bus.
Okay. Down to business. So you've probably noticed that all the people you've ever met—even normals!—are feverishly reading these books right now. Maybe you feel confused. Maybe you are overwhelmed. Frightened. Maybe you don't know where to start, and maybe an oily, red shame-baby is sitting on your chest while you sleep and is staring at you with its horrible rheumy goat-eyes (I can relate, bro). So for you, dear friend, here is everything you need to know to speak authoritatively about A Song of Ice and Fire.
You Are Late
The nerds would like you to know that you are late. Recently, I jokingly scolded a friend on Facebook for not having read ASOIAF, and was reprimanded thuswise by an angry die-hard: "Don't worry [REDACTED], most people who give you shit about it are just bandwagon readers, anyway. I doubt a single one of those jerks had to wait for A Clash of Kings." Yes, hello. This is my wagon, and here is my band of jerks. If you don't mind, I am going to continue reading now. Sorry I like the same thing that you like.
Hella Hella Intrigue
Perhaps you are one of those horribly condescending garbage-people who assume—with no investigation—that if something is very, very popular it must logically be very, very terrible. God, shut up. ASOIAF is popular because it is basically what would happen if Bruce Willis were a wizard and he had sex with Sarah Palin and she gave birth to a baby and then they only let it watch Breaking Bad and then Professor McGonagall transfigured that baby into a book. Shit is exciting and stressful and GOOD, and that's why people like it. Good luck not dreaming about it.
It's probably a good idea to stay away from these books if any of the following has ever happened to you: Rape. Incest. Twincest. Domestic violence. Throat ripped out by a wolf. Disemboweled by a stag. Disemboweled by a sword or ax. Disemboweled by a lance. Basically any disembowelment of any kind. Being flayed alive. Being taunted by a dwarf. Being taunted because you are a dwarf. Zombie attacks. Coming back to life as a zombie. Woolly mammoth attacks. Dragon attacks. Forced castration. Facial burns. Seasickness. Bored to death by heraldry.
Have a Vagina? You're Probably Getting Raped in It
Yup. But don't worry—sometimes you learn to like it once your handmaiden gives you some super-sexy Cosmo tips for How to Please Your Warlord Every Time. If that happens, congrats. To the rest of you, condolences.
Have Intestines? You're Definitely Getting Stabbed in Them
As far as I can tell, George R. R. Martin is under the impression that that's what intestines are for.
I Hope You Like Outfits!
Sometimes, George R. R. Martin will just stop in the middle of a battle to go on for 100 pages about enameled armor and filigreed shields and the sigil adorning everyone's (and I mean EVERYONE'S) doublet. Just go with it.
It's Really, Really Sandy in Dorne
Seriously, George, we get it. Everyone rides their sandhorse down to the sandhole to pick up their sandwives and eat their sand sandwiches washed down with sandmilk from the sandteat of the sandcamel. WE ARE FOLLOWING YOU HERE.
That One Guy Really Likes Drowning People
Again. We get it. We really, really get it. OH MY GOD, WE GET IT.
Brienne Is Not That Great-Looking
Please make a note of it. Or, if you don't make a note of it, just wait two pages because someone will tell you again. Brienne is basically Andre the Giant but with smaller boobs and a horse-mouth and a face carved out of last week's leftover ham. But that doesn't mean she might not cause your manhood to stir within your pantaloons to your great surprise!!! (You know who you are!)
I Can't Tell if It's Racist or Not
I mean, there are all kinds of barbaric and swarthy slave traders and such eating horse meat across the sea, but at least they're not evil. The most evil people in the books are the world's blondest Aryans. But even they're not evil, exactly. I think there are some black people here and there, but I'm not clear on exactly what it is they do or where they come from. Let's just say that the fact that I can't tell isn't a great sign, and epic fantasy doesn't exactly have a pristine track record in terms of racial sensitivity (I'm looking at you, Orcs).
For Some Reason, a Whole Lot of People Live in "The North," Even Though It Is Horrible There
Seriously, you guys? Move south. MOVE. What are you even talking about?
WHY IS SAMWELL TARLY STILL FAT?
HEY MAESTER AEMON, COULD YOU CHECK SAMWELL'S THYROID OR SOMETHING BECAUSE HE HASN'T EATEN ANYTHING BUT AUROCHS JERKY FOR SIX MONTHS AND HE STILL WEIGHS LIKE 400 POUNDS.
George R. R. Martin Has No Sense of Humor
Which is fine. This shit is serious. (And, no, Tyrion's tasty bons mots do not count unless you've never heard an actual joke before in your life.)
Don't Get Attached
You know your favorite character? The one with the intestines? Yeah. You know what that means (see above). Dead as fuck.
Except for Every Single Person Who Dies Offscreen
They're still alive. I KNOW IT. I'M NOT GIVING UP ON YOU, SYRIO FOREL!!!!!
(Originally published here.)Show
A Degrassi Superfan's Guide to Drake, Lil Wayne, and IronyShow Show
James "Jimmy" Brooks was born a regular-sized human baby in 1988 to two professional actors who looked like they were not related to him at all, which they probably weren't.
Jimmy's "father," Mr. Brooks, was domineering but loving, and Jimmy excelled at basketball, friendship, having an iPod, being gay-friendly, wearing the flyest new 555 Soul hoodie, and, eventually, scooting (more on that later).
It was at Toronto's prestigious Degrassi Community School that Jimmy first cut his musical "chops" (or "moose horns" as they're known in Canada) in the all-man four-piece outfit Downtown Sasquatch, led by noted orphan and cocaine enthusiast Craig Manning. Despite being a bunch of high-school children with absolutely no musical training, Downtown Sasquatch's playful sounds were beloved by Torontonians Toronto over, because, yes, that is a thing that happens. And so, thanks to these serendipitous events, the world got its first taste of Jimmy Brooks's flair for mumbling his way through half-hearted melodies and idiot-baby lyrics and somehow being totally super-likable anyway. A star was born!
Then, on October 12, 2004, tragedy struck—in the form of a bullet coming tragically out of a gun and striking Jimmy in the spine area. The shooter was Rick Murray, insufferable nerd and terrible actor, who said something like, "J'accuse, Jimmy, you cad!" closed his eyes like a woman, and pulled the trigger—even though Jimmy didn't even do nothin' and it was obviously that jerk Jay Hogart who masterminded the whole entire thing. OBVIOUSLY. From that day on, Jimmy—now half man, half machine—scooted bravely but woefully through the blood-spattered halls of Degrassi in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down, and not even the giantest boobs of any of his many annoying girlfriends could get his penis erection working again. His penis erection was finished. Until now!
In 2008, happenstance led Jimmy to make the acquaintance of a powerful baby wizard named Small Wayne. In a private ceremony, after reciting a simple incantation (a baby could do it!), Wayne sprayed magic sorcery all over Jimmy's withered wheelchair legs. Jimmy erupted from his rolling prison an unstoppable whirl of functioning spine, usable gams, winning smile, and eager penis erection, which immediately celebrated by high-fiving one million girls in the mouth. Classic Jimmy.
It was at this moment—a turning point watched by a turning world—that Jimmy publicly reinvented himself as Aubrey "Dude, It's Just a TV Show" Graham. He was an "actor" by trade, he said, claiming that the entirety of Jimmy Brooks's storied life "wasn't real" and that anyone who said otherwise was "fucking crazy" and needed to "get the fuck away from me." (Ohhhkay, Jimmy! Whatever you say! Wink!) Accepting a position as Small Wayne's wizard-familiar, he again rechristened himself—this time as "Drake" (Canadian for "mallard")—and launched his side career as a basketball coach for busty women. Asked how it felt to conquer paralysis and become a world-famous rapper (against all odds!), Jimmy commented, with his typical humility, "Dude, seriously, how did you get this number? It's a TV show—it's NOT REAL. I never got shot. Are you listening? I NEVER GOT SHOT. PLEASE DON'T CALL HERE AGAIN." Now, I'm no expert on rap metaphors—but I think the translation is clear. He's saying, "Great. Being famous instead of paralyzed feels great, Lindy."
If one had to sum up the walking-or-sometimes-rolling paradox that is "Drake" in one single word, it would have to be: helovesAlanisMorissette. As empress of Canada in the mid-1990s, Morissette installed in each schoolchild (via microchip) a healthy and deliberately incorrect obsession with irony. The confusion, the pain, the beautiful contradictions of too many spoons—all this is evident on the new Drake album Thank Me Later. Like on "Karaoke," when Jimmy raps: "Isn't it ironic that the girl I wanna marry is a wedding planner?" YES. Don'tcha think? And later, on "The Resistance": "Yeah, I'm 23 with a money tree/Growing more too/I just planted 100 seeds/It's ironic 'cause my mother was a florist and that's how she met my pops/And now my garden's enormous." I have never heard anything more ironic. And again, on the hot new track "Lindy West's Voice Mail": "WHAT THE FUCK. YOU HAD THAT DELIVERED TO MY HOUSE? SERIOUSLY? WHERE DO YOU EVEN GET 10,000 SPOONS? HOW DID YOU GET MY ADDRESS? I SERIOUSLY WISH I COULD STAB YOU RIGHT NOW. GOD, ALL I NEED IS A KNIFE."
Will Drake ever find that knife that he's looking for? Will he ever stop crying like a baby wizard and appreciate the supernatural bond we share that will never be torn asunder? Will he ever successfully circumnavigate the globe aboard his good ship Pelican? Will Small Wayne ever defeat Professor Snape in a wizard's duel—without resorting to the Unforgivable Curses? These are the questions that keep me up at night.
Oh, also, have you ever noticed that Jimmy is kind of terrible at rapping?
(Originally published here.)Show