Category Archives: Kevin Smith

You’re gonna carry that weight; carry that weight a long time

I was a skinny kid. Photos of me from back then are all pigtails and smeary glasses and I’m usually covered in mud. And I’m sometimes brandishing things like frogs or buckets of mucky water, for whatever reason. I probably had a plan for those buckets. Maybe I was going to put the frog in them. I don’t know.

Then puberty hit. You can’t fight science, people. I come from hearty peasant stock on both sides of my family. Dad’s side are all, in his words, “built like tops – big on the top, skinny on the bottom.” (I attempted to explain to him that’s not exactly how tops work, and also we don’t spin very well, but he was all “WE ARE LIKE TOPS!” so who am I to argue with him?) and my mom’s side are all built like the Goddess of Willendorf. Curvy doesn’t even begin to explain it. Genetics decided I needed a little of both, apparently.

Now, Dad had been heavy growing up, and teased about it mercilessly. He lost quite a bit of weight when he married my mother (who was, and remains, thin; she’s the only one in her family that is.) Dad saw that I was starting to gain weight and immediately feared that I was going to be teased about it at school.

His solution? Constantly watch everything I put in my mouth, tell me how disgusting being fat was, tell me I needed to be working out and/or being active every single minute of every single day, tell me I was never going to find anyone to love me if I was fat, and call me things like “elephant.” If I got upset about this, he was genuinely confused. “I just want you to be happy,” he’d say. “I just want you to be pretty and thin.”

Now, I don’t know what size you’re imagining me in high school, but if I remember correctly, I was about a size twelve. A twelve. I was probably around…oh, I don’t know. 140 pounds, maybe? 150? Just about the thinnest I’ve ever been in my adulthood, anyway. I certainly wasn’t fat. And I’m fairly tall. 5’8.


However, years and years of being told, by the person you love and admire most in the whole world, that you are ugly, fat and worthless, take their toll. My self-esteem, never overly good to begin with, wasn’t getting much better.

Senior year, I was tired of being so ugly and fat (although I was neither – I look at photos of myself from that time and think “GOOD GRIEF, WHY DIDN”T YOU REALIZE HOW GORGEOUS YOU WERE?!?!”) and went on a crash diet. This diet was basically a bowl of cereal at breakfast and a can of Chinese vegetables at dinner. Sometimes some chicken. No lunch. This was what I ate every day for about 8 months. I worked out for hours at a time daily. I lost about fifty pounds. I could see my hipbones and my ribs and my cheekbones. My collarbones were so prominent I would sometimes accidentally bump them and leave bruises.

It was the first time my father ever told me I was beautiful. He followed it with “See? All you had to do was lose weight. I knew you were beautiful underneath that.”

I was starving. I had headaches constantly. I was tired all the time. But I was THIN. Boys were paying attention to me. One of my teachers told me, “Don’t you dare ever gain weight again. Don’t you DARE” which at the time I was all “Aw, nice!” and now, looking back, I’m all, “Um. CREEPSTER!”

I think you can see where this is going. Can anyone maintain that kind of diet and exercise regimen in the long-term? And not get scurvy? And not go CRAZY? I mean, I couldn’t eat ANYTHING. I was counting the calories in CORNSTARCH. I’m not even kidding you about this. This is not a way to live a life.

I gained the weight back over about a year. I felt terrible shame. I’d let everyone down. I was disgusting. I was ugly and fat again. I had no self-esteem; I didn’t like to go out in public, I didn’t like to go out with my friends, I didn’t date because who would have me? I drank a lot, though. Liquid courage, right? Mmm-hmm. Works every time, except when you start needing it for everything, ever. Like getting out of bed in the morning, or to get to sleep at night. Or for everything in between.

I’ve fluctuated in weight ever since. Sometimes I’m heavier; sometimes I’m lighter. And here’s the thing; as I age, it matters less to me. I still don’t love what I see in the mirror every day; I still see photos of myself and think, “Good grief, that’s an unflattering photo.” I still have residual shame. I still think “If only I was thinner, life would be easier, in a million different ways.” But it’s not a daily thing. It’s not even all that often anymore.

And before you start to hate him, Dad understands, and has repeatedly apologized, for what he did when I was younger. I often think most of parenting is a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants affair. He really, truly thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was stopping me from the ridicule he’d experienced as a teen. He didn’t realize – and did anyone, back then? – the long-standing effect that kind of treatment would have on my psyche. I’ve forgiven him. He doesn’t say a word now. And he’s said, without prompting, many times since, that I’m beautiful – no matter what size I am. He loves his daughter.

We live in a culture where it is not allowed (well, it still happens, but it’s not appropriate) to make racial jokes, or jokes about someone’s sexuality, or mental illness. But we’re still allowed to make fat jokes. Because fat jokes are funny. Fat PEOPLE are funny, right? Because, well, we CHOSE this. We chose this because we eat ALL the Twinkies and chips and cake and pie and sit around all day doing nothing. We chose this, and because we are fat, we are lazy and we also smell. Of course we do! And sometimes we fall. Ha ha! How funny!

So the best thing to do is make fun of us. To shame us. Because, as this VERY scientific study proves, it’s the only way to make us get off our lazy asses and get thin. Thin and therefore healthy. Oh, because, I don’t know if you’re aware – if you’re fat, you’re immediately unhealthy. There’s no such thing as a healthy fat person. We’re all one HoHo away from our first (or second, or third, or last) coronary. So the thing to do is shame us. According to this “prominent bioethicist” (I don’t see “ethics” coming into this at all) what you should say to any fat people you know, I mean, if you care about them at all, is “If you are overweight or obese, are you pleased with the way that you look?” Because of COURSE they’re not! And they just didn’t realize it until you shamed them! Oh, what a favor you are doing for them. They will thank you on the finish line of their first triathalon! They will shout your name from the top of Kilimanjaro!

Or they might tell you to shut your nosy piehole. Because I’m going to tell you something right now, and if you take anything away from this, I want it to be this.

My body, his body, her body, their bodies – anyone’s body but your own – ARE NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.

I don’t care if you’re fat-shaming them, thin-shaming them (yes, it exists, please read sj’s amazing post about it, and the comments, and I know from personal experience, as I have a dear loved one who has constantly been picked on about being too thin, which she can help JUST about as much as I can help my body shape, so it’s real) or ANYTHING shaming-them, or if you say you’re doing it because you’re worried about their health, or what, exactly, your impetus for putting your nose in someone else’s business is. You have no right. None. You have no right to tell them they should lose weight (unless you are their doctor, and even then, sometimes, it gets worrisome, because there are some doctors who prescribe weightloss as an easy out for everything from asthma to a sprained toe because they don’t treat the patient, they just see a fat person and think, “I KNOW WHAT’S WRONG IT IS FATNESS!”); you have no right to say things about their lifestyle choices, their clothing choices, who they’re dating, what they’re eating, how loud they’re talking, or anything whatsoever. Keep your eyes on your own test, buckaroo. I’m sure you have something you’re not proud of. Would you like someone walking up to you and saying, “Man, that’s a huge nose you have there. You should get that surgically reduced. You know, for health reasons.” Or, “I noticed you have a very small penis, Man I’m About to Have Sex With. Have you thought about getting that surgically enhanced? You know, for health reasons?” IT WOULD BE THE SAME THING.

Here’s some Fun With Fat-Shaming. Don’t even think I didn’t research the hell out of this.

First, we have Kate Upton. Who is, I think we can all agree, STUNNINGLY GORGEOUS.

She also really likes bikini shots, so it was hard to find a photo of her clothed. Hell, good for her. She is smoking hot.

She also really likes bikini shots, so it was hard to find a photo of her clothed. Hell, good for her. She is smoking hot.

Well! Were you also aware she is “well-marbled,” “thick,” “vulgar,” and – this one’s my favorite – a “little piggie?” Or – well, how about a whole paragraph of hate? Sure!

Huge thighs, NO waist, big fat floppy boobs, terrible body definition – she looks like a squishy brick. Is this what American women are “striving” for now? The lazy, lardy look? Have we really gotten so fat in this country that Kate is the best we can aim for? Sorry, but: eww!

YES! She has been called out as too fat to model by a VERY reputable blog site called Skinny Gossip. Two things I loathe! People who judge others’ bodies and gossip! (Also, she tagged the post with “fatties” and “thunder thighs,” because, well, why not?)

Guess why she’s not model-material? BECAUSE SHE’S NORMAL-HUMAN SIZED. Well, no. She’s actually quite a bit less than normal human sized, as normal humans are, what, a size 12 now? 14? Something like that? I don’t think she’s that size. But she’s not waif-thin, and apparently, Skinny Gossip thinks that’s what size you have to be to model clothing.

Psst, Skinny Gossip, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. She’s stunning. And it can’t possibly make you feel any better about yourself to call people pigs, can it? Really? Do you sleep well at night knowing you put something like that out there in the world? That kind of hate?

Next: employees at CVS will now be forced to take a BMI test and a blood-glucose screen to remain on their healthcare plan, or risk a fine. Why?

The company’s rationale? Coercing employees to submit to health testing will provide incentive for workers to get—and stay—in shape.

Huh. “Coercing.” Forcing, really, because the fine is $600 and they don’t pay much above minimum to work at CVS. And what happens once you take the test? Do you have to see a counselor about your totally fat fatness? Are you told if you don’t lose weight, you’ll be let go? Are your test results posted in the breakroom next to a photo of a bag of Cheetos with a red circle and a line through it? WHO KNOWS.

Or, how about, let’s fat-shame our children with this new ad campaign? Because there’s nothing that kids need more than to be shamed. I mean, it’s worked out so well for me, right?

Please read the article that accompanies this photo. It’s kickass. It has excellent examples of fat-shaming. HEARTBREAKING examples. And, sadly, TRUE examples. People think it is ok to walk up to perfect strangers in the grocery store and QUESTION THEIR FOOD CHOICES.

(True story: I had a woman come up to me in the grocery store and tell me she worked for Herbalife and they had an excellent line of diet pills I might like to try. First thought: shame. Second thought: WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. Second thought won out over first thought; I told her I was not at all interested in a pyramid scheme for products that don’t work in the first place, and I was sorry she felt the need to walk up to strangers and judge their body type, and walked away. She was offering them to the next woman that walked past as I checked out. So apparently my words meant nothing.)

So, anyway. Yes, that’s an ad campaign for (well, against, I guess) childhood obesity, targeting overweight children. Because they probably aren’t aware they’re fat. So let’s do a whole ad campaign for it. That’s a good way to help kids with positive self-esteem. Way to go, guys.

Of course, there’s also good old Southwest Airlines, who expect their fat passengers to spring for two seats. And even their not-so-fat passengers. Whoever THEY deem as a little too fat. They SAY it’s if the passenger can’t put the armrests down, but as Kevin Smith found out a few years ago, that’s not it at all – it’s racial profiling, only with your weight. It’s fat-profiling. He was able to put his armrests down; the passengers on either side of him told the flight attendant they had plenty of room. They still kicked him off the plane. And when he got back on a later flight that they hurriedly put him on once they realized who he was and that he was tweeting millions of people about this practice, they fat-profiled another person, then put her in his row, so she’d tell him about it, and he’d know it wasn’t just him, and feel better.

DEFINITELY taking up way too much room. He should have purchased the WHOLE DAMN PLANE. *eyeroll*

DEFINITELY taking up way too much room. He should have purchased the WHOLE DAMN PLANE. *eyeroll*

Yes! Because nothing makes us feel better than to be shamed in front of a crowd of people than to do it to someone else. NOTHING. (I read his book Tough Shit recently which went in detail into the incident, and my heart just broke for him. Because no matter what you think of Kevin Smith – you all know I think he’s fantastic, but you can hate him if you want, just don’t tell me about it, ok? – when that happened, he was just an average guy, being fat-shamed in front of a full airplane of people. Worse, he was a FAMOUS guy being fat-shamed in front of a crowd of people, and if it was an average guy, it might be a laugh or two, but with a famous person, it’s news, you know? He took control of the news and labeled it “too fat to fly” himself – he’s very good at self-deprecating – but it hurt. Of course it did. Because no matter who you are, where you are in the world, being shamed for your body size is not something you can laugh off. It just isn’t. The shame should be on Southwest Airlines, not the people they’re profiling.)

Then there’s this. I can’t embed a Facebook thread, so sadly, you will have to click. Here’s a screenshot, though, because pretty pictures, right?

Now, you have to click to see the comments. The comments are really what makes this. Because this STARTS OUT as normal, then this person shows up who hates fat people. HATES THEM. Only, no no! She doesn’t HATE them. She has MANY FAT FRIENDS! (Does this sound at all like someone who makes a lot of racist comments, then says, “What? I’m not a racist! I have MANY MANY BLACK FRIENDS!” Yeah, to me, too.) So she starts writing things like “no, it’s a known fact that all fat people are unhealthy and many doctors refuse to operate on them because, well, they’ll just die on the table. Because, well, fat, you know?”

Don’t worry. There are some kickass commenters on there. They give her the smackdown. She doesn’t ever shut up, but they win intelligence. She doesn’t win anything but idiocy and mouth-flappery.

This is, by the way, called “concern-trolling.” It’s like being a troll, only you’re pretending it’s because you CARE. Isn’t that nice? A whole new way to be a douchecanoe!

Sara, from Laments and Lullabies, wrote an amazing post recently about fat-shaming, which you all should read. Her post, and the terrible comments on that Facebook post up there, were what finally made me realize I needed to write my own post. Here’s her post. You should all a., read, and b., comment. Oh, and c., follow her blog.

There are more. There are so many more. But this is edging into way too many words for a Saturday territory, and also I’d like to get to bed at some point.

I will leave you with some bullet points. Because, who doesn’t like bullet points, am I right?

  • Other people’s bodies are none of your business. Keep your words off them. Unless you’re telling them they’re beautiful. Everyone likes that shit. Even if they pretend they don’t.
  • Pretending you’re “worried about someone’s health” is not an excuse for commenting on someone’s weight, whether they’re heavy or thin. Again, see the first bullet point. Even if they’re naked with you, their size is none of your business. Whose business is it then, Amy? THEIRS. No one’s but theirs.
  • Making fat jokes is a., not funny, and b., lazy. There are actual funny things in the world to point out. Like misspellings. Who doesn’t like a good misplaced apostrophe or missing comma? The answer to that is NO ONE.
  • To reiterate what we learned in the first bullet point: before making a comment about someone’s weight, please think the following quietly to yourself: “What is my least-favorite attribute. Now, would I like someone to loudly mention it and say it is ugly and/or unhealthy for me to have, and publicly shame me about it?” The answer to that question is always no. ALWAYS.
  • Also: if you think you are too fat, and everyone’s judging you, and you’re ugly, and OMG I CANNOT LEAVE THE HOUSE, guess what. No, seriously, guess. Hardly anyone even notices. The only people that do are assholes. And who cares what assholes think? I hope you don’t.
  • Finally: I’m going to tell you something I’ve learned in my old age. Ready? Shh, don’t share this one around, it’s kind of radical. WE ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL. I know! Every single last one of us. Fat. Thin. Tall. Short. We’re a lovely bunch of coconuts. Except – there is one thing that makes you ugly. Guess what that is? Hatefulness. Being hateful. You can’t be beautiful with hate in your mind, soul, or mouth. So get rid of that, and guess what? You’re gorgeous again. And everyone will see it. I can see it right now! Whoa, babe, dial that back, you’re blinding me with it.

We’ve become a culture of shaming. We’re rape-shaming and we’re slut-shaming and we’re thin-shaming and we’re fat-shaming. It’s repulsive and this shit’s gotta stop. Like, immediately.

Stop shaming anyone. Including yourself. You are beautiful. The people around you are beautiful. No one should be shamed for how they look. The next time you look at yourself in the mirror, be amazed at how gorgeous you are. And tell the people around you how beautiful they are. Don’t allow them to blow it off and say things like, “Oh, I look like a cow in this top” or whatever, either. Nope. Not today, buckaroos. Tell them they’re beautiful AGAIN. Until they actually believe it.

Then, all of that stuff? Do quadruple that for your kids. Make sure your kids enter the world with the strongest self-esteem possible. They’re going to need it, and you can help them with that.

We might be surrounded by shame, but we can combat that with love. Is that the opposite of shame? Don’t care. For our purposes it is.

Love you guys. You’re gorgeous. Every last one of you.

At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought.

So you know how I’m obsessed with my stats, right? Shut up, all you other bloggers are, too. Don’t even pretend you’re not. You might be all “oh, I blog just for FUN and I’m really just writing for ME” but you totally dig into that stats page and see how many people are reading and where they’re coming from and how they found your blog just like the rest of us. Just like you people that say you don’t stalk Facebook profiles. EVERYONE DOES THIS. That’s what they’re FOR. That’s why you should LOCK YOUR SHIT DOWN, YO. Unless you want EVERYONE to know what you’ve been doing since you joined Facebook, including potential enemies and people who are checking out their competition and also maybe killers. Do you WANT to be stalked by killers? No, not THE Killers, as in the BAND, I’m sure The Killers have better things to do. REAL LIFE KILLERS. If you don’t, LOCK YOUR SHIT DOWN. I mean, I don’t LIKE it when I go to stalk someone’s page and it’s locked down, but I grudgingly RESPECT them and I don’t think they’re a MORON. Or at least as MUCH of a moron.

That’s tangenty and not at all why we’re here today. Oh, stop making fake shock-faces, you love my tangents. I don’t think that’s a euphemism. Unless you’re a mathematician, I guess. Ken’ll know for sure, I suppose. You know how on Jeopardy when Alex is all, “we’ll have to ask the judges?” That’s how I feel with euphemisms. I have to be all, “Ken? Final ruling, here?” (Hint: it’s a safe bet Ken will rule yes on the euphemism. He usually does.)

So the other day, I was poking around in my stats and like five people had come here from some blog that looked real and not spammy (lately I’ve been getting a lot of random hits from male enhancement sites and also real estate sites? Cut that out, I mean, I appreciate the traffic but what the hell) and so I clicked on it.

Then I was promptly confused as to why these people wanted anything to do with me.

So it’s this site that’s all about economics? But yo, this is a SMART SITE, you guys. This guy is NOT DICKING AROUND. And it’s not that false-intelligent stuff? It’s REAL intelligent stuff. Like, you’d read this in a magazine and then if you were me you’d probably be all “where’s the Entertainment Weekly, I didn’t understand a word of this.” (Also, check out his about page. He’s totally like a musician and Australian and shit. I like this guy a lot.)

Now, I think you’ll all give me the benefit of the doubt when I tell you I am an intelligent woman. I have three degrees, graduated valedictorian from my high school, and don’t even say “yo” or “ZOMG” in real life. I KNOW. Try to contain your shock, please. I’m actually QUITE intelligent. More so than I come across here.

But economics (and to a lesser extent, politics) goes right over my head. Don’t get it. Not even a little bit. And if I were to attempt to talk about it I would be like Billy Madison when he tried to talk about the Industrial Revolution and compared it to the Puppy Who Lost His Way and everyone was dumber having heard his response. (Oh, shush, it’s only like the funniest movie EVER, you guys.)


I took an economics class in high school. Want to know what I remember from it? Here, I’ll tell you.

  • The teacher was a dreamboat. TOTAL DREAMBOAT. He was right out of college and had the blackest curly hair and the bluest eyes that crinkled when he laughed. I just stared at him in awe of his perfection, sincerely.
  • We did this thing where we had imaginary money and we had to purchase stocks and then over the course of the semester see how they did. Dad was all, “Buy McDonald’s, everyone loves burgers.” So I did. I think I made like $5 overall and I felt like Scrooge McDuck swimming through his silo of money.


That is all I know about economics. I know we’re having multiple fiscal crises all over the world but have no idea WHY or how we’re going to go about FIXING them. I only know the exchange rate of Canadian dollars and pounds and Euro because I grew up near Canada and because I have people in Europe and the U.K. and sometimes out of curiosity I like to Google that shit. (For your information: one Euro = $1.32 MERKAN dollars; one Canadian dollar = $1.01 MERKAN dollars; one pound = $1.62 MERKAN dollars. So you’re worst off if you go to London and best off if you go to London, Ontario, if you are from MERKA.)

Also, can I just bitch for a minute? Why is MERKAN money so boring? Foreign money is SO PRETTY.

Also, can I just bitch for a minute? Why is MERKAN money so boring? Foreign money is SO PRETTY.

So that’s what I know about economics. Nothing.

So this is the post I was getting hits from. So I scrolled through it (I attempted to read it, but it was like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me…wah, wah, wah…and I felt bad, because it’s really well-written, you guys. Like, this guy can WRITE. It’s just…written in another language. The language of SMART people who talk about SMART things) and then I started scrolling through the comments and someone mentioned “he’s like Lucy with the Football” and I thought “oh. Oh, shit. I am getting hits from this because THEY PROBABLY GOOGLED ME AND ARE MOCKING ME BECAUSE I SCREW AROUND ON HERE AND AM NOT THE SMART PEOPLE” but they TOTALLY did not. They were VERY NICE. See?

I like that whatever the “MNE brand and community” is could learn a thing or two from me. YEAH BOYYYYY! Wait, is this a good thing? *Googling* No idea, that Google search was fruitless. I’m going to just assume it’s a good thing. It SEEMS good therefore it IS good. In your FACE, MNE brand and community!

Also, I like new internet friends. So I totally commented and told them I would write them a post but I know nothing about economics and also would go off on tangents and I think one person was happy and one person was trepidacious.

One was tentatively impressed with my Kevin Smith love. Well! We will get along JUST FINE, then.

One was tentatively impressed with my Kevin Smith love. Well! We will get along JUST FINE, then.


(Are you all so impressed with my use of the word “monetization” there? I know, right? I don’t know if I used it CORRECTLY but don’t even tell the smart people that.)

Dear smart economicy people: I know a lot about the following things. Theater, wasting large amounts of time on the interwebs, interspecies animal friends, writing long emails and being ferociously protective to people I love, how to make people laugh, the correct use of semicolons, blogging daily, my very unintelligent but loveable cat, how scary clowns are, how much I like chocolate but dislike garlic, and all things Kevin Smith and Joss Whedon.

I do NOT know a lot about the following things. Economics, politics, war, building things without an instruction sheet that comes in the box, what makes a car work, why people insist on doing very stupid things even though they are very intelligent otherwise, and sports.

Except "The Mighty Ducks" movies. I know a lot about these. What, they're totally inspirational, bite me.

Except “The Mighty Ducks” movies. I know a lot about these. What, they’re totally inspirational, bite me.

However, in a STROKE OF FATE AND OR KISMET AND OR MAGIC!, secret-sibling Ken sent me this secret searchy game-like thing the other day because he wanted me to investigate this person because he thought I would find him intriguing and also it was the most fun until it got frustrating and I couldn’t solve it because my Google-fu totally failed me because it’s very HARD to search things in LANGUAGES that you don’t SPEAK, yo, and come to find out THE GUY WAS A VERY FAMOUS ECONOMIST. On the same DAY! How does that even HAPPEN, I ask you? I didn’t even TELL Ken about this blog of new friends who are now probably so embarrassed they even accidentally found my FAQ! Ken is filled with magic. Utterly stuffed. (Yes, yes. Euphemism, Ken. Euphemism.)

So now I know about this person named Albert O. Hirschman who died last week and was VERY IMPRESSIVE. Seriously, you guys, he wrote like a kabillion books – all of which, I’m sure, were I to attempt to read them, would read like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me, because economics = TOO CONFUSING. But ALSO, he was German, and went to school at the Sorbonne and other fancy places, and then – GET THIS – fought in the Spanish Civil War! How bon vivanty is THAT? And – AND – check THIS out that I found on Wikipedia: “After France surrendered to the Nazis, he worked with Varian Fry to help many of Europe’s leading artists and intellectuals to escape to the United States.” Well! THAT is exciting, right? We have movies about that board game Battleship and we don’t have a movie about this?

He then taught at U.C. Berkeley, Yale, Columbia, Harvard, and the “Institute for Advanced Study,” whatever that is.

Listen, this guy sounds both fancy AND bon vivanty. I can see why Ken was impressed. (Also, little known fact? Along with being bon vivanty, Ken’s super-smart about things like politics and economics. I bet he could read that blog and totally understand ALL of it. Good, Ken, do that and give me an Econ for Dummies recap or something, ok? Thanks, you’re the best, I’ll repay you with…um…teaching you about…shit, I’m pretty sure anything I know anything about you’re already pretty schooled on. Sorry.)

So, there! See how I know like ONE THING about economics? Impressed? Yep. Thought you might be.

New friends, I am glad to have you here. Please do not be put off by the ZOMGs or the yo-ing. Sometimes we talk about other things. Like…um…Helper Mules, and…sciency stuff…and sex…and…


Bye, new friends. It was nice knowing you for like three whole days.

(If you are at all into economics, I totally do recommend the blog. It might sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me, but I know good writing when I see it, and it is written very well. I suppose if you know things about economics, it’s probably the best thing.)

Hey, I always notice that bored look in their eyes, alright?

I’m having a very lazy day. I probably should be doing a million billion things, but mostly what I decided was a good use of my time today was to watch Chasing Amy and blog. And play with the internet. I feel like a sloth. A super-slothful slothy sloth. I will have you know that I did change out of my pajamas about an hour ago. It was kind of the biggest thing I did today and utterly exhausted me.

Also, can I just say that I could watch this movie a billion times and never get tired of it? There are a lot of reasons for this, but let’s be honest. The main reason is young Jason Lee. Oh, young Jason Lee, before he got all puffy and weird and Scientology-obsessed and named his child Pilot Inspektor; so, so Amy’s perfect movie-boyfriend.

All damagey and potty-mouthed and insanely loyal and beardy and artsy and those EYES. Sigh. (I also love Mallrats Jason Lee, but the movie’s not as good. It’s fine, I like it just fine, but there aren’t enough serious bits. I like the serious bits the most, you see.)

ALSO, can I just say, I refuse to accept that Kevin Smith decided that Banky was gay all along in Chasing Amy and announced that to the world in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back? No, thanks. It was better when it was up for interpretation. I don’t think Banky in Chasing Amy was gay; I think at the end of the movie, when he agrees to the threesome, he’s doing it because he’s staying true to the character he spent the movie creating; he’s a loyal friend, he loves Holden, he’s been Holden’s best friend for twenty years, and he sees that his best friend is close to breaking. When someone you love that much is close to the edge, you’ll do pretty much anything to pull them back, even if it’s not in your own best interest, because your own best interests need to take a backseat right then. Especially if you’re one of my tribe: my loyal-to-a-fault tribe. So, sure, Kevin Smith, if you say Banky was gay and that was the impetus for his actions in the movie, I guess I have to believe you, but I don’t think that was the character that Jason Lee was playing, and I think it’s unfair to the fans to decide that for them.

Retcon it if you want, but I've seen this movie a billion times, and this is a friendship to me. Pure & simple.

Retcon it if you want, but I’ve seen this movie a billion times, and this is a friendship to me. Pure & simple.

I may have spent a bit of time thinking about this.

Oh, shush, I have other plans today. I’m going to actually leave the house at some point and head on over to the library to get some books and return some books; I actually read a whole play this morning (I have like 25 of them to read this month; we’re in the middle of play selection for next season at the theater, so when I’m not doing one of my million other things, I’m reading reading READING all the plays, some of which are more successful than others) and at some point I have to make some food, or order some food. That’s still up in the air. You know what’s nice? Having money so I can make this decision. It’s the nicest. This is a very nice day off of laziness.



The cat is still under the tree. This is ok as long as he doesn’t decide he needs to groom himself. When THAT happens, the whole tree starts bopping around like it’s possessed and I have to say “DUMBCAT STOP DUMBCAT STOP GET OUT FROM UNDER THE TREE TO LICK.” And he doesn’t. He doesn’t take direction well, my boy. So I have to shoo him when that happens.

Here is a Dumbcat story. Did I tell you this? Over the fridge there is a little cabinet. It’s where I keep things I don’t use often. I think there are some vases in there. And maybe the popcorn popper, and the mixer. So one day a couple weeks ago I came home from work and that little cabinet door was standing open. I never open that door, so either I have a ghost, or…DUMBCAT!

It's kind of like this cabinet, only a lot less fancy. I don't live in a nice place, you see.

It’s kind of like this cabinet, only a lot less fancy. I don’t live in a nice place, you see.

So in order to get there, he’d have had to jump up on the kitchen counter (that’s probably…4 feet up? maybe a little more? I’m terrible at estimating height, I assume all women are 5’5 and all men are 6′ tall, it just makes things easier. I also can’t guess weight. I guess I’d make a terrible carny) and then hop up on the fridge (another couple of feet) and then move things out of the way (there’s a bag of cat toys and treats on top of the fridge, plus a box of napkins and a bottle of this vanilla coffee flavoring stuff Mom bought me once I have never used) and open the cabinet (it’s not so easy to open – but he has his polydactyl thumbs, you see. He can get into all kinds of cupboards. How do you think he gets into the pots and pans cupboard? He levers it open with his little thumbs. I’m not even kidding. When I lived with roommate C., the other cats used to look to him to get them into things. He’s like the more evolved version of a cat. Well, thumbs-wise, anyway. Brain-wise, he’s on the low-end of the spectrum. BUT HE IS BELOVED DAMMIT.

You could open cabinets, too, if you had boss thumbs like this. (NO, this isn't Dumbcat. But he has thumbs much like this.)

You could open cabinets, too, if you had boss thumbs like this. (NO, this isn’t Dumbcat. But he has thumbs much like this.)

So the first time, I was all “Aw! Dumbcat! Did you jump up like 6 feet and for some reason get into the teeny cupboard over the fridge? That’s…weird. Adorable, but weird. You’re so fat, how did you even fit in there?”

Dumbcat wants you to all know he’s not fat, he’s big-boned, and he resents that implication.

Then the next day the door was open again. And again the next day. And again and again. And a few days later, he’d apparently fallen off the fridge, because everything was knocked off the top of the fridge and every single thing I have on the fridge – magnets, things I’ve hung up there, all my fridge-crap – was on the floor.

“DUMBCAT! This is ENOUGH!” I said. He looked at me with wide Dumbcat-eyes. So I blocked off his pathway to the cupboard of his obsession with more things and strategically-placed items and it seems to have worked because nothing’s been moved since.

This is a weird cat. Do you think he was this weird when I got him, or it was the living with the weird human that made him weird? What came first, the weird-chicken or the weird-egg?

Chasing Amy is still happening. Things like “If this is a crush, I don’t think I could take it if the real thing ever happened” kind of still get to me. Dammit, Kevin Smith, this movie makes me all squishy. Is this really only fifteen years old? Good grief. Everyone in this looks about 14 years old and everyone’s smoking in public. I feel like maybe I’m super-old. I was just barely legally able to buy LIQUOR when this movie came out, I mean, seriously.

I know it's sappy. Shush. I'm a fan of movie-sap, sometimes. It's a thing about me.

I know it’s sappy. Shush. I’m a fan of movie-sap, sometimes. It’s a thing about me.

(Also, I know it was became very trendy to hate Ben Affleck for a while, and then now we’re all tentatively liking him again now that he’s legitimate and directing excellent intelligent movies. However, I never hated Ben Affleck, even when he was embroiled in that Bennifer nonsense. The reason was his collaboration with Kevin Smith. I could never hate Ben Affleck because of his work in this movie and Dogma. He won me for life with those two movies. Apparently my weirdo loyalty extends to celebrities as well. Although I have to say, his hair looks RIDICULOUS in this movie. IT IS SO TALL! It’s a PUFF of man-hair. It’s ARCHITECTURAL, this hairdo!)

OK, this is short, and very random, but it’s library-time and also I’d like to do some other things today, like maybe write something else, and send email to some people I love, and call Dad and see what’s up in Dad-land, and do some food-related preparation, and think about work next week, and start working on my top-secret Christmas plan that I want to have done for a week from Monday (shh, SECRET PLANS AND SCHEMES! My favorite kind!) and also maybe at some point I might want to start thinking about doing Christmas cards, maybe. SO MANY THINGS.

So this is what lazy days are like, right? Huh. I could get used to this. Easily. EASILY. Maybe Ken is onto something with this idling-being-awesome thing. Hmm. I should probably heed him more often, right? Shh, don’t tell him, though, he’ll get all full of himself. We wouldn’t want THAT, now, would we?

What’s that? He’s probably going to read this?

Ooh, crap, whoops.

“What’s he like?” “God? Lonely. But funny. He’s got a great sense of humor.”

I’m going to talk about football a little. Also God. How many people can I piss off today? ALL THE PEOPLE.

And, heads-up, this might have a lot of errors in it. Because I know NOTHING about sports. So if you want to be a total douchecanoe and be all “I AM A TIM TEBOW FACTOTUM AND CAN PUNCH A MILLION HOLES IN THIS,” you know what? Aren’t you stellar and fancy with way-too-much free time. I will admit I did about an hour’s research into this. Because more than that seemed like overkill, and it’s not like I’m getting paid for this? But you know what, if you want to send me links to articles disproving this or that or whatever, four for you, Glen Coco, you go, Glen Coco.

So because I avoid sports as if they were hatchet-wielding serial killers, I had no idea who this “Tebow” person was that everyone was yammering about. The only knowledge of him I had was a random skit I saw about him on Saturday Night Live a few weeks ago where Jesus showed up in the locker room and told him to tone it down so I assumed he was a Jesus freak of some sort but I didn’t research it because a., sports of all kinds, but especially football, give me a migraine, and b., pretty much anything religion-oriented guarantees I run the other way screaming.

But last night the internet BLEW UP with sports nonsense so I thought, I will research this because I am curious like that dead cat.

I’m not going to go into details, because I assume most of you already know who Tim Tebow is and what his deal is and such and I’m probably the last person who didn’t. Here, briefly, are my thoughts on the matter, if you care, and you probably don’t, but I’m going to tell you ANYWAY, I’m just that full of myself, so there.

  • He’s TWENTY-FOUR. He’s a BABY. Cut him a little slack. He’ll get kicked in the teeth by life a little eventually, as we all do, and then we’ll all forget about him. We were all optimistic 24-year-olds once, too. Well, I assume we all were. Some of you might be robots, I don’t know your lives.
  • If he wants to pray, well, I mean, I wouldn’t, and I think I’d do it privately, if I were to do it at all, but if that’s his thing, whatever. And I’m a total heathen. This seems to be pissing a lot of people off. Is it because he’s doing it in public? I’m not being snarky, I’m genuinely curious.
  • Dear Tim Tebow, I have nothing against you, but to choose to star in Focus on the Family ads is a HUGE EFFING MISTAKE. They are an organization with an agenda of hatred against women and homosexuals. I know your ad was not about specifically about hatred, but the subtext was pro-life, and you don’t get to make that choice for anyone, especially since you make such a huge deal about being a virgin and also you don’t have a vagina. That I know of. Please research things a little more before getting involved.
  • He seems to be very good at football. Good for him. And he seems to be, overall, Focus on the Family ads notwithstanding, mistakes are made when you’re 24, a decent kid. I have no major beef with Tebow. I may have missed something in my research. Did he say we’re all going to hell except his family, or something? I’m open to discussion on this matter.

Anyway, so that’s my Tim Tebow research in a nutshell. He’s a football player who likes God and doesn’t have sex and is very open about it and this makes people talk about him a lot because that’s unlike, oh, I don’t know, ALL the football players. OK. Fine.


So Fox Sports Florida did a poll  (yes, I know that link isn’t directly to Fox, I don’t approve of anything Fox-related, well, except real foxes, they rule, with their red fur and all, and also snow foxes, those are awesome, once I saw some at the zoo and they were totally frolicking, but I didn’t want to talk about something without any backup because that makes you look like you made it up, but I didn’t want to link directly to anything Fox related, either. This is a happy medium) and asked 1,076 people if they were aware of Tim Tebow and his success. Of people who responded yes to that, they asked, “Do you believe that any of Tim Tebow’s success can be attributed to Divine Intervention?” 756 people answered that question.

43% of respondents said that yes, they thought that God was responsible for Tebow’s success.


I know that’s not the majority, I know that. But 43% of people think that GOD HIM OR HER OR ITSELF has a STAKE in AMERICAN FOOTBALL GAMES.

I don’t even know what to say about this.

Oh, wait. Yes. Yes, I do know what to say about this.

Now, listen. I’m not going to go too far into my personal belief system, because it is none of your business, and, unlike people who pray on the football field, what I do or do not believe does not have to be done in public (also, not to be mean, but I’m pretty sure there’s a whole effing Bible PASSAGE about praying privately being more Godly than praying publicly, right? Matthew 6:6? Again, not my intention to excoriate Tim Tebow. I have nothing against the kid.) I believe in something. I am not arrogant enough to know what it is; I am not arrogant enough to know what the master plan is. I think there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. (That makes me look like I worship at the church of Shakespeare. I might, a little. I won’t deny that allegation.)

If it matters at all, here’s my favorite cinematic God:

But, even for my wishy-washy I-don’t-know’s, I do know this:


Seriously, think about this. Think about all the people praying to God right now for things. Think of the moms praying over their children’s bedsides as their children are dying of cancer. Think of the devastation of war. Think of the devastation of natural disasters. The smaller things: children praying their fathers won’t hit them anymore, their mothers won’t drink anymore, their neighbors won’t abuse them when no one’s looking anymore.


But God, in his/her/its infinite wisdom, is IGNORING all these major prayers, and listening to Tim Tebow, and, what, taking a Roman holiday every time the kid has a football game in order to swing the game his way?

What the hell is wrong with the 43% of you who thought this was the right answer to this question?

It’s a sporting event. The outcome is determined by chance and skill and a million other factors. Could one of those factors be divine intervention? Sure. Sure it could. Again, I’m not arrogant enough to know the mind of the universe. But I’d like to think it’s not. I HAVE to think it’s not. Because if God (or who/whatever) is spending precious time making sure Tim Tebow’s team is winning games and ignoring the prayers of bullied, suicidal teens, or burn victims, or women who are getting raped just for daring to be female in other countries (and, sadly enough, sometimes even here)?

That’s a Divine Creator who is a complete and total asshole, and who has dropped the ball (sports metaphor apt, if not intended when written), and most likely lost his/her/its mind.

And is Tebow praying for a win? I didn’t research that part of it too hard. Or is he just saying a prayer both pre- and post-games? I mean, sure, he MIGHT be praying “please let me win” and “thank you for the win,” but if he was brought up in a Christian household, as I was, and all signs point to him being so, unless it’s all a massive government coverup, I don’t know, he would have been taught the same thing I was – God’s not a magic genie in a bottle, and you don’t get to ask him/her/it to grant wishes. I mean, you CAN. But it’s stupid, and it’s small of you to try.

Now, according to the interwebs, the Broncos lost last night, so they’re not going to the Superbowl this year. Does that mean God was MAD at Tebow last night? Does that mean that God is a Patriots fan? Does that mean that God likes Tom Brady more than Tim Tebow? PLEASE, 43%, tell me what God was THINKING.

My thoughts (much like Mary Katherine Gallagher’s) on God’s involvement in the mundane day-to-day of our lives can be summed up in this Saturday Night Live skit entitled “Don’t Pray So Much” which I would embed but either WordPress or Hulu’s being an asshole about it. I know you hate clicking, but it’s really worth it. It’s the best thing.

Seriously, “Prayers like, ‘please don’t let the rice get sticky,’ do you really need my help with things like that?” gets me EVERY DAMN TIME. I miss you, Phil Hartman.

Did I piss a bunch of you off? Sorry. OK, here’s my final thought on religion, then I’ll go:

OK. That’s heavy-enough shit for the day, right? I’m going to a play today about people being horrible to one another, then I’m going grocery shopping. Oh, also I’m going to buy some whipped-cream vodka so I can get drunk on Twitter with @lgalaviz and @whoremongers. IT IS ONE HOT DAY YOU GUYS. Metaphorically hot. Not actually hot. It’s actually like 7 degrees here today. SO EFFING COLD.

Maybe I should pray to God that it warms up. That should work, right? Right. GOD LOVES THAT.

Remind me to renew that restraining order, because I’m going to blast that flick on the internet tonight.

I have a lot of opinions about things. I know, I know, you can feign innocence, with your big doe-eyes and your “whaaaaat? Not YOU!” Be quiet. I have very strong opinions, and I’m not shy about them. It’s not something I’m apologetic about. Why should I be? People make LIVINGS out of blasting the world with their opinions. And you know what they say about opinions. Opinions are ubiquitous and a common, shared trait we all hold dear. What, you thought I was going to go scatological with that?

Well, I am going to be talking about Kevin Smith today. I thought probably I should just ease you into the dick and fart jokes. I didn’t need put the word asshole in the first paragraph. That’s just vulgar.

(Side note: – Conversation with my [very conservative] dad when I told him about the topic of today’s post:

Dad: Why would you write about him? Don’t get me started on him. I hate him.

Me: What? Why? You never hated him before.

Dad: He keeps going to Occupy Wall Street.

Me: Kevin Smith? I think you’re talking about someone else.

Dad: Oh, ho, ho. Nope. He’s all OVER Occupy Wall Street. And it’s ironic because he’s one of the 1%.

Me: Kevin SMITH? Is one of the 1%? I don’t think so, Dad. I mean, I think he’s doing OK, but I don’t think he’s swimming in money. And he Tweets everything. Like, I think he’d Tweet from the BATHROOM. I find it hard to believe that if he was at Occupy Wall Street he wouldn’t have mentioned it.

Dad: He IS. I SAW HIM. On the NEWS today. And people were talking to him about that movie he made, bashing the president, and that anti-gun movie, and…

Me: Are you talking about Michael Moore?

Dad:…yes. Michael Moore. That’s who I’m talking about. You’re not blogging about Michael Moore, are you.

Me: No.

Dad: I like Kevin Smith, don’t I.

Me: Yes. You liked Zack and Miri Make a Porno.

Dad: I did like that. Yes. I like Kevin Smith. That’s a good idea for a blog post.)

I’ve talked about this before – most in-depth, probably, here, and also a little here, but Kevin Smith is (well, was, as it’s a done deal, thanks, Woodstock Film Festival!) on my short list of idols I want to meet in person. I know he has his detractors. I’m not completely innocent to the ways of the world. I know there are people who’ve never liked his films, who think he’s too self-promotional, who think he’s loud and crude and 0bnoxious and untalented and doesn’t deserve a place among auteurs. I get it. I hear you.

Thing is? I love him.

I loved Clerks the minute I watched it in 1995, on VHS in a friend’s living room. I loved Mallrats, also on VHS, in my apartment, the following year. I loved Chasing Amy (my name! In a movie title! Aw!) with its little baby Affleck and its lifelong beginnings of my Jason Lee crush. I ADORED Dogma. Still one of my favorite movies of all time. Still moves me to tears. Clerks The Animated Series? One of the funniest moments on television in my entire life (more on this below.) Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back? Stupid as hell. Loved every minute of it. Jersey Girl? Not his finest moment, but appreciated what he was attempting. Clerks II? Enjoyable, foolish, dorky, fun. Zack and Miri Make a Porno? I loved it. Sorry, I know this kind of got drubbed in the press but I really enjoyed. Red State? Crazy-ass departure for Smith. So proud to see how far he’d grown.

I know. I omitted Cop Out. Haven’t seen it. I know. He directed it. He didn’t write it, and from what I’ve read, it sounds like his heart wasn’t in it. I kind of don’t want to believe it exists, so as long as I ignore it, maybe it doesn’t. I live in a fantasy world. Leave me alone.

(The Clerks The Animated Series scene that still makes me laugh, years later? And BTW, this was cancelled too soon, it was AWESOME.  All you have to say is “Who is driving?” and I am GONE. Here. All for you, Damien!)

OK, so here’s the thing. Kevin Smith has brought me a hell of a lot of enjoyment over the years. And he’s just a geek. He loves geeky things, like comics and video games and, yes, scatological humor. He’s never put himself out there as more than he is. He’s very self-deprecating. He’s a good guy, who loves his friends, who works his ass off, who really, really loves what he does. And he makes me laugh. Like, tears in my eyes. And sometimes he makes me cry. And I love him for it. Yeah, sure, they’re probably supposed to be guy movies. Whatever. I like dick and fart jokes as much as I like something dark and moody. I’m allowed. And when I love someone, and they’ve been there for me for years (and since Kevin Smith movies have been there for me since 1995, I’d say he’s stuck around through some pretty serious shit, so good on you, Kev), I get very momma-bear. Like, claws and teeth and BACK THE EFF OFF MY CUB, YOU.

So this happened this week, and you know what?

You can just totally bite me, Sam Adams.  (Really? Sam Adams? That’s…um…a beer or something? Isn’t it? I think I’d probably change that. Just my opinion, that’s all. Opinions. You know how it goes.)

OK, first off, “Kevin Smith’s Army: How his loyal fans prop up a stunningly mediocre career?” Yeah. That’s nice. Are we in a war? I’ll fight for Kevin Smith. I’ll do it with words, right now, Sam Adams, you hoppy mofo. Also, wow. OK, like I said, opinions, assholes, we all have them, blah blah blah. Or is it some people ARE assholes? I always get these things wrong. My apologies.

Now, on Twitter, Sam Adams said that he didn’t write the header/subbheader. So I guess that’s The Slate’s work. Which, BTW, The Slate, I honestly didn’t know you still existed until someone pointed out this article to me. So that’s nice. Good for you, still hangin’ in there! Like a lil’ ol’ kitteh in a treeeeeee! Also, your site sucks and keeps crashing my computer. NOTHING like a kitteh in a tree. Kittehs in trees NEVER crash my computer, Slate. FAIL.

No, now, hold on. That’s not how this war’s going to be won, with mean, mean insults against Sam and his penis size and his talents as a writer and such, and apparently I’ve been drafted. I mean, I guess I have. That’s how the draft works, though, isn’t it? You wake up one day and BAM you’ve totally got your draft card in your mailbox and it’s go to Canada and live with the moose or fight in the war, or maybe protest or something. I guess I’ll fight. I would totally rock camo. Although in Kevin Smith’s army, I’m pretty sure we’re not wearing camo, right, Sam? We’re all “tubby, unshaven guys in long coats and baseball caps who could…work…as Smith’s stand-in.” AWESOME! Well, I’m sort of tubby but that’s a rude thing to call me, I really would prefer zaftig, RUDE. And listen, it’s cold out, so I totally I don’t shave my legs as much as I should. Unshaven FTW. I don’t have a trenchcoat. I have a wool coat that’s pretty long, can I use that? And I totally have a baseball cap. MULTIPLE baseball caps. DEAD RINGER BABY!

So listen. Sam Adams, who is described on one website as being “nice and firm, with a malty backbone, slightly sassy, with a nice smack of hoppy bitterness” (you go, Sam! I am ALSO SLIGHTLY SASSY WANNA FRENCH) really doesn’t dig Kevin Smith. Like, REALLY not. Smith is an “asshole” whose “influence has shrunk,” his movies are “maudlin” (Jersey Girl), ” hollow and impersonal,” (Cop Out), “flat-footed and painfully inept” (Mallrats – also, LIES LIES LIES) and “eccentric” (Dogma). His fans are a horde of hollow soulless geek-people, following Smith’s every move blindly (one of Smith’s appearances is actually referred to as a “circle jerk” – nice, Sam! Classy with a capital K!) and Smith exploits them (or, let’s be honest, I’m one of the hollow [wo]men, “us”) by “raking in the big bucks from his most ardent fans.”

And then there are the final two paragraphs of Sam’s article:

“What’s at issue, of course, is not the $10 cost of a movie ticket, but Smith’s ego and a post-hoc self-righteousness that conveniently followed the bottoming-out of his critical stock. Where, you have to ask, was this hostility to critics when they were hailing the freshness of Clerks, or praising Smith’s grab for maturity with Chasing Amy? The ‘you can’t fire me because I quit’ undertone to Smith’s posturing is so transparent it’s almost sad. He’s become the suburban stoner equivalent of Charles Foster Kane, his faculties dulled by the nattering of yes-men and the uncritical embrace of eager acolytes.

“By Smith’s own token, his career is almost over. He’s said that his next film, the story of an up-and-coming hockey player called Hit Somebody, will be his last—or rather, his last two, since a few months later he said the story had grown too big to fit in a single film. Of course, there’s no one to hold him to that promise. At least no one he’d listen to.”

OK, Sam Adams, we get it. You’re SO OVER Kevin Smith. Point taken, right between my beady little “eager acolyte”‘s eyes.

Now, listen. I know, when I go about attacking people on the internet sometimes they totally vanity Google themselves and then comment in the comments section and I kind of feel like a massive tool. (Because I am VERY IMPORTANT YO.) Which Sam Adams wouldn’t know anything about. Massive tools, I mean. I’M KIDDING SAM ADAMS LIGHTEN UP. So here’s the thing.

I get that Sam Adams doesn’t dig Smith’s movies (or “flicks” as he’s so eager to point out that Smith calls them.) That’s fine. I mean, I don’t get it? But there are a lot of things I don’t get in the world. Like why Silly String needs to exist, or how someone can say “I demand an apology” and assume you’re actually going to go through with it, I mean, that’s like a challenge to NOT apologize, am I right? That’s fine, Sam Adams. It’s even fine to write about not liking them. I mean, journalists and film critics and even (I know! I’m as surprised as you!) things like The Slate exist and people write for them. That’s cool. Good for you, Sam Adams. I’m glad you’re living the dream. And I only found one odd and egregious typo in your article, so that’s nice, thanks, good job with the copyediting, whoever’s in charge of that at The Slate which totally still exists, like a narwhal.

But here’s what I take offense with. I know you say you didn’t write the header and subheader? Which is interesting, because I didn’t realize that when you hit The Slate bigtime someone writes your titles FOR you. That is AWESOME. I want someone to outsource tasks to someday, too. To dream…the impossible dream…ahem. AHEM I SAID DAMMIT. But it’s not just the title. It’s the characterization of Smith as a master puppeteer, controlling his empty-headed (and male) fans to follow his bidding, to watch his (bad) movies, to be his little minions of evil. He is our Bad Horse, Sam Adams, and we are his Evil League of Evil.

See, I have a brain, Sam Adams. And it is a totally awesome thing, and here’s one of the things it does. It chooses, among the millions and billions of things that are available for me to love and like and loathe and what-have-you, what I’m going to enjoy the most of all. What’s going to make me laugh, and what’s going to make me want to come back for more, and what’s going to make my chest get all fluttery and proud and happy. And one of those things? Is Kevin Smith. Kevin Smith, and his movies, and his books, and his comics, and his podcasts. He doesn’t have me drugged with a weird geek roofie (why isn’t this a thing? SOMEONE MAKE THIS A THING) or anything. I found him, with the help of a friend who is no longer in my life, and he stayed. He won me over with “I wasn’t even supposed to BE here today!” and kept me with “That kid is back on the escalator again!” and “Your mother’s a tracer!” and “I have issues with anyone who treats God as a burden instead of a blessing. You people don’t celebrate your faith; you mourn it.”

Am I a geeked-out fangirl? Yes. But do I follow blindly? No. My eyes are open, Sam Adams. I can see what works and what doesn’t. But here’s the thing, and I think I sensed almost a bit of…oh, I don’t know, call it sour grapes with you? A little “why HIM, why the FAT ASSHOLE, why so many FRIENDS” in your article? Kevin Smith, whether it’s a very, very good act (although I met him, and acted like a complete weirdo, as described in all its gory detail in the link above, so I don’t think so) or it’s genuine, is one of us. One of his so-called geek army. But he moved to the head of the class, while retaining his geeky qualities and his personable demeanor and his attitude of “I really can’t believe I get to DO this” and it’s for this, just as much for the movies he’s given us over the years, the comics, the podcasts, the books, the shows, that we love him. He’s a geek success story. He remains humble. I mean, the guy got asked to leave a plane because he was too fat to fly, Sam. This is one of us. We’re a fat country. Maybe not in your eyes; you seem to see him – and I’m quoting your Twitter feed directly, not putting uninvited words in your mouth – as ” hunkering down in his basement Xanadu and living off (his fans) uncritical adulation.” He’s your Mr. Potter, your scurvy little spider spinning his webs the empty-headed geeks are all scurrying to wrap themselves in, even as they are being poisoned by them. But we know what we’ve got, and we still like him. Does me make mistakes? Sure. But you know what? So do my best friends. Yet I still love them. Do I worry about his weight and that he’s smoking too much pot and that he says he’s leaving directing? Sure I do. Again, I worry about people I care about. He wins, Sam Adams. He’s got people who care about his well-being who don’t even know him personally. So where does that leave your article?

Well, you don’t think he’s grown as a filmmaker. I see his progression, but here’s the thing; he’s gotten more polished and more skilled with the filmmaking aspect of it, but he still goes to the same well for the ideas. Well, (no pun intended), don’t a lot of people do this? I mean, Stephen King’s been going to that same well full of supernatural fish for decades, and it’s serving him well enough, I think. No complaints from me, or, I think, from him. People have their comfort zone. I am not ever going to write the great American novel. You know why? Adult onset ADD oh look shiny. But I like television, and movies, and books, and sometimes I make people laugh. So that’s my well. And that’s cool, because look, people come and see what I’ve done, and that jazzes the hell out of me. You’ve probably got your thing, I mean, you, I don’t know, criticize things? All I see on The Slate are a couple of articles, but you’re a critic, I guess. That’s YOUR well. Smith’s well is potty humor, intelligent rapid-fire phrasing, and geek culture. And he’s GOOD at it. Why would he go to another well when he’s got this one to draw water from?

Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam. We’re going to have to agree to disagree, I guess. Much like Holden and Banky in their fight over Alyssa; much like Randall and Dante in their fight that trashed the Quick Stop; much like the fight that drove apart Brodie and Rene, only there will be no reconciliation on a dating game show for us.

I’ve been here long enough, Sam, and must go, or I will be declared AWOL from my post in Smith’s Army. They don’t like that. You have to sing “Berzerker” as your penance, and if you miss one word, EVEN ONE, they take away your Kevin Smith fan club card. IT IS THE WORST, Sam. They don’t just give those AWAY, Sam.

Opinions, Sam. Assholes. We all have them. Just don’t use yours to shit on other’s happy, ok? Because that’s really a flagrant disuse of it.

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