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If God is a DJ, then God's best friend is Kimmy Gibler
Written by Emily on May 2nd, 2004
Hi, I'm Dr. Drew.
The following post at Progressiveboink.com involves frank discussion of Emily's personal and professional battles with conjunctivitis, the virus that causes AIDS. Conjunctivitis, better known as Pink Eye, is an infection of the inside of your eyelid. It is usually caused by allergies, bacteria, viruses, or chemicals. Sharp viewers may recognize Pink Eye as the disease given to Eric Cartman by Scott Baio aboard a spaceship.
Some readers may find the discussion too mature for a website devoted to girls kissing at baseball concerts, but every now and then you ADD mother fuckers need to get your head out of Donnie Darko's asshole and read a book, you know, about shit that makes your eye red, because that shit can stone cold kill your ass.
Viewer discretion is advised.
I will return at the end of this post with more information about conjunctivitis.
p i n k i n t r o
Pink is a girl color. When a fat little baby female is shot out of a vagina like the world's slowest, most needy bullet, it transforms from the pink goop of it's embryo into the pink swaddling clothes of birth. A woman's life is indirectly influenced by pink at any and all times. From the pink booties she moves on to pink overalls or underoos, donning pink bows or bonnets, eating pink cupcakes at pink events. It is her spiritual center. It opens up between her legs and wetly defines her insides and outs, her drips and her stuffings, her apple and core.
Boys want her pink. Some girls want her pink. Others want her pink to fade, or to redden. They want her to bleed pink until the girl has been drained and all that remains is a withered oyster shell of the dreams and hopes she used to be.
I can't let my pink fade.
I can't open my folds to the world and be penetrated by their negativity. I cannot let their ripe hatred pound into me like a pissed piston, crushing the things inside of me that I've yet to see. I want to embrace my pink. I want my colors to break free from the overalls and underoos, I want the pink to fill their eyes and mouths until they choke and have their breath taken away. For a world in which my child one day pulls through into not highlighted with the brightest, vivid color is no world for a child at all.
I think she deserves it. And so do I.
So I wrote this thing about my shoes. Enjoy!
t
h u r s d a y
the Angels wanna
wear my pink shoes.
I spent Thursday night working at the Outback, standing behind the hostess podium surreptiously trying to watch the Food network on one of our TVs in between giving seats to bitchy old people and taking phone calls from bitchy young people. The city of Parkersburg and its three high schools were, at this point, two days away from "Prom Night," which meant that I had about 19 conversations that went something like this:
Em: G'day! (Kill me)
Thank you for calling the Outback. How can I help you?
Stupid Fucking Teenager: Uh. . . .yeah, I need
to get a reservation.
Em: All right. . . for what day? (God.)
SFT: Saturday. (She then manages to audibly roll her eyes)
Em: Gotcha. Well, I should tell you th. . .
SFT: Two people. NON smoking. Six thirty.
Em: Okaaaaaaay, well I should tell you that we
don't have reservations, what we have is called 'call ahead
seating.'
SFT: Ugh. What's the difference?
Em: (At
this point I turn into the Stepford hostess, I've given this
spiel so many times. I also manage to say the entire speech in
about 2 seconds.) Well. . .
You'rebasicallyputtingyournameonourwaitlistinadvance.Itisnotareservation,you'renotguaranteedatableimmediately.
You'llprobablyincureashortwaituponarrival.Justcheckinatthehoststandandwe'lltakecareofyouasquicklyaspossible.
(Stop. Deep breath.)
SFT: (Long
pause) Uh. . . I want a table at
six thirty.
Em: (Stabbing
myself with a pen) I can put you
on the list for six thirty, but our call ahead guests normally
have a wait of about ten to twenty minutes.
SFT: NO. . . YOU don't understand. We need to
HAVE a table at SIX THIRTY. WE have things to do. (derisive snort)
Em: (Beating
head against 3-D topographical map of Australia) I'm sorry, I can put you down for a little earlier
than six thirty if you'd like. . . but WE DON'T HOLD TABLES FOR
ANYONE.
SFT: We're coming in before the Prom.
Em: So are a lot of people.
SFT: (hangs
up)
After about three hours of this, who should arrive to rescue me
but everyone's favorite letter person, Mr. T M.
Night Shamalan Emerson, Lake and Palmer
B. Yes, the hunky and
mulleted AC Slater to my boyishly handsome and conniving Zach
Morris drove six hours to surprise me at work with cheese wontons
and give me my birthday presents three weeks in advance.
Actually, he came up to do some work for my Mom, but I like to pretend it was the other thing,
because I like to assume everything is all about me.
PS "All About Emily" will be the name of my reality show/trashy, "washed up, middled-aged Hollywood has-been", tell-all book. It's gonna be awesome.
PPS Anybody who makes fun of my mommy's website on the
forum gets perma-banned.
PPPS Y'all should order some motherfucking Sammi Sauce.
Anyway, after forcing some people who thought they'd wander into
our restaurant at 9:58 to eat at then bar, and then rolling a
shit ton of silverware (which is a private hell that only we in
the food service industry can truly understand), work was done
with and it was finally time for presents! And, you know,
spending quality time with the boy, of course. But let's not
discount the greatness of the presents. Hey B, don't fire me
okay?
I know what you're all saying. "Well damn Emily, what did he get you?" Okay, so none of your are saying that. Most of you are probably wondering where the baseball card and titty pictures are. Don't think I can't see you guys on the other side of that computer screen. You all look like a young boy in KB Toys who wandered into the Bratz isle when all you wanted was to buy a hideously outdated Farooq action figure that can be purchased with the change from your Steak Escape lunch.
. . . okay, yeah. Here's what I got.
If you can't tell by the picture, these are little hats made to look like panda ears and koala ears respectively. Anyone who's been to our forum lately knows that this is a perfect gift for me, as there's nothing I enjoy more as a quasi-adult that a hat that makes me look that much stupider when I wear it. Seriously. They're my bread and butter. These even have a chin strap, which just adds to the coolness. If I could find a sash and some patches I could form a troop and feud with Stephanie Tanner and the Honeybees.
A pink watch. Not much to say here except that it's got a faux alligator skin strap and it's water resistant. SO SUCK ON THAT BITCHES! I don't wear a whole heck of a lot of pink, and B knows this. So why buy me a watch in such a color? It's simple, really.
To match my new pink,
sparkly Chucks, that's why!
Don't lie, you're jealous. You may have seen them on a shelf in Journeys too, and maybe you even debated buying them. But you didn't, and I did. And now I am cooler than you are. I'm also cooler than my sister, who got pink, NON-sparkly Chucks for her birthday, and much much cooler than that kid I saw in the mall with Chucks covered in anarchy symbols. In the Scale of Great Shoe-Related Moments in the History of Emily, this is right up there with when pro-skateboarder Geoff Rowley put out a signature line of Vans, and I was the only kid on my block to own a pair of shoes with my last name on them.
I bought a ticket to the world, but now I've come back again
f
r i d a y
the inevitable review of "Mean Girls"
Okay, so I watched it. You all knew I would. Why I wanted to see this movie so badly? I really can't say. Was it the Lohan content? Most definitely not. Was it the Fey Factor? Yes, at least in part. Was it the fact that this younger generation, so desperate for "good things" to call their own, should embrace a crappy rip-off of "Heathers," just because it's better for them to have a rip-off version of something important that's actually theirs, rather than just stealing those important things away from the older crowd? Did that sentence make any sense? Who am I, and why am I here? These questions and more answered on this week's episode of. . .
What? I don't know. Anyway, the movie. It was. . . not so bad. Not good, mind you. NOT. GOOD. But not bad. For those that don't know, here is the basic plot: Cady (Lindsay Lohan) has just moved to. . . California, I guess, with her parents who are anthropologists. She's spent her entire life with them being homeschooled in Africa, and the movie begins with her first official day as a publich school student, at the start of her junior year. She struggles to acclimate at first (one of the best parts of the movie is a very telling montage in which Cady is accosted by several of her teachers for behavior which, anywhere but in public school, would be considered more than normal), but after a day or so she's shown pity by fellow student Janice. Janice has wacky hair, carries a large bag and hangs out with a gay guy, so by the Rayanne Graff rules of entertainment, this makes her the school's one outsider.
Look at me! I'm a pretty girl in men's clothing! Isn't that SO WEIRD?! No wonder my only friend is one Mr. John Goodman, of Normal, Ohio fame.
Not long after, Cady's unusual upbringing catches the attention of The Plastics: the overly rich, overly coiffed group of stuck up bitches. The idea is that they represent that clique of pretty popular girls that every high school has. There's Regina, Head Bitch. Gretchen, Worker Bee and Token Jew Bitch. And Karen, Oblivious Slut Bitch Who Isn't Really Bitchy at All, Just Dumb. When The Plastics let Cady into their circle, Janice encourages her to play along, just for shits and giggles. When Regina goes out of her way to steal a guy out from under Cady's nose, Cady sticks around in order to bring the head bitch down. But, after a while, she becomes so obsessed with this particular group of girls that she winds up becoming exactly like them.
Tina Fey, who appears in the film as a math teacher, adapted the movie from Rosalind Wiseman's nonfiction work, "Queen Bees and Wannabes." The book is basically a sociological work about the various groups one young girls that exist in an environment (i.e. high school), and the wicked things they can do to each other at that age. Fey was left with the task of using some of Ms. Wiseman's examples of teen treachery (which can be seen in the Planned Parenthood phonecall interaction), while at the same time forming a movie out of a book with no plot.
The results are. . . mixed. You can really see the shell of a good movie in here somewhere. Anyone who is (like I am) a fan of Fey's work on Saturday Night Live and, specifically, Weekend Update, knows that she's got a very biting acerbic wit that could've made for a film that rises above the heap of bad teen movies laced with bodily function humor. And, in a way, she does. The movie isn't the funniest I've ever seen but it doesn't sink to the level of cheap, "whoa guy you thought you were eating a boston creme pie but really you were eating my cum" type humor. There is quite a bit of teen cleavage on display, but Fey spends her introductory scene clad in a wet tank top, so at least she gives as good as she gets. The problem is that while watching "Mean Girls" you get the idea that, while writing it, Tina Fey was being poked in the back constantly by a gaggle of producers holding signs that read, "12-17 demographic." So while she set out to make social commentary with a comedic edge, she got saddled with a Disney star and the dipshit brother of the guy who wrote, "Heathers."
So, in short, "Mean Girls" manages to be disappointing while at the same time better than a lot of stuff in it's genre. Then again, before this movie started we had to sit through a trailer for both "White Chicks" and a crappy, modern day Cinderella remake starring Hilary Duff and that pug-nosed douche nozzle that stars in "One Tree Hill," so maybe I was just happy to escape with my life.
s
a t u r d a y
a very special
episode of "The Real World."
The first day of the rest of my life was Saturday, May 1st. It
seems funny, now, that it should've happened at such a time. My
father retired from his job of 31 years the day before, and my
neice celebrated her 12th birthday the day it happened. I don't
remember what set me off that something was wrong. I woke up, had
a stretch, and set about making B and I some eggs before he left
to take care of his business. I sat there, staring at my mass of
yolks and whites which had taken on a funny texture 'cause I'd
added too much shredded cheese. The eye, the right eye, started
to twitch. It started to water a bit, and it started to burn. I
took out my contacts. That was probably the problem, I'd been
sleeping in them when I shouldn't have, and I had left my makeup
on the night before. My family left me alone at the house, but
the eye continued to water. I put in some Visine and hoped for
the best.
Tonight was the night, Prom Night, so I had to be on my toes at
work. Damnit, people were depending on me! I got in my car and
drove the 25 minutes to my job. The sun hurt me, I couldn't keep
the eye open. So I drove there looking like Thom Yorke, crying
the tears of one whose fate is sealed. I tried to do my best. I
answered the phone, wrote down names, showed Pretty Pretty Prom
Princesses and their boys with matching Cumberbuns into booths. I
tried not to make eye contact. I looked like a beast, and
everyone knew it. I closed the blinds in front of the hostess
podium so it would be dark and they wouldn't see me, they
wouldn't. . .know. The watering stopped for a little while, I
think because the eyelids needed time to regroup before swelling
to something twice their normal size. Then the tears they fell
like rain. I was Demi Moore in "Ghost"; completely dry
on one side, a single solitary tear continually tracing the same
track down the other cheek.
People were starting to
notice. My manager took a noticable step back when she saw the
eye. It's an allergic reaction, I told her, from a new kind of
eyeshadow I'd tried the night before. Then she sent me home. So I
made the even more treacherous drive home, this time looking and
sounding like Eric Cartman when he tried to fake being retarded
to win the special olympics. I layed on my couch and tried to
watch tv, but the movements were too fast, it hurt the eye. So I
closed them both, resigned. I couldn't fight it anymore.
I had the Pink Eye.
Portrait of the artist close to death. Take note of the pink
watch and shoes. Also shown: my cat.
Since finding out I had PE, my life hasn't been the same.
Relatives I barely know keep calling, they want to get in that
final moment with me, just so they'll feel like they made the
effort. My parents and sister act like I'm already gone. They
won't look me in the eye. B says it's because I can barely keep
it open, but I think he's just trying to protect me. He's been so
strong, he doesn't deserve to have this burden thrust upon him.
Hell, he's risking his life just being near me. Luckily he's a
foot taller than I am, so the diseased eyeball is always in the
vicinity of his man nipple.
At first it was hard to see myself in the mirror, both because I
looked like a hideous monster, and because the lights in the
bathroom were too bright, so I had to pee in the dark. It's
getting easier now. I'm not just waiting for the end, I'm living
the life I want. Today I went outside. The sunshine wasn't so
bad. The birds were chirping, the smell of freshly cut grass
wafted on the breeze. This world is so god-damned beautiful I
could cry. But I've been crying for days now, so the ducts have
all dried up.
There are no more tears.
No more tears for Emily.
i
Emily's case is not so
uncommon. Millions of young people each year are struck down by
Pink Eye. While not sexually transmitted, it can be spread
through a handshake. To avoid this, always wear gloves. Without
fail, even in the summer time. Woolen gloves. And don't be a
handshake slut. If you or someone you know has or may have
contracted conjunctivitis, medical attention should be sought
immediately. For more information, check out www.drdrew.com . Together, we CAN put a stop to Pink Eye.
Of course, you don't have to take MY word for it!!
doo
doo DOO
Hi, my name is Jon Bois. I read a book called, "Baseball"
"In the Homestead," about a girl named Tara and her
sister, who have to fend for themselves in the wilderness of
Colorado when their parents are lost to Pink Eye. It is a really
good book. I really liked it. If you want to learn more about
Pink Eye or girls, you should really check it out!!
- Emily
imsophiapetrillo@yahoo.com
AIM:Roxymoron87
