You know those Slackavists who were so full of themselves and conceited? None of those people could dance.
As Snarky’s Machine gets more popular – read: people discover the blog posts where I stay on “message” – I get a lot of unsolicited advice. Most of it is QUITE TERRIBLE. Most of it riddled with “oughts” and “shoulds” and heaps of “no no” fingers NOT wagged to a James Brown horntastic breakdown. Since putting a “contact me” form right on my “About Me” page, folks have done just that – contacted me.
I can’t lie. At first there was a thrill. Maybe someone would say, “You’re effing hot, Ms. Machine.” To be sure there was plenty of that. However, it seems many folks – when taking breaks from calling talk radio to flaunt their Logic 101 class debating skills – have decided they ought to tackle the flaws and glitches in the personal Matrix I call “Snarky’s Machine”.
My favorites often involve picking apart my commitment to Sharky’s Machine. At least two or three times a week I get an email along these lines:
Hi. Dig your site. One quibble, though. Sharky’s Machine was technically a group of people. But of course you realize that, right?
These “one quibble” people are like the Sam fucking Donaldsons of damn blogging world. With their shittastic hairpieces and their “Hold on, Mr. President” like passive aggressive “innocent” demands for clarification. Or Columbo. Dude, I’m not some crafty killer about to get away with murder. I don’t need your ass showing up to my blog in a rumpled trench coat giving me the side eye and filling my email with bumbling chow chow. Mutherfucker, I know Sharky’s Machine was in fact a mess of folks who worked out a smelly basement and one by one were picked off by shotgun blasts and taut direction. I’ve written papers on this freaking movie. I have written papers about the papers I have written about this movie.
What do these people think Trust me. I’ve done the legwork means? That I wear a lot of No Nonsense sandal foot stockings with Candies and I know they provide all day comfort at an affordable price point? You don’t need glasses as big as Swifty Lazar’s to know what’s going on here. Or maybe you do. Man, take your quibbles and your helpful fucking feedback and suck a fuck. No, suck two fucks. They were on sale this week.
Then there are the people who STILL do not get I am just not interested in -ism blogging. Look, I am a girl of action, not a girl of chow chow. I got no beef with folks who want to -ism blog and I love them for doing the thing I find as attractive as drinking the contents of a hippie festival Johnny-on-the-spot after Lentil bean burrito night, but I am NOT the girl for that job. I am not internet patient. I am not interested in midwifing folks through their fuckery in order to help them birth their kinder less bigoted selves. I’m trying to get on Jeopardy and meet Mandy Patinkin.
You know what I’m good at? Talking about Milos Forman. You know what I’m not good at? NOT TALKING ABOUT MILOS FORMAN.
A couple of days or so ago someone responded to a post I wrote on Shapely Prose answering what was CLEARLY a freaking rhetorical question. She gave what must have been to her a really clever answer, only realizing after I smacked her ass down that it was in fact a really shitty answer.
She wrote, “Your pop culture is not my pop culture” and couched it bunch of other masturbatory chow chow. Here’s where she was wrong. My pop culture IS pop culture and yours is some shit you and your friends like and probably has the appeal of bbq’d shit on toast. But I tend to get variations on this theme quite often – right down to the patronizing “really love that writing you do, Snarky, really I do…” – though I’m sure in every case they probably feel they’re being original and revolutionary. How sad and embarrassing for you! And folks have really got to stop with the passive aggressive shit. I am always gonna to respond to the subtext, assume the scribe is a total shit and therefore act accordingly. You must be smoking crack to think I’m gonna let you be a total shit to me and then thank you for the pleasure. Have you met me?
I don’t have a lot of sound advice as to how to navigate life. I just know what I do and I know that most folks aren’t willing to allow themselves to be perceived as “unlikeable”. I can’t give you a nicer way to smack folks down. Because, uh, being “nice” isn’t the point.
Besides, anyone who puts you in a position of having to smack them down – wait for it – PROBABLY DOESN’T LIKE YOU ANYWAY. There are worse fates than not being liked. I’m sure you can think of a few.
The world needs more brown people writing about film. The world needs more brown people writing about Milos Forman. THE WORLD NEEDS MORE BROWN PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT MANDY PATINKIN. We should all be talking about Mandy, but since we don’t. I DO.
If you want to read me here, you’re gonna have to accept that I’m not your educational opportunity or service learning project. I’m your fucking Julie McCoy on this fantastic journey into the world of pop culture as seen through my own lived experiences.
So strap yourself in, relax and for corn’s sake quit fucking asking me how to “deal” with your boyfriend’s enjoyment of “nigger” jokes. You know I’m just gonna tell you to stop being a shit and either FIND A BOYFRIEND WHO DOESN’T DO THAT or SHUT THE FUCK UP. I’m also gonna tell you that your whining about it and expectation that I care to fix your mess – I don’t know nothing about no fixin’ fucked up boyfriends – is far more annoying behavior than your boyfriend’s racism and ignorance.