I’m going give it to ya straight: it’s been a nightmare news week. Instead of ruminating on shared self-care practices, or whatever the hell healthy people do to cope, I’d like to introduce you to one of my favorite icebreaker/party questions. It’s the freakin’ weekend after all:
What celebrity do you absolutely, irrationally despise?
For whatever reason, Billy Eichner really grinds my gears—the dude just yells nonsense at pedestrians (who are the real source of humor) and is probably wealthier and better adjusted than I could ever hope to be. Also, Difficult People sucked.
If I’m trying to avoid insulting anyone with that answer (media people in New York love Billy, it’s disgusting), I’ll sometimes offer up Tom Cruise. Everyone hates that guy. So do I. He’s a pretty popular answer. I wish I had more justification for the reasons why he irritates me, but I don’t. That’s life. If I ever meet the guy, I’m sure he’ll find me insufferable too.
Before you let me in on your passionate hatred for celeb royalty, let’s check out some winning answers from last week’s pissing contest: Your most outlandish fashion faux pas.
IndianaJoan ditched the prairie for punk:
My mom was really into Little House on the Prairie and Anne of Green Gables, so she was thrilled when she had me, her daughter, and she could make me clothes. For most of my elementary school pictures I am dressed in a Little House style dress with puff sleeves. And I don’t even know how she found the patterns for these dresses or if she assembled multiple ones together like a crazy seamstress Frankenstein. After sixth grade (ugh) I finally grew out of all the dresses and my mom had no time to make more, and I finally rebelled by dying my hair black. My family refers to this as my “goth phase,” although I think real goth kids would take great offense at that.
TamTams looked like someone trying to hit the scene after dancing in the background of a Limp Bizkit music video:
I was of the JNCO generation. I used to wear these absolutely massive JNCO jeans with burgundy swirly panels down the sides. Add to that black platform sandals and a white tank top and a uh....black blazer for some reason with a lace skinny scarf that I would tie into a bow at the back of my neck.
I thought I looked HAWT.
verpas thought the assignment was to unearth adolescent trauma:
In my youth, I became preoccupied with the dilemma of keeping my socks up under lady trousers. (It was the late 80’s when this was a thing.)
I have large calves, so this is not so easy—at least not as easy as it is for women with skinny legs. I experimented with duck tape as a sock garter, and one night my male roommate and his hot best friend (on whom I had a crush) walked in on me de-taping my legs. My nickname for several months was “Ducky.”
long-time-lurker, I felt that:
Picture it: 9th grade and my first high school dance. I was so excited, because this was a new beginning for me after being a very awkward and constantly teased middle-schooler. My new friends and I waltzed into the gym, where the lights were low and the music was loud. We danced to a couple of songs, and then whoever was in charge of lighting turned on a black light. At first it seemed very 9th-grade cool and edgy—then I realized that my white bra was very brightly glowing through the darker fabric of my shirt. I was mortified. To this day I will never wear a white bra unless it is under an equally white top.
You could see Ladyheatherlee from space:
Lord, I wish I had a picture. On the first day of high school I wore a bright orange peasant top, bell bottoms with a plaid pattern in a variety of bright colours - pink, turquoise, orange, yellow, etc., a BELLY CHAIN, and chunky blue suede platform sandals. And let me tell you, I fucking loved that outfit.
This is why you should always take first day of school pics. My mum failed.
Toulouse-Matabiau flipped the question on its damn head:
My most memorable fashion disaster was dating a French designer!
Highlights of our three-month relationship:
*One time he cancelled our weekend plans for an emergency voodoo seance. As he explained to me, he urgently needed to put the whamee on a former business associate.
*Epilogue: After a certain length of time, I got drunk one night and wrote him an email in which I pointed out that like all Frenchmen, he was a fucking coward and a quitter. And that he owed me a couture leather jacket for being such a fuckface to me.
He wrote back instantly. “I am sorry but I had a nervous breakdown and was in the loony bin. Am much better now! You are ze coolest and I will make you ze most bitchen jacket ever.”
Which he did.
So tell me, what rich, hot, talented, famous person do you fuckin’ hate for no reason?