BRIDEZILLA GOT SERVED

Part I: And the wall came tum-ba-lin' down ...

If you haven't heard about this yet, a young lady by the name of Blaire is desperately searching for a husband to complete her life before she turns the ripe old age of 27. My first eyeful of this proud Jersey girl's web site, marryblaire.com, sent my lunch northward, as Hatorade Man busted through my wall with his signature "OHHHH, YEAHHHH!!!" And it was on!

Glamour shot and nuptial hopes -- both overexposed.

I locked my door, turned off the music and got on the case. You may wonder why the hell I would even bother paying attention to this predictable bottom-feeder and her cutesy, shameless piece of self-promotion. I suppose my reaction has something to do with growing up around a bunch of repulsive JAPs; those typically scowl-faced, over-tanned, materialistic harpies who were my kryptonite as a young man growing up in suburban Baltimore. Their smug sense of entitlement and the "I'm doing life the right way" attitude, among other things, sends me rolling to the floor, speaking/yelping in tongues.

After witnessing marryblaire.com's missive of marriage monster madness, I felt obliged to broadcast my message. And Bridezilla got served.

Part II: THE IMPETUS!

This is, more or less, what I found on marryblaire.com:

Do you know my husband? Or - maybe you ARE my husband!

My name is Blaire - and with my 27th birthday just a few weeks away, I've decided to go about looking for my life partner a bit differently, a bit larger, and a bit more dramatically!

My goal: To be engaged by December 2004

Countdown to my Engagement:

189 days, 14 hours, 21 minutes, and 27 seconds

Kiss these frog lips and I will transform into a Jewish American Princess! Oops, too late!

As I get older I feel my social circle has been getting smaller and smaller - and the prospects for my potential mate are not as great or abundant as in the past. I've been to single's events, done the club scene, and have been matched up and Internet searched.... now, it's time for me to Mass Market!

Over the years I've worked as a Matchmaker for a large national dating website. I am around singles everyday (planning/hosting events) and meet tons of men - but sad to say no one has captured my heart. I coach singles on improving their self esteem and dating track record (I'm a dating coach) as well as plan events for couples. I know relationships.

Furthermore, I run my own Event Planning company - specializing in Bachelorette Parties ... let's just say I'm around love all the time and I've decided it's my turn to get a dose of it! I know, you may be saying to yourself "Come on, this girl is attractive she doesn't need help!" Well I assure you - I do! I want to be passionately in love and it's just as hard for me to find love as it is/was for you! (I hope not!)

[I'm a] proud Jersey girl! Did the city thing, and am now am back in good ol Jerz. I would describe myself as a confident, creative, spiritual independent woman. Passionate, intelligent, motivated, honest and witty. I absolutely love my life and believe anything is possible. (please sign my guestbook or drop me an email!)
** I did that! But you didn't seem to like what I said!

I can't wait to read your email! I may put it on my website to share your words of wisdom, your encouragement or disapproval - without your name of course!

My husband is a wonderful man. Do you know him?

Preferred Age Range: 25-32

He should be honest, romantic, sensitive, creative, quirky, and of course good-looking! ** And he must be Jewish.

. . . . . . . . .
Part III: Open letter

Dear Bridezilla,

As a little girl, your mommy told you that you were special. By age 27, her little bubbala Blaire would be happily married to a nice Jewish doctor or lawyer, just like her mommy. Well, now that you've entered your late twenties, it's time to trap a nice Jewish boy in your manicured grip.

From looking at your obnoxious web site, I can see how you fit the tired image of the typical Jersey girl to a T. You're probably a big fan of trash TV reality shows like Survivor, The Real World, Joe Millionaire, My Daughter Married a Big, Fat Slob, etc., and want to use the Internet for your fifteen minutes. You are so pathetic that you have to put up a silly web site to find a husband. You obviously see your life as a mere novelty.

You should ask yourself, "what kind of desperate man would answer my ad?" It's just so easy, right? Set up some silly web site and the men will just line up so you chop off their balls and lock 'em up in a Teffillin box. I can hear your shrill, nasal voice screaming "SOMEBAWDY FIND ME A HUSBAND ROIGHT NOW, GAWDDAMMIT!!" over the Internet.

If you work for a matchmaker, why can't you find someone on your own? No one has "captured" your heart because you are a self-absorbed clone who just wants to mass-market yourself. What happens when Jdate doesn't deliver the man of your dreams? You'll be the shame of your town. I mean, do you really want to find a soul mate or are you merely trying to advertise your event planning crap? Sounds to me like you just want to be married because your friends are, and it's short-sighted sheep such as yourself that contribute to the viral misery of divorce.

Growing up Jewish, I've had to deal with JAPs my entire life. You and your ilk infinitely disgust me.

Sincerely,

Hatorade Man
"OHHHH, YEAHHHH!!"

Imaginative rendering by Dan Avery (note alternate spelling).

. . . . . . . . .
Part IV: Satisfaction is the death of desire

As expected, my thoughtful response was removed from the web site a mere five minutes after I posted it. Being the bastard that I am, I posted it once more before she blocked my ass. I'm sure I'm not the only detractor this monster has censored.

Anyway, as requested by Blaire herself, be sure to drop by marryblaire.com to let her know what you think (heh heh!). Now please excuse me while I clean up this mess made by my destructive, pitcher-shaped friend.

Damn, I'm thirsty!
- posted by Hal Miller @ 11:54 AM |

 
CABLE GUY

Good morning, everyone, and welcome to another glorious Monday in this f-ed-up world. I had just finished a tasty bran muffin moments ago, when my stomach started twisting into hateful knots from resting my gaze upon this sickening headline:

“A Texas couple who named their son ESPN after the cable sports network will soon get a visit from the toddler's namesake.” (From the Associated Press article)

Reading about how a couple names their own flesh and blood after a cable sports network does little to restore my dwindling faith in humanity.

‘Rebecca and Michael McCall said their son's name started as a joke after they heard on the radio about another couple naming their son ``ESPEN.'' ‘

I can see McDonald’s-eating, floppy jowls guffawing good-heartedly all across America. Is this real, or just some sick marketing ploy on the part of ESPN? “I guess there's no better testament than when someone names their child after your product,” commented ESPN spokesman Dave Nagle.

The future of marketing and branding: your own flesh & blood.

Stories such as this leave me with images of a dark, stillborn life to come. You might say I’m reading too much into this, but I imagine the McCall boy’s life might turn out something like the following.

“Thanks for naming me after a goddamn sports channel, Dad. Now not only will I face a lifetime of ridicule and irritating jokes, but I will also get free athletic gear forever. I will see my own tortured face on every snowboard, baseball bat and Kobe Bryant-signed basketball sent gratis. Of course I will detest anything to do with professional sports from the moment I’m able to understand why I’m considered “unique” and “different” from everyone else. I will suffer from severe depression and various addictions, which will require me to hock all that free sports junk with my imagined face on it. I will be pawning off my own soul when I doubted the existence of one in the first place.

I can just imagine how it all went down, Dad. There you were, merging your podgy, lard-addled ass into the new leather couch on a Saturday afternoon, enjoying the game between Budweiser belches. In your sudsy stupor you probably looked like one of those balding, average Joe America slobs on Best Buy or various car commercials that try, in a humorous way, to target pussy-whipped, debt card-wielding husbands such as yourself.

In one last, desperate attempt at asserting yourself in a disappointing marriage, you decided that your first-born child would reflect everything you ever wanted to be but never could achieve. Throughout my stolen childhood, Sundays at Outback Steakhouse would be your opportunity to shine. “Yeap, that’s ma boy!” you’ll say to everyone who stops by our table to interrupt our dinner and gawk at the bespectacled, unspectacular spectacle of me. “Esssss-pen!”

Our relationship will deteriorate as years go by, since I will never be able to live up to my name. You will constantly compare me to the other two unfortunates spread out across the nation who share my name. “Why can’t you be more like that ESPN boy in Ohio?” you’ll ask me. “He got into Kent State on a basketball scholarship!” At least you got free cable, Dad.

I will become the opposite of everything you ever dreamed I would be, leaving you without a son to live through vicariously. I will spend my every waking moment searching for an older man who will love me for who I really am, rather than sniffing around the Cinemax girl’s house down the street. Eventually I will find a small scrap of purpose in life beyond patriarchal revenge, in the form of my debut autobiographical novel “Cable Vision.”

Desperate and broke from various addictions and small royalty checks from the publisher, I will be forced to drive around a van covered in corporate advertising to pay the bills, just like you did when you put the first down payment on the house. There’s nothing like selling a little piece of your soul for a little empty recognition. Right, Dad?
- posted by Hal Miller @ 11:21 AM |