Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Letter To Joan Rivers

 Dear Joan Rivers: 
   Ya know, I really gotta tell ya something; after about a year of watching Fashion Police, your show is really starting to fucking piss me off. Well, not the whole show.  Just two of you, actually. Just two effing people.  Did I say "fucking" before? I'm sorry. I meant effing.
   Now, I know that the whole idea is that the four of you sit there, relaxing, saluting, saying "what were you thinking," and you all make infuriated and aghast pronouncements on what someone left the house with. God forbid they should do such a thing without calling the four of you first. And you make vital and important decrees and solemn edicts over - oh dear - a fashion mis-step here, and - oh no -  a slightly crooked tie there - which, frankly I don't have a problem with when you and Giuliana do it. You two at least dress like people who have wriggled their way to the surface of the earth and have noticed that this planet has people on it, not subterranean clowns covered in melted Crayolas and looking like demented mental patients that rectal worms being shit out the ass of a hyena eating a dead eland would avoid being seen with. 

…..Meanwhile: those other two: those other two deranged schlubs -  who are probably the consistently worst-dressed piles of refugee-camp escapees in the history of ready to wear washed-and-dried road kill - they're sitting on your panel casting stones… at people who should be shooting tank shells back at them! 
   The people hauled by the ankles out of the German gas chambers were dressed better than George and Kelly usually are. Poor, lowly, underfed Hebrews,  screaming and writhing in their horrific death throes, they were giving more thought to how they looked in their final moments surrounded by a glowing cloud of Zyklon-B than Kelly and George have ever done in their entire lives.
   There should be a fashion police monitoring the fucking Fashion Police. Maybe the Fashion FBI. 
    I mean, really… Kelly and George?….really?…critiquing how people dress? What, have they both been taking Colossal Nerve classes at the local Temple Beth Shalom, Have Some Fruit,  You Look Tired, Sit Down A Minute, school for Jews?
    I mean, Jesus tap dancing Christ, you've got the lantern-jawed daughter of a bat-eater, with lavender-pink hair, whose vocabulary consists of the word "a-MAYYYY-zang"  and  the endlessly repeated sentence "I LUV huh, I just LUV huh, she is my BEST frund evah." I mean who gives a shit who her best friends are. 

   And then she elaborates on this moment's "best friend" by adding a personal touch of their intimacy together:  

   "She gave buhth to BOTH of my cats. I delivahd them frum huh vagina myself," or some other announcement of intimacy that means nothing to anyone - - - - -  "She is mah DEAH-est most deh-LITE-fahl frenT….. BOT…..I HAHF to say…..Brenda -  (a ten minute spastic silence incorporating shaking, and a facial expression of emotional paralysis, finally broken by the 3,000th utterance of) -  "WHOT WHEH EEYU THAING-KING!!!" 
   Is "what were you thinking" part of the work-agreement in the AFTRA Contract?…. you have to say that a hundred times per episode or you get docked in pay?
   I'm going easy on Kelly because she used to be a drug addict: George Katzenjammerkids, however, is another story. 

   George is the one who really fucks reality and sanity in the ass and squirts a whopping load of looney-jizz into it. 

   He dresses worse than a homosexual Hells Angel on strychnine with an LSD color wheel up his ass. No socks, shitty loafers, a fucking sweater vest over a purple shirt with an orange tie that doesn't match anything you would even find tossed-aside in a Rupaul-designed bath house inside Richard Simmons' anal canal. And then this ensemble from brain-rabies hell is rounded-off by a pair of fucking rodeo dungarees a fucking Mexican wouldn't wear to the cabbage-field outhouse. Then this clown-that-would-frighten-clowns blithely crosses his legs into his kaleidoscopically delightful balls  and has the fucking nerve to issue edicts of disapproval to  the sane because they are not batshit crazy like he is??
   I mean has anyone but me noticed he is the worst dressed life form on the fucking planet? Bacteria dresses better than he does. This guy dresses others? He couldn't dress a corpse into a body bag. He'd put ribbons on it and festoon it with argyle diamond designs with yellow and orange chiffon crepe around  the dead cock  in case anyone wanted to gaze, in happy delightful fantasy, at it's dead-but-stiff loveliness and wonder how things might have been on a moonlit walk had not tragedy struck. "Oh dear!… a dead penis! But at least it's decorative!" I mean, really: George?…judging clothes?  Tropical curare'-oozing Amazon frogs dripping poison from their skins and  toxicity from their pores  are more muted and subtle in their fashion color-tones than George is in his tree-shredder assortment of loony bin Crap Coordinates
   And, really, no socks? On an adult male? On national tv? No socks? Really? And not even barefoot at that?…. why no!…..and get this!…not only no socks - but with fucking shoes on!  Holy Shit! I mean; this isn't creativity; this is a cry for fucking help with a megaphone. 

   Does that barbarian third world heathen throwback to Navajo Hell know even what socks fucking are? How fucking disgusting is it someone on national television is wearing shoes with no socks? Is this supposed to signify a brilliant germinating creative rebellion emanating from somewhere inside his head that we are all supposed to be respectful of? He looks like a fucking hobo-jungle rider-of-the-fucking-rails. He looks like a fucking Oakie that was inbred to a Down syndrome macaque during an especially rough section of route 66 while escaping the Dust Bowl. His dad's semen must have suffered head injuries on its way to the chromosome-damaged egg during the bumpy  buckboard ride out of Tulsa. For God's sake, make it stop!
   Thank you.

   Sincerely, JJ Solari


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