This Week In People Who Suck, Part 1

Keith Bardwell, a honky Louisiana justice of the peace, refused an interracial couple a marriage license. Because he was worried about how society might treat the mulatto kids they plan to have. . Or perhaps, he’s just a racist douche. In his own words, he has “piles and piles of black friends,” which everyone knows is the sentence that bigots use in an attempt to counter the fact that they are, indeed, bigots.

Among other pearls of wisdom on a subject that he knows nothing about, Bardwell has said “I think those children suffer and I won’t help put them through it.” ALL children suffer. It’s part of being a fucking kid. Kids don’t get the Christmas presents they want, they don’t get invited to that killer roller rink birthday party, they get picked last for dodgeball because they suck. Kids with glasses suffer. Fat kids suffer. Maybe we shouldn’t allow dirty people, sloppy people, or fat people to get married either, because their kids might turn out to be losers.

Obviously, Bardwell knows this couple will be married by someone else, and that babies happen with or without marriage licenses, so his political statement in not marrying this couple (and 3 others in the past 2 years) only serves to scratch a racist itch. Reminds me of a power-tripping pharmacist refusing emergency contraceptives to someone because they think that this denial is somehow meaningful. Hi God, I didn’t realize you were a pharmacist, I guess I’ll just go drive another forty minutes to a different pharmacy, wasting both my gas and my time because you got in a fight with your wife this morning and feel like being a dick. Minor inconveniences in which normal people pay the price so that self-important douchers can continue to douche.

Mr. Bardwell, as a product of an interracial marriage, I’m doing just fine. Have been for a little over two decades. Thanks for the fucking concern.

Update: It seems Bardwell was actually a life-long democrat (cripes) up until fairly recently. Fall of 2008, in fact. When a certain mixed child became our Commander in Chief. You do the math.

Shitting Where You Eat: A Primer

Awhile back, I wrote a list of do’s and don’ts for men looking to date my roommate; guidelines to follow if you’re to become a peripheral fixture in my life and home. After some digging, it seems the masses are interested not in playing nice with others’ roommates; they’d like to know how to go about ”playing nice” with their own roommates: potential bootycalls knocks.

Often, “shitting where you eat” refers to a workplace hookup: an ill-advised soirée involving yourself and the company ink. However, I think this analogy is better suited in regards to the inter-apartment hookup. Afterall, where does the majority of your shitting and eating go down? For my own piece of mind, I’ll assume the bulk of it takes place at home.

So your roommate: you’re pretty hot for them. Living with them is like an added luxury; like a hot tub or a washer/dryer combo. She walks around in a revealing robe, never seems to have a period or blow up the bathroom, and lives down the hall. Or maybe he’s a dude; one that doesn’t bring a new girl home every night, wants to snuggle on the couch, and cleans up after he cooks. Plus he lives down the hall. Surely, this person is your most precious amenity, right?

Right. As a roommate. Not as your built-in sex slave. Consider the following questions before setting forth on the road to real estate ruin.

Do you like your apartment?: Let’s be real. What’s harder to find; an apartment you love, or a relationship that will likely have the shelf-life of milk? You can be on the brink of cancer-inducing, all-consuming, psychotic let’s-tattoo-each-other’s-names-on-our-ring-fingers love with your roommate, but the memory of that ill-formed union won’t make the sight of your meager belongings in the back of a $19.95 U-Haul any easier to swallow.

Do you pull the fade? Maybe you and your roommate sat down like adults and drafted a pre-emptive mandate in the style of the Geneva Convention, if you will, for the protection of other roommates involved. No one has to move out, you will be mature if your fling fizzles, you’ll still be friends, so on and so forth. Just look at you, taking initiative! So cultivated!

Except when you’re ready to end things you’re stumped, because you’re a fader. You know the like. Instead of verbally ending relationships, you tend to fade away; never to be seen or heard from again besides the occasional Facebook status update that proves that yes, you are alive; albeit disinterested in yesterdays’ hookup. And hey, we’re all guilty of it. No one is judging. Keep in mind though, that you can’t just fade away from someone who is in your living room rummaging through your shared DVD collection and eating your cereal every morning.

Are you in love, or just lazy? The dating scene can get old faster than you can say, “should we split the check?”, but that isn’t an excuse to risk your apartment and friendship for a convenient lay. Be honest with yourself and with the other person– do you like your roommate, or are you broke this week and can’t afford to go on a real date with a person that may or may not put out? The same way you would second guess sleeping with your best friend’s little sister, or your brother’s ex girlfriend, or your 2nd cousin, THINK about what you’re about to do and whether or not it’s worth it. Use your brain, and when you come to a conclusion, use your hand (who you’ve lived with forever and would never kick you out).

Are you seeing other people? Imagine that you’ve been dating someone for a while. It’s not an exclusive relationship, but you practice a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy with one another. In other words: if you fuck somebody else, use protection and keep the self-c0ngratulatory parade confined to the streets of your cerebrum.

This type of relationship is non-existant when you’re banging your roommate. No stray bra is safe, no headboard bang will go unheard. When your bed isn’t slept in, process of elimination says you’re with an anonymous someone else; a someone else who lives off of a foreign subway stop and possesses the ability to do something your roommate is incapable of, by default: sleeping in an apartment that is not yours.  What used to be a walk of shame is now a walk of dread; as you head home to face the inevitably awkward morning after. We’ve all seen romantic comedies. Even the most bitter of souls, the most jaded of lovers, are prone to jealousy pangs when their built-in friend-with-benefits (or fuck buddy, if you want to be crass about it) moves on to greener pastures.

oh, her? that's just my roomie. no worries.

Do you need alone time? What kind of question is this? Alone time is crucial, especially at the beginning of a relationship. Telling someone you’re busy or that you don’t want to hang out is increasingly difficult when that person has access to your whereabouts 24-7. “Girls’ Night”, “Poker Night”, and “Visit From Mom” no longer equate to enjoying a quiet night alone. Avoiding the person you’re hooking up with now requires plans with a sympathetic friend, where you will hang at what you now refer to as your “safehouse.”

here's a novel idea; sleep in your own fucking bed

I’m sure that once in a while, in “I swear! It happened to my friend!” land, these roommate relationships can work out. I have a pretty simple test to gauge whether or not your relationship is legit and deserves a fair shot. All it takes is one of you moving out. If you’re not willing to be greatly inconvenienced, spend money, and make sacrifices; you’re just not ready to be in a relationship. Keep your pants zipped up and your head high, kid. You’re doing the right thing.

Yo.

So, a few weeks ago I was out with this guy (I wouldn’t call it a date, perhaps a drink-hang? Anyway, it was fun, and if he’s to be believed, he’s probably reading this right now. Sup? You know who you are. If you don’t, you’ll know in a tick. Promise).

Now, I’m not trying to toot my own horn, but I’ve received a lot of… support when it comes to this blog and similar endeavors (and I’m thankful for it). Some from strangers, mostly from people I know. As anyone who has ever done anything slightly creative will tell you, putting your “art” out there for consumption is like farting in front of your boyfriend for the very first time (not that I would know, I’m just guessing). And so when I received what we’ll call constructive criticism during this particular drink-hang, I first responded defensively and now, humbly.

The observation was made that this blog lacks focus. I responded by saying that it was not necessarily my intention to focus on any subject in particular, and that this blog is like writing practice, and blah. blah. blah. until I had convinced the two of us that yes, this bl0g lacks focus, and so do I.

A week or so later, I decided that pigeonholes be damned, the focal point of this blog is whatever I FEEL like writing about. That is what all of these posts have in common (if anything). They are things that interest ME, things that I think are worth examining. And that doesn’t bother me, and if it bothers anyone else, that doesn’t bother me, either. What do Jon Gosselin and a raunchy Burger King ad have in common? Not much, except that I devoted anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour writing about them. But this is my blog, and I’m not writing for a beat. I’m writing for myself and whoever else wants to get down.

However, I do recognize that most blogs I enjoy reading DO have a focus. And I don’t want my own blog to fall below the standards I hold my reading material to… but I’m also not willing to find a niche. I have enough trouble finding something I want to write about and then finding time to do so, and choosing one route would probably kill off every primal urge I have to write in the first place.

What I want to do is continue to write/say whatever the fuck I want, within a well-organized template. I want to take some time off from content and focus on… focus. Improving readability and what have you. I’ll probably continue to post occasionally until that happens. In the meantime, if you’re an HTML wiz with a kind soul (or just a friend of mine), hit me up.

In Honor of The City, Season 2

I wrote this piece before The City, Season 1 aired on MTV last year. Unfortunetly, a fellow blogger of mine had the same, unoriginal idea. The piece, once written as a “I hope the producers get this right,” was edited to be a “things the producer should do NEXT season as they clearly failed at living up to my high yet reasonable expectations.” In honor of  The City being picked up for another season, I’m reposting my (now timely) hopes and wishes for Season 2.

Ahh, The City. Another failed attempt at giving the rest of the world a sneak peak of what it’s like to live in The Big Apple. I admittedly don’t live on the fair isle of Manhattan, but I do work and play there enough to know that once again, we New Yorkers have been failed by the mass media.

The same way they snuck three seasons of The Real World into our boroughs, MTV pimped out our streets to camera crews; consequently cheapening the mystique that is New York. They’re pandering to the tweens of Middle America, selling the idea that ANYONE can just move here, date an Australian (presumably) indie rocker, and work alongside socialites who are only employed for the duration of a reality series.

I want to be fair and give the writers of The City a shot to make the show somewhat realistic. So, here are a couple of ways MTV (and Whitney Port) can redeem themselves in time for Season 2.

Let Whitney Ride the Subway: As low maintenance as I prefer to live, even I can go a bit taxi crazy at times. The vain, lazy part of me enjoys being chauffeured around every once in awhile. But New Yorkers take the subway, and if they don’t, they at least know how to do so, should the occasion arise. If Carrie Bradshaw did it (albeit, once), so can she.

Show Us A Real New York Apartment Hunt: This is an opportunity MTV should’ve snagged up from the beginning. Erin’s boyfriend visits for one weekend, and Whitney’s all, “oh, wow, Erin, I sooo don’t mean to be in the way. I’m out of your apartment like, two hours ago.”  

Faced with adversity, what does our blond-haired heroine do? She finds a place, in a safe neighborhood, with a good view, on the first shot. Be a real New Yorker with real estate woes, Whit! At the very least, devote more than a three-minute montage to apartment hunting. I want to see some shady brokers and leasing offices and the sacrifice of three months’ rent. Only then will I be satisfied.

Learn Your New York Men: Whitney, you were born and raised in Los Angeles! LA isn’t Nebraska. Get a clue, girl. You shouldn’t be exclusive with anyone who has an accent, a band, and a fedora. Add a narcissistic, inarticulate male-model bro to the mix, and you’re pretty much asking for a ‘girl’s night in’ routine featuring hard liquor and no sex to become a permanent fixture on your social calendar. The only guy who wasn’t man-whoring up and down the streets of Manhattan was Erin’s busted Canadian boyfriend, and that was because he was a. not from New York and b. busted. Every guy in New York is up to something, but steer clear of the apartmentless, jobless, touring, fedora-toting Australians and a dry eye you will have.

"ooh, looks like I forgots me wallet. I'll get the next one, promise"

 

Get Laid Off: Everyone’s doing it (although not so willingly). Nothing makes you more New York in 2009 than, well, not having a job. After all, being unemployed is the new being employed! Since Port is semi-bland and neither likable nor unlikable, I vote that Palermo loses her job with DVF. Or maybe “you’re going to London” is code for, “you’re fucking fired.” Oh, who am I kidding? I’m sure Olivia had a totally stellar resumé.

Do a Dive-Bar—During the Day: Not all the time, but at least once. Maybe after getting laid off. Sometimes we get thirsty before it’s time for happy hour. Or is that just me?

Befriend Someone Who Isn’t White: This may be some absurd rumor, but I heard there are actually Black and Hispanic people who sometimes work in fashion and sometimes go to brunch and sometimes go to Tenjune. Where are they? Maybe MTV got away with whitewashing The Hills, and maybe they thought that by featuring the four types of New Yorker (blond, socialite, US import, and model), they would somehow trick the rest of America into thinking that New York really is the playground of the over-privileged they’ve had wet dreams about. It’s not some Bible Belt Utopia or an episode of Hannah Montana. At least find a token gay friend.

Other things to consider during the taping of Season 2: More black outs, less crying. More homeless people, less Olivia. More cocaine, less wearing make-up to brunch. Sounds like the New York I know and love!

An Open Letter To HSN

I’m not the most aggressive person, so when I’m wronged by a customer service representative, I usually take it lying down. Temporarily. Within minutes, there is rage brewing inside of me and I resolve to ruin someone’s day via whiny e-mail. You see, I titled this “An Open Letter to HSN,” but the thing about these open letters of mine is that I write them to blow steam and I don’t feel 100% better until I know someone will momentarily question the company they work for. While not particulary clever, I’m posting the letter here as a caveat for all of you, and also as a final stab in the heart to the Home Shopping Network.

After ordering a netbook through your site, I accessed my account today to find that my order had been cancelled and my debit card declined. I had no notice from HSN that this action took place, and the money was held from my bank account despite the fact that you did not have any intention of sending me what I ordered.

When I called your verification hotline, I spoke with Polly? Peggy? Don’t know, nor does it matter since I don’t plan to order anything from you again. She explained to me that maybe I should update all of my pertinent information (bank cards, mailing address, etc.) I appreciate her advice, but I am an adult and understand that when one moves, they must then update that information. I DID SO, a YEAR AGO. No other vendor has ever had a problem with my card, because this is not the stone age and it does not take a year for such information to process.

This was confirmed when I called my bank, who told me that they approved the purchase and sent you an approval code, which they gave to me. The address on file matched the address that was given to you as my billing address. Finally, the bank representative told me that you, HSN, are full of it.

I called you again, which was a waste of time, because the indignant Peggy/Polly repeated that your company is the only one in the United States of America that can’t manage to match my card with my address. What the fuck do you want? Do you want my address branded on my ass like common cattle while I carry a copy of my birth certificate in my teeth and do a jig while holding a huge sign that says, “I FUCKING LIVE HERE ____________”?

Growing impatient, I attempted to re-order the computer. I was then told I would have to wait two weeks for HSN to attempt to verify my address and re-order this netbook. This is beyond me, as you did nothing to notify me that any of this was happening in the first place. I explained to your representative that I would be purchasing my computer elsewhere and did so promptly after hanging up the phone.

Surprisingly, my card was accepted and my computer is now on its way from Best Buy. I’ve also paid less than what I was going to pay you before Peggy started addressing me as though I was mentally challenged. You should probably call Best Buy and ask for advice on how to run a business that doesn’t leave its customers reaching for a bottle of Valium after dealing with you.

Thanks for nothing,

Stephanie —————

P.S. QVC has more attractive television personalities.

This Week In Morons

Remember when there were a bunch of schools who didn’t want their children subjected to henious President Obama talking about education? One district in particular, the Arlington Independent School District, decided that whatever lesson plans they had in store absolutely could not be postponed. Because who knows? Tomorrow, there may be some radical development in multiplication tables. Maybe it’ll be discovered that Abraham Lincoln actually didn’t wear a beard. These kids need to learn this shit RIGHT NOW.

But now, ha-ha. 28 5th graders were bused out for the day to go hear the former president speak (I use the word ”speak” loosely. Perhaps “say words that may or may not go together” would be more appropriate). George W, his lady friend Laura, and some of the Dallas Cowboys got shit to tell these kids, ya’ll.

Seriously? I know President Obama is not from Texas or white, but I have faith that Jon Favreaux surely could’ve come up with something of value for the Prez to say to school-aged children. Something like, “Don’t grow up to be like your parents,” or “You can be the president too, even if your dad wasn’t.” This is a terrible, horrible double standard that really shouldn’t be overlooked. You don’t want the kids to lose 20 minutes of class WATCHING A VIDEO OF THE POTUS FROM THEIR FUCKING SEATS, fine. Learning history is far superior than actively participating in it, that’s logical. But to turn around and send the kids for an entire day listening to people who went to college likely based on athletic ability or rich daddy ownership… if there are parents that think this was A-OK, well Arlington… all I can say is I wish Mexico would take you back.

Let’s put all of the fucked up reasons why this happened aside and think about who is talking to these kids. What the FUCK kind of knowledge can GWB drop on these kids? That 90% of all dollar bills are covered in cocaine residue? How to destroy a baseball team? How to destroy a country? Honestly. The man should have a black and white Parental Advisory warning tattooed on his forehead. I would be outraged if I found out my kid was listening to him; it’s like a parent finding out their seven-year-old son is reciting Wu-Tang lyrics, aggressively grabbing his nuts, and joining the Crips. I’d rather have John Wayne Gacy talk to my kid. At least the guy could paint.

This article came via my dad, and the comments go where I’m not willing to; mostly because there HAS to be African-Americans that play for the Cowboys… right? Then again, it’s possible they were asked to attend an important practice that absolutely could not be postponed, much like the lesson plans for the children of Arlington. We don’t want to corrupt the youth of America by subjecting them to people who don’t have anything intelligible to say.

“I’m telling you there’s an enemy that would like to attack America, Americans, again. There just is. That’s the reality of the world. And I wish him all the very best.” –George W. Bush, Washington, D.C., Jan. 12, 2009

Mack Chicks Online Without Being a Tool!

As a brazen cheerleader for dating website OkCupid, there’s a lot I can tell you about why your messages may or may not be attracting bees to your honey. It’s easy to throw the rules of conventional dating to the wind when you’re hiding behind a computer screen, but there’s one universal law you must remember when it comes to dating; both online and off– some people got it, and some people don’t.

OkCupid analyzed half a million first attempts at getting busy via their site. Their logarithm robotic dating magical tool considered keywords, match percentages, the user’s stats (i.e. height, religion, etc.) and even the contents of that fateful first message. I find that awkward, by the way. What if, somewhere down the line, you meet and fall in love with some OkCupid staff member who “knows you from somewhere,” and you two can’t figure it out, until halfway through your blossoming relationship when he wakes up in a cold sweat one night and shrieks, “YOU! You were the girl that used the wrong form of their/there/they’re in your first message to that guy that worked at Sotheby’s. I’m disgusted by you and your disregard for grammar. We’re done.” That seems extremely unfair. That’s like Googling someone before a date when you yourself have an extremely common name (or no accomplishments) and are impossible to look up. Some things are better left for when you’re married and already hate each other.

The results, for all of you who struggle to find love and sex (hint: Craig’s List. Much Easier) online, are below:

1. Stop typing like a fucking moron: Just as in real life, intelligence and faking intelligence go a long way. It doesn’t matter what school you went to, or what job you have– the use of “ur,” “ya,” “luv,” etc. is not acceptable. Type your first message as though your career is riding on it. Use spell check if you have to. E-mail it to your mom and have her proofread it, I don’t fucking care. Poor grammar doesn’t just say, “I’m dumb,” it also says that you’re lazy, you’ve got no one to impress, and essentially… that you’re a loser. There are enough losers to choose from offline. If you manage to come off as a loser online, don’t expect anyone to give you the time of day.

2. Physical compliments are creepy: Save words like sexy, beautiful, gorgeous, etc. for pillow talk, gun-jumper. Physical compliments are the simplest way to make someone feel extremely uncomfortable with very little effort. In a relationship formed offline, they’re acceptable; but when you’re attempting to talk to someone for the first time on a dating website and you’re dropping lines like, “Your eyes are so sexy ,” you come off as a blip on a neighborhood’s convicted sexual offender map. Lose that tongue face, too, while you’re at it. Words like awesome or  fascinating fend much better in the online dating arena (that doesn’t mean it’s okay to say, “Your tits are fascinating.” Never okay. Try talking about the person’s personality. If they don’t have one, keep it moving).

Drinking & Messaging: Another big NO.

3. Saying “hi”= Cheesy: Using Hi, Hello, and Hey as a greeting is boring. Informal greetings like “What’s up,” “How’s it going,” and even “Howdy” (gag) garner more responses. But the salutation that fares best? None at all. Just get to the point. Save the coy greeting for when you meet in person.

4. Play indoors: Wanna e-mail? Use the site’s messaging service. Feel like chatting? You can do that via OkCupid (and other dating sites) as well. Asking for someones personal account is a turn off, and giving up that information puts you at risk: you could be giving a certain anonymous someone way too much access to the minutiae of your life. Someone that may or may not go away when you decide you’re not interested anymore. GChat is for friends and colleagues, not friends and colleagues and an OkStalker.

Beware of swingers; their prey doesn't escape alive.

5. Mention something the person is interested in: No brainer. It shows interest and it gives you a window to show that the two of you have something in common besides a penchant for browsing through nameless potential mates. Even if you’re just pretending to be interested in the contents of their profile, it’s better than being like, “Hey. I work here, I like this, I’ve traveled here, I think it’s normal to send a perfect stranger a list of my accomplishments, hopes, and dreams, because I have nothing better to talk about than myself.” Thanks, dude. Let me know when you complete your autobiography so that I can not read it.

6. Be lame (for males only): I disagree with this one, but roboscience does not lie– chicks dig it when men are like “Ooh sorry, I’m so awkward. I apologize for intruding into your inbox. I just kinda thought you were fascinating.” As a smart woman once said (Ashley, my roommate): Men are either dicks or pussies (Sidenote: Why don’t they just fuck themselves then?!). Apparently, Alpha Males fare well in offline settings where cocky and aggressive men can be misconstrued as men who won’t hatefuck you and make you cry on Christmas; but it’s better to be a bit of an unobtrusive, indifferent pussy when you’re trying to score a chick online.

Sorry I'm so awkward! It's part of my charm! HEE-YUK

7. Don’t be religious. Seriously: While I’m sorta, kinda, anti-religion; #7 is not a thinly veiled attempt to widen my OkCupid dating pool. While mentioning any religion increases your rate of return, you’re likely to only receive responses from people of your religion. UNLESS, of course, you ignore or denounce religion openly. People who mention they’re atheist in their first message get the most responses. As OkCupid puts it, “…ideally you should just disbelieve the whole thing [religion]. It can help your love life, and, besides, if there really was a god, wouldn’t first messages always get a reply?”

Also, it helps if you’re hot.

Reasons: A Pretty Word For Excuses

Hai guys. I’ve come to a point where I’m ready to show my true colors: lazy and negligent. My last post, a cheap shot/congratulatory message for Kate Gosselin, was meant to disguise what’s really been going on [WRITER'S BLOCK]. I owe excuses to whomever continues to view this site despite lack of new content:

• I had bronchitis last week.
• It was my birthday last week, so I was drunk with bronchitis.
• My dad has started reading this blog, so now I’m scared to write things. (JK. My dad has started reading, but I don’t mind. Hi dad!)
• My computer looks (and has looked) like this for the past month:

It’s kinda hard to write stuff on it. I have ordered a new one, which will be here in 7-10 business days (aka never).

Keep me in your prayers, as I am godless. I’ll be back soon.

There Is A God.

The regurgitated porcupine hairstyle has been retired! God Bless America. Now all Kate needs to do is figure out how to bring our troops home, solve the housing crisis, and draft the perfect healthcare bill and I’d so ask her to adopt me.

Big ups on the new haircut, Kate. You did the right thing.

How To Not Be A Douche #3

Last night, as I lay morosely in bed scrolling through Facebook status updates on my BlackBerry, I immediately sensed that something was astir at MTV’s Video Music Awards. There was a trend developing around three major players in the music industry. Beyonce (who I am an unabashed fan of), Taylor Swift (who is too cute to hate), and that guy who likes to cause controversy in order to have his name mentioned as often as possible (whose name I will not be mentioning for that particular reason) were the involved parties. 

Facebook status updates are a terrible way to get information, in case you were wondering. No one ever writes what actually happened, they just write their reactions to it. I’ve logged on to see things like “Can’t believe I just witnessed history in the making!” or “Holy shit, Obama! Are you serious?!” or “I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT JUST HAPPENED ON 36th STREET FUCK OMG.” What happened on 36th street? Are you going to make me Google it, because your commentary happens to be more important than what actually happened? It leaves you with no choice but to comment, which in hindsight is probably the reason the nitty-gritty details are withheld in the first place– ANYWAY…

Such was the case last night, when I was forced to Google-stalk the VMAs and find out what exactly had happened between Beyonce, Taylor Swift, and that guy who rivals Tom Cruise and Ryan Seacrest for shortest alpha male in existence. Here’s the rundown:

Taylor Swift, a 19-year-old country crooner, won the award for Best Female Video. Among others, Swift was competing against Beyonce and Pink– artists who, for all intensive purposes, have slighty more name recognition than noob Swift. A win for Taylor seemed impossible, which is why it was all the more gratifying when her name was announced. The girl looked like someone had just told her she was chosen to have a fantasy threesome with Chace Crawford and Rob Pattinson. She was so visibly shocked and ecstatic that seeing her was a little award for each and every person watching. So she goes up on stage and she begins to give her acceptance speech, when low-and-behold, here comes that rapper who everyone thinks is gay! What is he doing on stage? Did he come to say congrats to Taylor? Did he come to remind everyone that George W. Bush STILL hates black people? What goes on?

The label-whore-turned-Gap-intern wanted Ms. Swift to know, “Yo shorty, you did your thing, but Beyonce’s Single Ladies video is the BEST VIDEO OF ALL TIMES. BEST VIDEO EVER.” I’m paraphrasing, but more or less, this is what happened. I felt like I was watching an incarnation of the movie Carrie. He may as well have run on stage and pantsed her. The camera pans to Young B, who looks embarrassed, but you’re not sure who she’s embarressed for– the attention whore who ran on stage to spoil a young girl’s first award ever; Taylor Swift, who will never forget the time she was accidentally excited to share the stage with the ego-rapper; or herself– an innocent bystander whose video was… pretty standard.

Before I continue, let me just say that I am in no way, shape, or form discrediting Beyonce (whose video went on to win Video of the Year.) Single Ladies did inspire a slew of YouTube videos, morning talk show performances, and a pretty fucking hilarious SNL skit. While minimalistic, it was pretty influential as far as music videos go (in a day and age where most people don’t give a shit about music videos). Despite how good or not good Single Ladies actually is, Beyonce gracefully rose above the ashes and came out looking not like a diva, but like a humbled professional who could truly empathize with what being proverbially pantsed on stage might feel like. Her acceptance speech served the sole purpose of inviting T. Swift back up on stage to complete her thoughts; the thoughts she was in the middle of vocalizing when she was rudely interrupted by the College Dropout himself.

This year, I wondered why it seemed like everyone I’d ever met was attending the VMAs. Had I become extremely well connected in the past year? Were the VMAs more accessible than years prior? I mentioned this to my roommate, who told me it was because the VMAs are over. They’re lame.

Now this doesn’t hold true for everyone: The VMAs are important to a number of people, and if Facebook is an indicator of anything (I’m afraid that it is), there were plenty of people tuned in last night. Personally, I am at an age where I can’t recall a single video that stood out to me (with the exception of Single Ladies, which is why I suppose it won). I don’t watch MTV anymore. I didn’t know every band or artist who was nominated. I think artists undergo a similar disenchantment once they’ve been nominated six or seven years in a row. The artists who have been in attendance for the past decade (Green Day, Alicia Keys, even Beyonce) realize that the VMAs are just not that big of a deal anymore– or at least, they shouldn’t be. Fun, yes. Rewarding, yes. But not the end all be all of one’s career.

Taylor Swift, whether you like her or not, was probably one of five people who were honestly stoked on taking home a Moonman. MTV is her demographic. She is not so old and jaded that this was not a big deal for her. It was her first award ever, from a channel that generally does not reward anyone from the country world. She managed to create a crossover single that was well-received enough to beat some of the biggest divas of the ’00s (2000s? Did we decide how we’re going to reference this first decade yet?)

A stunt like that is uncalled for, especially when we’re talking about someone experiencing for the first time what it’s like to compete against some of the most famous singers in the industry and win. Had it been Pink who was up there being interrupted, there would’ve likely been knees and nuts flying. But it wasn’t Pink up there, it was a young girl who publicly learned that her industry is one full of people waiting to throw you under the bus with nothing to gain but a couple of hatchtags on Twitter. #Youreafuckingasshole.

The guy who probably should’ve stayed in the shadows as a producer was the only loser last night.