White Precious Xerxes

“Yeah, I called you fat/
Look at me, I’m skinny/
Never stopped me from getting busy/
I’m a freak…”
“Round and Round” by Digital Underground

Okay, Glee!, you had me at your first “bop,” but you are officially annoying me now. “This is how America looks,” was the pronouncement from the newest fat-ass New Directions member, Xerxes… or Zizes… or Isosceles. “This is how America looks.”

Not true. I’m skinny. Most of my family is skinny. Most of my friends and co-workers are skinny. Granted, I live in Los Angeles, so most of my friends and co-workers are vain, scrawny actor-folk. But still. America… all of America… does not look like the new fat chick on Glee! whom I like to call ‘White Precious.’

Baby Precious Mercedes

I love gay Kurt. One day I will even be so open-minded as to not refer to him as ‘gay Kurt.’ And I’ve accepted Mercedes (aka Baby Precious). And I accept the fact that she accepts herself and the fact that she believes she is beautiful in every single, fat, bacon-lovin’ way – thanks a lot, Christina Aguilera. I don’t agree that Baby Precious Mercedes is, in fact, beautiful, mostly because I fear that her arteries are fucking ugly. Mostly, I don’t think she’s healthy. Unhealthy leads to death. And what’s more un-beautiful than a dead teenager? But apparently the word “healthy” has taken on a new meaning in the African-American community. It means “fat” now. That is how we justify. That, and naming our children “Mercedes.”

I will not, N-O-T, not accept White Precious’ proclamation that “this” is how we look now and that we should all just “get over it.” That’s like people using “first annual” instead of “inaugural,” and expecting people to just accept it as right because it’s overused. Overuse does not make something correct. It’s like Webster’s adding “ginormous” to the list of accepted words in its 2007 dictionary. Ginormous. Hmph.  Okay it’s nothing like that. But she is ginormous.

Glee's Newest Cast Member - Ho-Chin-Precious So

I read a Glee! blog online the other day, that expressed dissatisfaction in the writers’ choice to show White Precious Xerxes Big Ass always eating. Her character shouldn’t be all about eating, they protested. Hello, that’s what fat people do. They fucking eat. That’s why they’re fat. You want an episode where she’s exercising? Not gonna happen, my friend. You want an episode where she’s contemplating not eating? Baby Precious Mercedes already did that. And Xylophone is twice as big as her. Of course, she’s gonna be eating. Next, you’re going to complain that a Kurt episode is all about him being… oh, never mind.

Wait. Where's the black guy?

Sylvester Stallone, Dolph Lundgren, Jet Li, Jason Statham, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Bruce Willis… what do they all have in common? They’re all action movie actors. They’re the action movie actors. They are who you think of when you’re casting an action movie. And, apparently, they’re who The Expendables director, producers, casting director all thought of when putting together this new action movie. So what’s missing? An African-American character. And who would be the perfect tough guy brotha to round out the cast? Who’s the first person who pops into anybody’s mind? Duh! It’s the dad on Everybody Hates Chris! Of course. Wait… what?!

The rest of the post from Kevinda.com –>

Last week’s GLEE hurt my eyes and assaulted my ear drums violently. No, not this week’s. I’ll get to that one. I got kids. I have a real job. Give me a break. Shut up!

I am referring to last week’s Bad Reputation episode. There is no good reason to ever, ever, EVER bring back a Vanilla Ice song or Hammer pants. I remember the 70s fondly. The 80s, not so much. I was in college when both “Ice Ice Baby” and “U Can’t Touch This” came out. I was in high school when “Superfreak” came out, and if you’re too young to get the connection, screw you, young’un. Just because these songs are older than you, doesn’t mean they’re classics. Doesn’t mean they’re show choir-worthy. Doesn’t mean my eyeballs and earballs should be violated by them in 2010.

It’s like finding an old coin and running it, excitedly, to a numismatist. (Again, young’un, if you don’t know…) Just because the coin is old, doesn’t mean it’s rare. And it doesn’t meant that there aren’t 100,000 other equally old coins out there in circulation. So, am I saying I’m an old coin? NO! I’m saying that these songs were stupid then, they’re stupid now, and last week’s GLEE was stupid.

I don’t even care what the episode was about. Just promise me, GLEE, no more of these shenanigans. Please? Now, I’m going to go do an NWA saltwater eye rinse followed by some Public Enemy ear candling just to get the residue out that this episode left behind. And by “Q-tip,” I mean Q-Tip. See, young’un, I’m hip.

Kristin Chenoweth just got all pissed off at  Newsweek, and specifically writer Ramin Setoodeh, who wrote an article, “Straight Jacket,” that claims gay actors can’t completely, convincingly play straight characters. Setoodeh, who is gay, specifically pointed out gay Jonathan Groff, who plays straight Jesse St. James (quite possibly the gayest sounding name in television history). Setoodeh wrote that Groff, playing Rachel Berry’s love interest, seems “more like your average theater queen,” and “a better romantic match for Kurt than Rachel.”

Setoodeh’s generalization that gay actors can’t play straight was ridiculous. Howard Rollins (Ragtime, In The Heat of the Night) blew my 13-year-old mind when I found out he was gay. He played straight just as convincingly as any straight actor could and I had the biggest heartache of a crush on his character, that wronged, dark chocolate, piano playing Coalhouse Walker.

Setoodeh was right on the money, however, with Groff. That boy just acts, well… gay. He’s beyond not convincing. He’s damn queeny. Last week my own 13-year-old daughter said, “He’s got gay seeping out of him! He’s just… gay.” Ah, kids.

Chenoweth wrote an open letter saying, “I’d normally keep silent on such matters and write such small-minded viewpoints off as perhaps a blip in common sense, but the offense I take to this article, and your decision to publish it, is not really even related to my profession or my work with (Sean) Hayes or Jonathan Groff .”

That’s awesome that she’s taking a stand. But that boy is probably not the best flag for Chenoweth to be picking up and waving to make her point. Because, well… gay.

So, I’m gonna start writing about Glee for Schadenfreude.net and thank goodness, because a lot has happened and I’ve got something to say about it. Nothing about the Madonna episode, actually. And I’ll get to this past episode later. And, oh shoot, today is Thursday. I gotta catch up. But I will start with last week’s Home episode.

Everything in the episode was about feeling at home, being home, staying home, finding a new home, consolidating two households into one home and, of course, being fat. What?! That’s what I said. I get that Fatty, I mean Mercedes, has to have a solo every now and then. But why shove her “I Am Beautiful (Even Though My Arteries are Fucked)” number – yes, that’s the full title of the song –  into an otherwise perfectly themed show?

That’s like forcing a handful of Doritoes into the center of a creamy chocolate éclair. It’s already full. It doesn’t need anything else to make it great. The donutty goodness of last week’s Glee did not need the extra crunchy message that chubby chicks are human, too. It was just too much. And, fyi, I don’t hate fat people. Maybe a little. But that’s irrelevant. What gets my goat is the fact that Mercedes has no storyline. She is “the fat Black chick who can sang.” Yes, I used the modal helping verb/ebonics combo…. stick with me, White people. That was probably even listed in the breakdown when they auditioned for the part. This is not enough to base a well-rounded character on. Give the girl some family members, a dead parent, a past, a pet, something. Anything other than just a great set of pipes stuffed inside a pudgy shell. Otherwise, we’ll end up watching her interject otherwise cohesive plots with another out-of-the-blue Xtina/church choir number. She did a great job. “I Am Beautiful” is beautiful. But that particular piece didn’t fit into the puzzle of Home. It didn’t fit in with the amazing duet of Schu and April (my hero, Kristin Chenoweth) singing a Burt Bacharach mashup or that little gay boy singing Bacharach’s “A House is Not a Home.”

Oh, and while we’re on the topic… Finn, stop interrupting that little gay boy when he’s singing! Don’t do it again! Ever!

I get that you White people like to keep your cool, pop culture discoveries all to yourselves (Whole Foods, the Prius, NPR, the healing properties of acai berries, etc.). But, dammit, one of you should have told me about this Nutella stuff. It’s the bomb. And, my gift to you: We don’t say “it’s the bomb” anymore. You’re welcome.

Can someone please find the beeyotch from table 11 last night and slowly explain to her that the reason her Paradise Passion Fruit (flavored) Tropical Iced Tea that she makes at home “all the time,” didn’t taste the same as the Paradise Original (unflavored) Tropical Iced Tea that I served her in the restaurant last night is because they aren’t supposed to taste the same. Of course they don’t taste the same. It doesn’t mean I’m lying. It doesn’t mean I’m an incompetent, product-dumb server. It doesn’t mean the restaurant is trying to pull a fast one. One’s passion fruit flavored and one’s black tea — unflavored. And, YOU’RE A STUPID BEEYOTCH! Thank you.

After watching Britian’s Got Talent singer, 12-year-old Shaheen Jafargholi, perform at the Michael Jackson memorial, I thought to myself (and posted to facebook because… that’s my addiction), “I want my own white boy.”

But then I read about Rupert Grint and his bold battle with Swine Flu. Swine Flu?! Get the f out of here. I will now amend my previous statement: I want my own British white boy.

Apparently, they’re hearty.

Between my newly updated iPhone and Facebook, I cannot concentrate on a single, frakkin’ thing. I’m waking up and checking my phone. Not for missed calls from actual people, or even for emails from said actual people. I’m just checking Facebook to find out what trivial crap everybody’s up to. I used to think, “Who cares if you’re waiting in line at Lamps Plus?” or “Who gives a monkey’s poot if you’re sitting next to a stinky person on the train? Deal.” Who cares? Me! Apparently I care more than I can express to non-Facebookers. Are there any? I want to know them. I want to know how they spend their days. And I want to know in 160 characters, placed right under their bolded name and right next to a photo of them, or their cute baby/pet/cartoon icon.