Ms. J. Blige,
You have done a great disservice to the women and men of these fair intertubes. Your song “No More Drama” has insinuated itself into the hearts and minds of the ladyfolk. Thanks to you, Drama is now a catch-all for any trait, habit, addiction, looming prison sentence, marriage status, abundance of neglected children, infectious disease, super-power, lack of super-power, possibility of being a Cylon sleeper agent, pimple, lack of prestige (pimp-mobile), or any other behavior/attribute that a woman might find uncompelling. You have conned women into thinking that they should no longer be conned.
Thanks for fucking it up for us.
But let us ask you: what is drama? What comprises drama? Is it the masculine version of Crazy Chick Shit? Or is it meant to signify some sort of artfulness where there is clearly none? Is it some sort of displaced daddy complex which you have superimposed onto the deadbeat-dad of your literary hearts, Joseph Campbell?
Because an end to Drama is an end to heroes. And if there are no heroes, then the terrorists win. Which would most likely make club-night a little less fun.
Why is it that every personal ad including the “No Drama!” admonition seems to come from a person not only schooled in Drama, but to this day steeped in it? And what constitutes the lack of drama? Does the presence of home-ownership, straight teeth, or bling call to rest any notion of Drama?
On a related note, there is the debate since time immemorial over Crazy Chick Shit. Nothing upsets a gaggle of women like receiving the news that they are, or may at some point be, overwhelmingly full of Crazy Chick Shit. Go ahead, try it at your local park or library. Watch them flap about, pecking and squawking about how sexist that particular term is.
If we can’t use the term Crazy Chick Shit, then you can’t have Drama. It’s like that. It just has to be this way. Saying you hate Drama is now officially Crazy Chick Shit. Yes, it’s official; look it up. I’ll wait.
I rather enjoy Drama at times, Battlestar Galactica in particular. And we in turn understand your need for televised Crazy Chick Shit; we know not to post on Craigslist while House or Lost is on. We get it. (That’s usually when we take pictures of our penises.)
Let us count the things that we would all lose, should there truly be no more Drama:
- Flowers. Flowers are a heroic gesture. Bad people do not bring flowers. And if they do, it’s to sweeten you up to some really shitty news.
- Bryan Adams songs. Just ask G.O.B. and Franklin.
- Swordplay. Deny a man his right to fence and you deny him his pride. And his right to ask for the next item…
- Anal sex. The most heroic of the Campbellian articles. It is what makes the world go round.
- Hugh Laurie. An end to Drama would implode all the anti-matter in the universe, and it is well-known that Hugh Laurie is composed entirely of anti-matter.
- Gum. Gum is bite-sized happiness, and happiness is made out of gelatinized Drama. And aspartame. So get used to chewing on sticks.
- Jane Austen. Without Drama, Austen’s books would be overlong monologues about dowries and taffeta.
- Rock n’ roll. Because the bandana is Drama.
You see? Without Drama, we’d all be clinically depressed and surrounded by a flowerless world where nobody gets to have any anal sex, and listening to nothing but twee and watching Lifetime Movie Network and Rock of Love reruns.
Come on now. I’m asking you nicely. Give me back my Drama. And cut that stupid Crazy Chick Shit out.
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