“Hey guys, look! It’s Phoebe! Boy I hope her plot line takes over this episode.”
Is this something you’ve ever heard said? Out loud? If the answer is yes, you must be Phoebe Buffay.
You’re probably wearing a tie-dye thermal with lightwash overalls, pig tails, a strange green jacket, a weird necklace, and middle aged woman “arty” shoes.
You’re probably “quirky” “eccentric” “weird” “silly” “fun-loving” and “outlandish”.
You’re probably even holding a guitar and singing everyone’s favorite Central Perk open mic tune, “Smelly Cat.”
And lastly, you’re probably the most irritating B-character I’ve ever had the displeasure of looking at/listening to. WHO ARE YOU, FEMALE JOEY? You’ve got some crazy disjointed episodes about your twin, (who is obviously just fucking you so why are we suspending disbelief for a fucking second), some romance with Giovanni Ribisi (is he your brother or boyfriend? I don’t…), and some license to talk/interact with the more popular Friends that actually have lives, jobs, and sense of logic.
Maybe they feel bad for you. Maybe they find your idiosycracies charming.
Or maybe, like me, they’d just wish you’d pack your macramé bag, grab your baby no one remembers, and get the fuck off television.
If the internet had been as ubiquitous then as it was now, I guarantee you that the worry line marred Mrs. Matthews would have been googling your address and just waiting to see the sex offender registry website pop up.
Seriously, dude, fuck you. Get a life, buy some kid’s swimsuit catalogs and go move to a hut in the middle of the woods. I’m tired of watching you follow these fresh faced innocent boys through every grade of k-12 and then into college too. They have too much to live for.
By the way, you creepy old jerk, your tutelage hasn’t seemed to help these victims at all. Eric, whom you took a keen interest in, had so thoroughly devolved by the time he hit college that he didn’t even resemble the confident cool dude he once was. Cory had become an effeminate madman. Topanga a hysteric. The only cool people I saw were that redhead, that black chick, and the hot Lawrence brother. They seemed pretty normal, because they never had to stumble upon you, conveniently out in the garden once again.
Good luck sleeping at night, either from guilt or excitement over the new Matthews boy that the (ancient, old, most certainly menopausal) Mrs. Matthews miraculous gave birth to. Just wait at least three years before you start inviting him over to help with your azaleas and then flashing your wrinkled, nasty balls at him.
Look, JD, buddy, I know you’re amazed. We all are. We’re all amazed by the power, the mastery, the ‘je ne sais quoi’ of Criss Angel. His impact on society is insurmountable. But…why are you there? We know from the interview caption you’re his “brother”. Or you’d like us to think so. But you’re not him, JD. You’re not Criss. And pretending your presence is important is annoying and hacky. You’re nothing but a mortal piece of Long Island garbage.
So stop your tears, cut your disgusting excuse for hair, and get away from our Mindfreak.
Fuck both of you. You think your town is so goddam cute and filled with such quirky, funny people. I’ve got news for you. It’s filled with freaks. And you two are no exception. You think talking so fast makes us think you’re smart, do you? Well, let me tell you something. It just makes you sound vaguely autistic. So go to your crappy diner, eat another cheese burger, make a joke about loving coffee and a reference to a band that I’m supposed to think is cool, and then choke on a fry.
Ahh the good old days of Rock’n’Roll when men were fighters, women were lovers, and you, Rufus Humphrey, apparently mattered. Remember them?
Oh no, you couldn’t possibly. Because now you’re a busy single dad trying his best, and boy does it show:
• Trashy, whore 16-year-old daughter flees the city after your failed attempts at parenting allow her to lose her v-card to her former rapist.
• Dork, know-it-all son moves from hot blond (your stepdaughter) to arty minority girl next door (your basic stepdaughter), writing/shitting all the way through. And you’re there to wait at home in neglect, making carbonara for the children who don’t love you.
• Widowed, money-grabbing wife settles after her breadwinner dies, making you the disposable trophy husband. But you’ve still got your looks…right?
Grab your guitar, your 1-cup gourmet espresso, and your Urban Outfitters pullover and suck a fuck.
I’ve got a question for you, Garfield. Why the fuck do you hate Mondays so much? I spend my Mondays at work, like I spend my Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. What the fuck do you do all week? You sit around and eat, you fat asshole, so stop complaining. I hope you get feline aids and die, but that would mean you have to get laid and, you know what, I don’t see that happening you fat, lazy, rude ingrate of a cat.