Last night, to the delight of millions, Bravo aired yet another episode of Miss Advised, a documentary series produced by the late Nora Ephron, who, in what would be her final interviews, lovingly described the program as her “deeply personal tribute to women everywhere who embody feminism’s ideals.”
And I didn’t watch it.
But since I am now unemployed, hate blogging is essentially my job now, so I must not neglect my sacred duty of chronicling an exhaustive wealth of character-damning evidence for the inevitable murder and/or animal cruelty trial. (Plead insanity, Julsie! We will all totally believe it!) So allow me to cobble together an episode recap based on what I am able to surmise took place based on your aghast expressions of revulsion and horror on our open thread and Julia’s masturbatory treatise on her clinically disturbing refusal to grow the fuck up. (Seriously, you could almost smell her lady juices dripping off that dribble.) So, you’ll forgive me if I just start making shit up. Don’t burn me at the stake or anything if I am wrong. It’s not like I’m a journalist or anything, seeing as that my writing has only appeared online and not in print.
From what I can gather, Julia continued to mistakenly believe that it was a good idea to act like a shrieking, developmentally stunted lunatic on national television. Step 1: Incite a nationwide exodus of penis blood. Step 2: Oh, who the hell knows? No one can seriously expect this husky nincompoop to think that far ahead. She’s either looking into her warped mirror or leaching onto her already traumatized ex-boyfriends like a soul-sucking dybbuk, or she is romanticizing the period of her life when she was an awkward-looking, roundly hated, spoiled tramp. (To clarify, I mean high school.)
That seems to encapsulate the episode for me, but since recaps require things like plot summaries and details, I’ll press on.
Let me see, Julia’s decade-long quest to be the inspiration for a dozen or so supremely stupid women who use Twitter sputtered forth this week by continuing to delude audiences into believing that Julia had this thing called a “job” during filming. Because I guess watching some chick loaf around in her apartment all day wearing tensely stressed yoga pants would make for horrible television.
So, yes, Julia has this job. At Elle. As a dating columnist. Which she got all on her own. With her solid record of intelligent, insightful reporting on man-woman machinations and other journalismy things. And the glowing references of her former employers. As I have said before, just go with it. I learned after the first episode that if you want to avoid a massive head injury from repeatedly bashing your head against a brick wall, you simply must accept the unabashed pathological lies as “tools for entertainment.” Kind of like Mike Daisey and that Apple/FoxConn thing, but with horrible, horrible ladies.
So now that we got that out of the way, JULIA IS SUPER STRESSED ABOUT HER JOB, YO! You know, the job where her sole responsibility is to take advantage of several months of lead time to string together a few hundred words wherein she simply has to describe events as they happened to her, events that are already conveniently written down and described by reality show story editors. Basically, her job is to deliver the equivalent of a “My Summer Vacation in Pound Town” report on the first day of school, which incidentally is something she totally would have done. This is the same obnoxious Scarlet Asshole who wrote an opinion piece that championed the acceptance of co-ed sleepovers for horny teenagers in HIGH SCHOOL, a controversial piece that appeared in her high school newspaper IN PRINT, which I guess makes her some sort of Dookie Harlot of journalism, which begs the question: Exactly what is she having a pretend emotional breakdown about again if she’s been a “journalist” for what amounts to nearly half her life?
I have no idea. Like, I said. I didn’t watch the show, but what I got from all the air that she was blowing up her own ass over on the Bravo website is that she is so impassioned about writing (um. . . err. . . whatnow?) that when it comes time for her to write she almost always completely in capable of writing. OK, then! She calls it “writer’s anxiety.”
My “writer’s anxiety” (which sometimes morphs into the more virulent and better known “writer’s block”) isn’t exactly a new phenomenon with me, but it’s gotten exponentially more severe in the last few years. It manifests as an almost debilitating concern over how others will perceive my words, leading frequently to procrastination and temporary paralysis over articles that (in theory) I *want* to do — subjects that are engaging and intellectually stimulating and even, dare I say, fun. [TRANSBRAYTION: Subjects known as "Julia Allison"]
I call it “being a lazy, talentless asshole.” Yes, Julia Allison loves the job so much that she absolutely hates doing the fundamental aspect of the job. Need I remind you that this is a career she “decided upon” from a limitless array of non-existent opportunities that would showcase her innumerable imaginary talents. I’m not even going to bother to mention the NON-EXISTENT WRITING CAREER.
And, yes, I’ll admit that writers often do experience paralysis when transmitting their words to a page. But, COME ON, it’s not like she’s reporting on some complicated and gravely important issue. It’s Julia Allison writing about Julia Allison, specifically about how monumentally screwed up she is. Jesus, Donks, just crib from here if it’ll make things easier for you. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve committed plagiarism. Just quit it with the crocodonkey tears, asshole. Your eyelashes are frightening the children and arachnophobes who are already being subjected to unspeakable horror.
So yeah, if I am to believe from the collective “Bitch, please” that cried out from the internet last night, there was some hee-hawing and boo-hooing about who she can’t write her column and her column is going to be late. And she didn’t have “moving” to use as an excuse, because the only things that were moving during this time was a relocating Jack McCain and the injected Crisco in her face. OH NOES!
So to summarize: Julia Allison is cast in a reality show with a premise that operates on the roundly untrue supposition that she has a successful career as a dating columnist. She is then given an undeserved opportunity to write for the website of an actually internationally known fashion magazine. And all she has to do is write eight short blog posts about her favorite topic: herself. Plus, she has several months to transform the first drafts from me, me, me diary entries into intelligently written pieces that resonate with Elle’s online readers. In return, she is given a generous opportunity to showcase her talent, her writing, and her work ethic on widely distributed platform that, in theory, could lead to more lucrative opportunities. But from what I can recall despite my desperate attempts to erase the memory of this show from my brain, she immediately asked for an deadline extension for her first assignment, made a passing mention that she was incredibly late in meeting another deadline, and had a fake emotional breakdown about the possibility of missing of yet another.
So I’m assuming there are eight columns based on the number of episodes in Miss Advised’s
first sole season. And she was late, thus far, for three of them, leaving five. Do me a favor and count to five using your hand. Now give yourself an exasperated faceplam on Julia’s behalf.
So, yes, Julia actually sucks at her imaginary job. But that’s not important. Who cares about being a mature, responsible adult when this episode is about two of Julia Allison’s favorite topics: the sparkly snowflake that is Julia Allison, and prom.
While Julia is all woe-is-hee-hawing about how difficult her job is, the latest charlatan in the Guinea Pig of Love Snakeoil Parade arrives at the shabby shit condo to butter up ol’ Butter Face. It’s apparently this dude who describes himself as a “mind architect” and “happiness expert.”
And made-up profession or no, you really have to hand it to Dolf Lundgren making such a drastic career change after the death of the 80’s action film. So while the past few “experts” have basically been all: “Wow, you are a gigantic psychotic asshole,” Dolf is all, “Yeah, you.” He still thinks that Julia is faker than her YSLs. How could he not? He was looking right at her face. So from what I understand, he still called her out for her inauthenticity, but he’s, I don’t know, more happy about it? I’d read up a little more on what this guy actually does, but Julia’s link to her Elle column does not link to her Elle column, which, if I may be so allowed to attempt my very best Peter Pettigrew, “What the Elle is going on over there, amiright?”
I genuinely hope that Julia is seeing the thematic thread that is woven in all the advice she’s getting from these hucksters and devil worshippers — that she’s faker than her made up job, and that she is a gigantic asshole as a result. But I’m going to assume that all these people politely saying what we’ve been saying for years flew right over her gigantic head, because she had to run off to clip-in her plastic hair for her epic prom date.
Yes, Julia Allison had another prom-themed date. On national television. At the age of 31. With the face that makes her appear much, much older. And she wore her original prom dress. And claimed that it still fits after 13 years, causing Russian Girl to spit take her precious potato juice and say to her goat, “I have no the understands. She fat now.”
So apparently Julia’s date this week was with that DJ Jelly Roll dude, who we’ve heard so much about, specifically regarding Julia’s inauthentic portrayal of the seriousness of their relationship. Because it really was a storied love affair in which Julia visited him like three times and was chasing after that rich Mind Candy dude the entire time.
So, yeah, I don’t know. Maybe someone can fill me in. Apparently there was a lot of heehawing about how awesome prom is and she made Andrew rent a tux and there was yet ANOTHER limo, and I fail to think of a single situation outside of maybe a wedding where the average adult would rent one and not look like a tacky asshole. But we already know that Julia is a tacky asshole. Tralalalala all but said so. (And you just know she thought it. Particularly when she correctly thought better than to touch Julia’s greasy fake hair. Truly the finest moment in this entire documentary series.)
So yeah, apparently their prom date didn’t involve a prom. It just involved them dressing up like they were going to prom and roaming the streets looking like Looney Tunes fucktards. I’m guessing. Apparently they went to a food truck, where they got, I’ll just say tacos, before Bancroft stuffed Julia’s taco. Oh, and something about Julia being THAT ASSHOLE who stands outside the sunroof of a limousine screaming like a Banshee who had too many strawberry daiquiris. Oh, and she apparently got a kiss from Jelly Bean, but I am unclear as to whether or not she had to face rape him for it. I am not really sure on how the episode ends, but I guarantee you that a certain donkey wore out the batteries on her vibrator after the the cameras left for the day as she rode the orgasmic high of yet again forcing a dude to act out the fantasy of a reliving a night when she attended a cheaply catered high school dance where everyone danced to some Chumbawumba and everyone wished that someone would just knock that stupid bitch down and shut her the fuck up. Basically the train of thought of her fellow classmen was like what you are reading here but in the days before blogs got popular and everyone still used Angelfire. Because it was 1999, and that was 13 years ago, and someone needs to grow the fuck up already.
Yeah, I seriously don’t get her obsession with prom. Wasn’t she dumped right before it? For being an asshole? Since her prom obsession continues to confound me, I’ll just let Julia explain it herself, as I back slowly out of the room.
To me, prom is a moving art installation rife with opportunities for creative expression. It’s the first time in most people’s young lives that they have an opportunity to wear formal wear, for one. And there’s something special about a group of people — be they at a graduation or a dance or a charity event or a wedding — all dressed up with someplace to go, someplace reminiscent of 1950s Americana, like the Enchantment Under the Sea dance in Back to the Future or Betsey Johnson’s ‘50s prom-inspired collection. (If I were making the calls, prom would always be set in 1955. But with iPhone cameras.)
So Prom = Fancy White People and Julia is just the fanciest butter bean. Got it.