13 January 2009
so we need to talk about gossip girl. (i'm going to assume that all of my friends are as cultured and with it as me and likewise cling to the television set every monday night between the hours of 7 and 8 cst.)
last night's gg taught us many, many things. among them- that blair's boobs can best blake lively's. that alongside the on-going Ed Westwick Sir Laurence Olivier-esque Acting Extravaganza, all those other upper eastsiders appear to be rehearsing lines for a senior play. and that lily and rufus have learned nothing about the importance of abstinence (oooooh, the birth parents of our secret love child won't let us meet him. let's fuck.)
but overall, i think from these 39 minutes we can glean three fundamental caveats:
(1) never have a secret love child. not because it will destroy your marriage and indirectly kill your husband and send your pissed off step-son into a downward spiral that climaxes with him nearly tipping off a building and ending his life. and not because secrets are bad. no. never have a secret love child because despite living in a city of a kabazillion people, your future (non-secret) child will inevitably wind up dating the future (non-secret) child of the person with whom you had the secret love child and the revelation of the existence of your secret love child will create a huge big 17-minute existential conundrum of omg. we can't date now because it's all icky!
(2) never accept the gift of prostitutes from an uncle. it is but a clever ruse intended to reveal your clumsy inability to strip said prostitutes down past their underwear (are we seriously supposed to believe chuck bass would stop there?) and expose you to an unknown morality clause in your recently deceased father's will, thus preventing you from assuming your 60% claim in the family business and diverting the subsequent world domination to the clutches of your evil uncle, who did something- no doubt dirty, disgusting, and very very vile- to your girlfriend (sidekick? lover? wench?) on new year's eve.
(3) flowers do not solve everything. though a girl will perform in a speakeasy, surrender her virginity in the back of a limo, endure comparison to a horse ridden hard and put away wet, and rescue you from an 18th century opiate den, say the wrong thing and flowers (even when combined with slapping the elevator door like it's your little bitch) cannot make it better.
lessons to live by, people. lessons to live by.