Unless you've been trapped unconscious in a glacier on Mount Rainier for the last decade, you know that former Stranger staffer Lindy West once got in a Slog fight with Dan Savage about snarky comments about fat people. Lindy's post was called "Hello, I Am Fat" and Savage's response was called, "Hello, I'm Not the Enemy." It was a classic Slog shitshow of the old-school variety (why don't we have shitshows like we used to? Arguing about Chase's poops doesn't count!), and it divided the office and my own brain, because both of them were right, both of them exaggerated, and both of them were wrong.
Lindy has since turned the interaction into a book, a This American Life segment, and a TV show. The TV show is supposedly fiction (the protagonist has a different name, the publication has a different name, it's set in Portland instead of Seattle) but there is still a pivotal showdown over a blog post called "Hello, I Am Fat." (I haven't seen the Hulu show yet myself, but I have been told by someone who's seen it that the mean-spirited boss character is an amalgamation of Savage and Sean Nelson and me. Great.)
Since the show is out today, a lot of people are googling "Hello, I Am Fat" and "Hello, I Am Not the Enemy," and since a lot of people are googling those things, our digital editor Chase Burns asked me (the person who hired Lindy) to put up some of Lindy's other writing for The Stranger, for all those people who weren't frantically refreshing The Stranger's website between 2009 and 2011.
Anything you want, Mr. Burns! (By the way, how are your BMs today?)
Without further ado:
The Different Kinds of People That There Are
"Listen, old people. Pigeons do not love you. Much like robots and the British, pigeons do not have the capacity to feel love. They only have the capacity to desire croutons. And when you spread infinity croutons across the grass outside MY house, for the purpose of making pigeons love you (WHICH WILL NEVER HAPPEN), the only result is infinite feces. I now have to walk upon feces-encrusted streets through a feces-encrusted world. Because of you and your delusions of pigeon love. Stop it."
A Review of the Billboard Top 10
"Sometimes Katy Perry feels like a plastic bag. You know? It's probably because she's made of plastic and is literally a bag."
A Review of Din Tai Fung
"Xiaolongbao, like pizza, is one of those divisive foods that's almost too annoying to talk about. Everyone has an OPINION, and everyone is RIGHT, and everyone ELSE is a degenerate hayseed with the palate of a sucking chest wound. See, because Sally-Sue had them in New York and those are the real ones, but Jammy-Josh went to this place in L.A. and those are the best ones, and Marky-Mark is disgusted that anyone would ever eat xiaolongbao outside of Vancouver because, um, he cares about authenticityyyyy?, and fuck you all because Frankie-Fronk flies all the way to Shanghai every day on his lunch break but go ahead and eat rancid baby socks stuffed with pork-flavored clay if that's what you're into."
A Review of Sex and the City 2
"It is 146 minutes long, which means that I entered the theater in the bloom of youth and emerged with a family of field mice living in my long, white mustache. This is an entirely inappropriate length for what is essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls."
A Review of the Game of Thrones Books
"Basically—here is the dark, mewling shame-baby that's been calcifying for years in my brain-womb (medical term)—I will read anything with a fucking fictional map in the front."
A Review of The Beaver Starring Mel Gibson
"Over the course of my medium-length life, I have wanted many things. Pizza, for instance (right now). And the widest bell-bottoms possible (7th grade). And a 'beading loom' (you were right, Mom). And world peace (psych, I'm totally a war profiteer!). But never, ever have I wanted anything as much as I want to reveal the ending of The Beaver to you in this column right now."
A Review of Uneeda Burger
"If my mother were a cow, I would still eat this hamburger. If I were a hamburger, I would eat this hamburger."
A Complete Herstory of Women in Music
"Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait. Women? Playing music? What'll they think of next!? Dogs playing poker? Asians playing hooky? Women playing doctor? In actual hospitals? (It's just a sexy laugh until somebody gets their menses all over the equipment. Bone saws don't grow on trees, you know.) Well. It's come to my attention that the ladies have organized a little coffee klatch for themselves to do their little ditties and jangle their little jingles and toot their little lady-flutes out in a field somewhere. They call it 'Thee Lilith Faire' and I guess it has something to do with the Renaissance. And turkey legs and flagons of my lord's finest oak-matured mead. And Bioré strips. And, of course, vibrators. Am I riiiiiight, laaaaaaadies!? Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt."
Worst Popes Ever
"Arguably the most hilarious dick move in the history of tumescence..."
Five Rough Drafts
"I mean, seriously, seashells. What's the deal? Okay, you're a crab's house. You're a mollusk's skin. You're a mermaid's brassiere. You're walrus currency. But what ARE you really? Are you more like a fingernail or more like a bone? Are you alive? Do you start small and then grow bigger and bigger until you need to be filed down so you don't rupture your own brain, like a hamster's tooth can? I know that hippies and date rapists wear you as a necklace—does that ever bother you? (By 'that' I mean either the exploitation of your body for bad human fashion or the cultural connotations implicit in necklaces made of you.) Do you get cold? Do you get bored? How do your hinges work? That squishy stuff inside you—is that a part of you, or are you like its landlord? Or are you the apartment, the squishy stuff is the tenant, and Poseidon is the landlord? Do you just fucking hate seagulls? I do. One time I was at the beach and this seagull took a shit (did you know bird poop is also bird pee? You might not know about air things, seeing as you live underwater) and it landed on my face, and my 'friend' was all, 'Don't try to wipe it off, just let it dry there and it'll crumble off on its own.' So I walked around for hours with this bird shit on my eye, just waiting for it to dry. And guess what? It didn't dry. It just got kind of sticky and then my eyelid was stuck shut with feces-glue—and when I pried it open, some of the feces fell in my bag..."