Why is everyone on this show so damn beautiful? Would it kill Shonda Rhimes to hire an average-looking person for us not-so-beautiful, common folk? Perfect complexion gets old after a while, doesn’t it? Bring on the flaws! At least give us one person with acne and thinning hair. Let us know that we are not the only ones who use dandruff shampoo and high intensity, prescribed deodorant. Those “doctors” (more like unstoppable sex machines) run around that hospital all day and don’t even break a sweat. All I have to do is run up a flight of stairs and immediately I look like I’ve been frying up Pad Thai noodles in the back of a van for eight hours. Give us some oily skin or at least some sweat beads on the upper lip. Shonda please, if I wanted a low self-esteem I’d be watching America’s Next Top Model. I come to you for hardcore flesh wounds and facial deformities and, I’ll admit, to watch everyone bump uglies in the supply closet.
Meredith Grey, you selfish, ungrateful b-word. Could you please stop complaining about your relationship with McDreamy? If you were dating Grody Joe, a reeking, unemployed hillbilly from Kansas, I’d understand, but we’re talking about the guy from Can’t Buy Me Love. And he’s a doctor. If I were a meek, unstable person, you would bring me to insanity. I can see myself rocking back and forth in a corner: white robes, frazzled hair, lipstick smeared across my face, whispering, “I will destroy you Grey,” to myself. Do us single people a favor and cut the crap. And stop bothering Christina. Her fiancé was thrown off the show. She doesn’t need to hear you babbling about your so-called relationship woes. “Poor me. I don’t want to commit to a perfect, gorgeous doctor who loves me even though I whine and squeal more than a truckload of wild pigs.” Not since George Clooney on E.R. has there been a more perfect fictional doctor that all women, and some men, want, and you have the audacity to complain? About McDreamy? The closest I’ve come to a Mc-anything was last Halloween when a 40-year old in a Ronald McDonald costume groped me in the Escape From Insanity haunted house queue. So, please Grey, save the drama for your mama. Oh that’s right, she’s dead.
Izzie Stevens, you are next. I’m going to word this in the least violent way possible: I hope you get severely injured in a fiery crash. You know that 45-car pileup on The Matrix? Well, you would be in the black SUV that does a 360 in mid-air and then gets blown to bits by Agent Smith. We’re talking broken bones, disfigurations, loss of everyday bodily functions, the works. I used to like you. You were the adorable girl next door. Now you are the girl next door’s obnoxious sister crashing at her place for a couple months, eating all her cereal and leaving your undergarments in inappropriate places. You are overstaying your welcome and you need to be dealt with. You don’t just kill my most beloved character, Denny, and get away with it. Because you did, you killed him. We are heading in opposite directions, you and I. We will be much better off out of each other’s lives. Oh, and stop saying “seriously” all the damn time. Seriously.
This article appears in Oct 1-7, 2008.