(Editorial note: Wanda is a very busy bee folks, so I’ve recycled a post. My apologies if you’ve read this elsewhere.)
My husband, Mr. Rizzuto, is going to photograph a sweet sixteen party in a couple of months. For some reason he thinks that he (and, well, I) should watch “My Super Sweet Sixteen” on MTV. Research and all that. The only time I ever watched this show was when I was stuck between seminars at a conference in Seattle this past summer. For those of you who are unfamiliar, every episode follows an enormously bratty, rich spoiled kid while he/she/it plans the ultimate Super Sweet Sixteen party. The children demand the hottest party in (whatever city) with the biggest Hummer, the bestest venue and the famousest rock star/rapper in MTV-land. And a Mercedes.
The first time I had the pleasure of watching this…this…I don’t know what to call it, I watched a fat kid terrorize her friends, friends parents, her mother and various BMW dealers, all with the tacit approval, if not outright encouragement, of her parents. The next episode (they show them back to back) began with the…the…I don’t know what to call her, demanding a $50,000 mansion for her party. Her father, obviously on the verge of suicide, tried in vain to negotiate with the party planner (“uh…how about $25,000?). The little darling’s reply? “Daaaad, $50,000 is FINE!” Done deal. I exercised my right to change the channel.
Fast forward to this afternoon’s episode. Bitchy McBitch decides she has to have (what else) the best ever party in Atlanta. Emmanuel Lewis, for some reason that escapes me, handed out invitations to her friends. Jermaine Dupree rode with her in the limo. G-Unit made a guest appearance (I‘m still waiting for the footage of him making balloon animals). And they actually shut down Peachtree Street to make way for her grand entrance. The whole time Mr. Rizzuto kept admonishing me not to get angry at “our future clientele.”
It was at this point that I began to think about violent revolution. I felt a oneness with some unknown 18th century French peasants right before the guillotine came down on Marie Antoinette’s neck. Kill them, I say. Kill them all. Chop them into little pieces and feed them to the poor. Scatter the pieces across Peachtree Street.
I don’t know about you, but I for one can’t wait for my daughter to demand the best ever sweet sixteen party. At that time I will revisit the time honored tradition of making the child cut down her own ass-beating switch. I will beat her while reading aloud from The Communist Manifesto. Or I’ll just keep my mouth shut and do what Richard Pryor once said: beat her with the whole tree.
It’s not that I don’t love my kids. Of course I do. She can have a sweet sixteen party. There’s plenty of room in my back yard. And I’ve got a 2000 Toyota Echo with her name on it. I just think that obscene displays such as this are, well, disgusting. And MTV sucks for broadcasting it. Well, MTV sucks in general, but in particular because of this show.
Before you call the commie police on me, by the way, it turns out that I won’t need the guillotine after all. About halfway into the party the young lady’s “best friend” appeared, sweaty and stumbling across the room. As she tried to help him into the bathroom he threw up all over her.
Who needs bloody revolution when you’ve got karma?