In 1919, we gave women the right to vote, and frankly, after watching Sex and the City, I can’t figure out why. After watching four of the most irritating and moronic women in the world drool over shoes and throw themselves at men because they’re old and desperate, I’m starting to understand why women weren’t allowed out of the kitchen for centuries. I spent most of the film wishing that at some point during their numerous sexual exploits at least one of these women had died of AIDS. I normally support AIDS research, but in any of these cases I would be rooting for the virus, if only to shorten my own agony.
The girls celebrate their labotomies
I’m not saying that all women should be forced to stay indoors at all times, but if I were to make a list of those that should, Sarah Jessica Parker would be at the top. I’m just waiting for whatever demon snakes are writhing in the skin under her neck to burst out and rid the world of her. Never has there been a more hateable character than the vapid Carrie Bradshaw, who alternates between sobbing over Mr. Big and orgasming over Prada purses. I’m only thankful for the no-nudity clause in Parker’s contract that saved my retinas from spontaneously combusting. She and the three clichés—if they were dwarves they would be called Slutty, Prudey, and Dykey—wander aimlessly for a coma-inducing 148 minutes, spouting stupidity at every chance and crying into their cosmopolitans. If anyone wants to know why the terrorists hate us, you only need to sit through Sex and the City. Of course, I would rather go on a Jihad than have to watch this movie ever again.
Posted by Tom Houseman 