SEX AND THE CITY (1998—2004) is a television series about four females in their mid-thirties, based on a book (1997) under the same name, and made into a film (2008).
12/01/09 | Television

Sex and the City

by Krammer Abrahams

Someone said it was kind of like candy that had been sitting in a bathroom tub for six years.  That doesn’t make sense. I pictured it more as a pack of twizzlers sitting on the dashboard, stewing, aging, baking like leather hides while the rest of the family is off enjoying themselves at the beach. Or maybe it was like the older brother who had the kind of dirty magazines that sometimes showed sex and boobs, but mostly were articles that you and your friends didn’t read because you were thirteen and only cared about seeing something that seemed forbidden and you did this for a couple of years until all of a sudden one day you and your friends went to look at them and all the good parts had been censored out because the older brother had sold the rights to a cable television station.

But I thought about it as candy again and all these ants dressed up like they were on their way to New York for the first time crawled into my head or maybe it was just a bunch of aunts depressed because they weren’t going to New York anymore. I can’t tell. If it was the depressed aunts, not the dressed ants, then they probably just ended up lounging in front of the television dressed as they were still going to New York re-watching old episodes they’ve seen already. Of course, they’re eating right out of the container of sweat pants. I meant ice cream. The sweat pants don’t go on until later. Sometime after season two is complete and they’ve stained their dress because they dropped the spoonful of Chunky Monkey while transitioning from crying to laughing, laughing to crying.

And did I mention these depressed aunts are single? It only makes sense. They’d do well to get themselves a bobble-head doll or some gizmo that never disagrees and is always there for them.  They’ll probably pick up a cute little dog that can fit in their purse and who will hump the little throw pillows on the bed and most importantly not chew up their very best fuck-me shoes. And though I use the expression I am not quite sure if I understand the fuck-me shoe. I only know that you can’t run more than a quarter of a block in them, which seems more than enough to flag down a cab.

I smell popcorn. The twizzlers are roasting on the dashboard. They’re overdone. They’ve dried right up and popped. Just in time for the marriage. Pray that nothing goes wrong or else you’re on the couch with the depressed aunts for all of eternity. All your friends are there for the celebration and you’re like, “Do I look like a dried kernel of popcorn you would find wedge into a movie seat from three days ago?”

Your friends, those bitches, lie right to your face and say you look beautiful and never tell you that your eyes are too close together because that would be kind of mean seeing that it’s not something you can control. But of course it is true and it is pretty noticeable on screen when your head is fifty feet tall and there is still only six inches separating one eye from the other. At least you don’t look as much like the dried popcorn kernel you originally thought. Makeup helps. It adds depth to your character. You look like a popcorn kernel dunked in cake frosting which kind of gives you that Amazon goddess vibe. Actually, I’m joking. There is nothing Amazonian about you. You’re just some old white hag, but you were going for something exotic and thus failed. The bird in your hair didn’t help.

Like I said though, none of your friends told you any of this. The depressed aunts might have been able to before they got sucked in, but now it’s nothing but laughing and crying/crying and laughing. Little squirrels are in the walls, but no one notices. A nuclear cloud forms on an adopted child’s head, but no one notices. She’s just there to say cute funny things when the director points at her. The chatter picks up and all your friends won’t shut up and neither will you and its all, “Love me, color on my vagina, your vagina needs waxing, I’d trade my left vagina for a Louis Vuitton, I think the expression is left nut, I don’t have nuts, I’m pregnant, blah, blah, blah, I shit myself, shoes, shoes, shoes, dicks, dicks…oh he’s gay, quit humping the pillow, haha, my neighbor has a dick.”

Then it ended. The popcorn kernel and all her friends were married I guess. And the curtain fell and all the depressed aunts went wild and cheered and wiped away their tears.