Hell Hath No Fury… Like
Uptown’s News Reporter
Marlo Campbell

love year-in-review specials. Twelve months boiled down into one succinct list of the people and events that shaped our collective consciousness. They’re perfect for short attention spans — such as mine.

Natural disasters got big coverage in 2005. Hell hath no fury like Mother Nature scorned, and I think we finally succeeded in pissing her off, what with the polluting and the clear-cutting and the greenhouse gases and all.

Throughout the year, ‘news stories’ seemed more like voyeuristic snapshots of people’s misery than anything else. There was a never-ending parade of disaster victims every time I turned on my TV.

Networks are becoming very efficient at packaging up blood, guts and acts of God into slick montages for our viewing pleasure. Now they come complete with ominous music and catchy taglines. It’s a bit embarrassing, frankly. No matter how well-produced a segment might be, ambulance chasing is still not cool.

Neither, for that matter, are news reports that don’t actually report on anything. When a young American girl goes missing in Aruba, that’s news. The fact she’s still missing weeks later cannot be called ‘a break in the story.’ Got that, Nancy Grace? Talk to me when something actually happens.

Like a bombing. The London attacks gave American politicians all the justification they needed to continue fighting their war on terror.

Call me a nitpicker, but I also take issue with the glaring overuse of the words ‘terrorist’ and ‘evil-doer’ this year. The English language has so many other wonderful, descriptive words to choose from — whatever happened to ‘crazed gunman’ or ‘angry mob’ or ‘commie bastard?’

Thankfully, amidst all the violence and destruction on TV in 2005, there were still plenty of hot chicks to look at. Decades ago, television and advertising executives figured out how to get rich using women’s asses, and while this sales technique grows increasingly more archaic (not to mention offensive and ridiculous) with each passing year, the formula remains virtually unchanged.

Then there was the new crop of young female musicians who tried to capture our attention. Despite inane song lyrics and terrible awards-show performances they seemed determined to be seen as legitimate artists.

Here’s my problem: these same young women promoted themselves by wearing as little clothing as possible and gyrating like 15-year-old mall rats on the prowl at every opportunity. Even Avril put a skirt on.

Generally I have no problem with a woman using her body to make some cash — if shrieking in ecstacy over shampoo pays the rent, more power to you. Every woman’s a prostitute nowadays— some of us just get paid more than others. Right, Madonna?

I felt most sorry for Jessica Simpson this year. I think she actually believes she’s a singer. Reality check, Jessica — no one’s listening to you when you’re humping the General Lee in a bikini. And please try to contain your breasts before you take someone’s eye out.

Venting is so cathartic — I think I’m ready for 2006 now.