I love Nicole so much, and I’m getting hit with the yearbook feelings, where I want to grab all of you in the hallways and make you promise that we are really going to keep in touch, and I have been going through her archives this week and I wanted to remind you of some of her greatest hits. WE NEVER APPRECIATED HER ENOUGH.
1. “omigod”: Used to signify either great love for something, shock at its existence, or as a polite way to respond to something for which one’s legitimate response might be impolitic.
2. “perffff”: Used to acknowledge that the arrangement proposed by the recipient is acceptable and they should proceed forward with said plan.
3. “kkkkkk”: Used to express that the sender now understands what the recipient has been attempting to explain.
4. “lol”: Used when forwarding things from people who are being dicks, but the sender thinks the point should nonetheless be examined.
1. Why don’t restaurants just tack on a service charge and distribute it to the staff, and then they can all live equitably together in a cooperative housing development with a chore wheel, as they do in Europe? Wouldn’t that work better?
2. Yes, because European waiters are renowned the world over for their tact and lack of condescension. SMDH.
3. If we get rid of tipping, by what mechanism will I be able to goad an attractive younger woman into letting me vaguely sexually harass her for forty minutes twice a week?
“Hi, I’m Aragon, son of Gilraen, son of Ivorwen. Would you or your mother like to rest your feet on me?”
“Hi, I’m Celeborn, but you can call me Ofgaladriel.”
4. Stop trying to make “vulva” happen. “Vulva” is never going to happen.
5. As a man, I can tell you: it’s a hygiene issue. I just prefer to be with women who take care of themselves.
6. When is this going to end? In three years, are we going to have to wax off our eyebrows or be told we’re dirty hippies now? “First they came for my pits, but I said nothing.”
7. Way to devalue the Holocaust with your bullshit rich white feminist non-issue. You want to know about real suffering? Each one of my fingers and toes was pulled out by the roots and used to create a crown for an evil prince, which he wears while executing women who have spoken in public.
Things I Regret Not Saying to the Hostess at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel Bar…when she said my male friend had to leave because “gentlemen are required to wear long pants after eight pm,” and it was 97 degrees out and the bar was totally empty. Which she had every right to do, because it’s a private establishment and she did not set the policy.
“He really came in at 12:00 on that pitch meeting.”
“Craig, you let the bottom end fall towards you on this one.”
“Oh, he’ll toss it if someone else carries it.”
“Jane has a 87% mindset and a 63% track record.”
1. Allison Janney’s performance as C.J. Cregg on The West Wing.
2. Using the Boer War as a metaphor for things that are really, really old.
3. Informing someone that “flaccid” used to be pronounced “flak-sid,” but “flass-id” DOES sound more appropriate given the image it creates.
4. When you are six minutes away from bailing on someone so you can stay home and watch TV, and they cancel on you first.
How did it come to this?
There’s nothing wrong with dark chocolate, let’s just get that out of the way. I have frequently eaten and enjoyed dark chocolate. What I object to, in part, is the moving of goalposts on what constitutes dark chocolate. Ten years ago, if you purchased chocolate containing 60% cocoa mass, it came with warning labels and was invariably and offensively named after an African nation or river. ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO CONSUME OUR AWASH VALLEY BAR, etc. 60% was out there.
And, at 60%, chocolate is pretty good. It’s, whatever, sort of red wine-y and interesting and it’s not sickeningly sweet. I like stuff dipped in it. Swirl it with some peanut butter, everyone’s happy.
But, somewhere along the line, they broke out the 85%, and it’s bullshit.
BENEDICT: During the second week of Hamlet, my publicist asked me if I could meet briefly with a fan. It’s a common enough request, and, of course, I dread it. But he said, “look, she’s written a bunch of odd, intrusive, sexual stories about you, and this brilliant, as-yet-unpublished scholarly monograph on two leading pieces of Mystrade fanfic–”
BENEDICT (waves dismissively): It’s the imagined pairing of Lestrade and Mycroft, it’s the only slash worth reading, it’s brilliant, it makes so much sense.
REPORTER: Do they share screentime?
BENEDICT: They do not.
REPORTER: …you were saying.
BENEDICT: Yes! I quickly read her work, and the rare purity of her wit and the warmth of her soul leapt off the printouts from Tumblr and into my heart and my mind and made a home there. “Let her in,” I said, hoarsely. “Please, leave us alone.” We only had twenty minutes. I fell deeply and hopelessly in love with her, I begged her to stay longer.
REPORTER: Why didn’t she? Did she not return your affections?
BENEDICT: She’s married. She’s married, and she has a child. I told her I would marry her at once, the instant she obtained a divorce. I told her that if she had objections to divorce, I would simply move in next door to her and respond instantly to her texts about her favourite television shows, her favourite 1970s singer-songwriters, whatever portmanteaus of doughnuts and pies and cakes are being created in the bakeries of Manhattan. That I would wait forever, just to help her trim her vicious cat’s claws, and ask nothing in return, except to sample the delights of her muscular body whenever her husband was briefly away from home.
This is how the entire series began, by the way: If Channing Tatum Were Your Boyfriend
“I start with the Lord’s Prayer, because it’s like a little incantation that places a barrier between me watching Brooklyn Nine Nine and me engaging in a searching moral inventory of my life, which, personally, I find is a big help.”
She was too good for this world. Let us go out and endeavor to be worthy of her.
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.