The term “guilty pleasure” implies that you have to feel guilt for enjoying something. Sometimes you hate that you love what you love. Considering I have absolutely no shame, the guilt in my guilty pleasures is more implicit than explicit, but we all have those things we’d rather not admit we enjoy (I see you, Gleeks). I like to tell people I like my guilty pleasures “ironically”— as in, I will “ironically” go to the midnight premiere of that Twilight movie … But honestly, I have some pretty low brow interests. Tomorrow, I’ll probably be wondering why I ever released them for print. Here are some politically, socially and morally incorrect things I should probably not tell you that I enjoy:
The Biggest Loser: Okay, in all seriousness, I know this show is an inspiration to millions of overweight or unfit Americans, struggling with their body image and finally finding the motivation to — fuck it. I like consuming entire pints of Ben & Jerry’s while watching lardy Midwesterners crawl their way through half-marathons. There’s something so luxurious (and yes, sadistic) about being a fat ass while watching others suffer for being a fat ass. “Run, Forest, Run,” I bark at the television as I double-fist the Cherry Garcia and Phish Food, Dorito dust speckling my chin.
Procrastination: I don’t know anyone who doesn’t procrastinate, but the extent to which I procrastinate is almost criminal. You know that episode of Spongebob where he puts off writing that essay for boating school? Well, that basically describes my entire academic career — accomplishing so little in a day that I literally doubt my own self worth is pretty much my baseline emotion.
Not Shaving for Awkwardly Long Periods of Time: I’m Asian. Hairlessness is pretty much the one evolutionary advantage Asians have. Nonetheless, I do at times require some maintenance and yet I pretty much try to avoid shaving for as long as possible. Weeks, maybe. Months, possibly. Seasons, sometimes.
Tyler Perry Movies: You know when something is so bad it’s good? Yeah, that’s not what a Tyler Perry movie is. They’re pretty much just horrible, but it’s like a car crash that you can’t look away from. Tyler Perry often plays a central character in a film produced by Tyler Perry for a movie entitled Tyler Perry. Like, this isn’t a joke. That’s how much of a narcissist Tyler Perry is. He even thought his film, For Colored Girls, would win him an Oscar because he is obviously deluded. And his movies are just as ridiculous as he is. The craziest shit goes down in them. Janet Jackson kills her husband and then falls in love with The Rock. Macy Gray performs an abortion. Oh child, what is this alternate universe with beautiful black people leading soap opera lives? When and where can I join? I mean, is it my fault I identify with black entertainment?
Pretending It’s Your Birthday at a Restaurant: If you’ve never done this, don’t speak to me.
Momofuku Crack Pie: The Momofuku restaurant empire in Manhattan is making bank out of addicts like me. Their upscale fusion restaurants are amazing, but their milk bar and bakery will FedEx these $44 crack pies, which are basically my sole reason for existence. It kind of tastes like the gooey part of a pecan pie but filled with more butter and crack. If you’ve ever wondered what the secret formula is in a Krabby Patty, well I’m starting to believe that it must be whatever they put in these crack pies.
Space Jam: This is one of those films that is so egregious you wonder if it’s now considered art. Is this a filmmaker’s interpretation of modern day surrealism? How can Michael Jordan, Bugs Bunny, Bill Murray and Danny Devito, all co-exist in a storyline? Why is this happening? Why is Michael Jordan acting? Is that Newman from Seinfeld? Shhhhhhh. Just trust in the movie. Trust in the 90s. Besides, R. Kelly’s “I Believe I Can Fly” was my jam in kindergarten.
Maury and Jerry Springer: I ain’t never said I was a classy lady. I do enjoy a good catfight between two inbred cousins over a deadbeat dad. I love when weaves get ripped out and mascara gets smeared. I fail to blink when they announce the results of those paternity tests. I like to say, “You go, Glen Coco,” when Jerry or Maury comment on the situation with sass and wisdom. I’m even fond of that weird camera angle and static fuzz on those clips where the baby daddy explains why he’s NOT the father. I often clap when the tagline of the episode reads, “14-year-old Yvonne had sex for a cheeseburger.” And I may or may not have called the 1-800 number to be in the studio audience of these shows once … or thrice.