It is on her that we must lay our burdens, for she alone can bear our pain. And give us cars.

OK, so I bet you all could guess that I hate Oprah. I’ve never bothered to blog this particular hate, because WHAT a soft target, and where would I even start? I could get going about the monstrous ego of a person who would put him- or herself on the cover of his/her own magazine every month, or the silly horseshit “spirituality” she hawks, or the fact that whatever glurge she picks as her book of the week becomes an instant bestseller, or the sad sack stories she’s always trotting out (tears mandatory) from The Heartland, but then I’d have to keep going, and then I’d get all frothy-mouthed and there’d be spittle flying and crazed howling and what have you and we just don’t need that right now, do we.

But as you’ve probably heard, there’s this person attempting to live – well, attempting to get a book deal by living -- according to Oprah’s every gilded utterance (in print or on the Teevee) for a year. And through the publicity about this person and her experiment, I have come across a word that is now the focal point, the bullseye, the absolute nuclear epicenter of my hate for Oprah, and that word is: shlumpadinka.

This word, it makes me fucking HOMICIDAL. I want to burn the building down with EVERYBODY IN IT.

This word apparently (I’m going from context here, since Hell to the No am I going to go to Oprah’s world to chase it down) describes people – women, natch – who don’t take the required interest in their personal appearance, and must be taught by Madam Oprah’s crackerjack team of personal and life stylists how to get their shit together. The term for this action in Oprah’s world is “Shlumpadinka Makeover.” Shatner’s taint-sweat, y’all. Why, WHY does it have to be so cutesy and p/a? WHY? I’d respond to a “You Look Like Shit – Lemme Fix You Up” Makeover. But if you come at me with a motherfuckin Shlumpadinka Makeover, I’m’a make over your THROAT with my FOOT.