Marsha Brady is a ho!

I used to pride myself on my patience, but I’ve noticed that the older I get, the more my patience wanes. I was agonizing how hearing back from my first agent; I was positive that I’d mailed the letter months ago. When I looked at the calendar, I realized that it had only been a few DAYS.

I feel the same nagging impatience when dealing with waiting for movies to hit the theater, albums to hit the stores (or the internet depending on how impatient I am), the new fall season of shows to start. I need my entertainment, damnit! And I’m sorry, "Entertainment Weekly", but “The Hills” doesn’t count. How disappointed I am in you for writing about that shit.

I am, however, oddly excited about the “Sex and the City” movie that will not even arrive in theater until next summer. Until then, I decided to dust off my old “Sex and the City” DVDs, and revisit the fabulous world of Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. We’re going to ignore how self-centered Carrie is, and focus on Samantha. I’ve always had this sort of embarrassing theory I’ve always had about Samantha.

It hit me one day like a bolt of lightning. Samantha was none other than Marsha Brady grown up. It’s all there, ladies, the wide-eyes, the uncanny diction, the blonde hair, the selfless sharing…of orgasms! It’s all there. In some paralleled reality where television characters are real, Marsha Brady ventured off to college with her G-rated, Disney-approved views of the world and life, and was overwhelmed by a Brady-less reality. In the real world, people do drugs, parents die, people get sick and housekeepers don’t serve cutesy wisecracks with the morning coffee and eggs. After getting her heart broken, Marsha discovers the beauty of no-strings sex. No messy heartbreak, no divorce, and more importantly, no step-children. (Six kids and one bathroom? It had to be terrible). She even changes her name to Samantha Jones to save her family from the shame of her whorish ways.

Yes, folks, THIS is what I do at work.