I hate blondes.
There. So now you know.
If you know me in real life (and statistics show that only .023% of you do), chances are that at some time you’ve heard me rail against corn-silk blondiosity. If you’re my mother (and statistics show that only one of you is), you’ve been bestowed with a pretty poem entitled “Ode: To Be A Blonde”. If you’re Loni Anderson, then you have my apologies sympathies.
When I was younger, I wanted to be Marcia Brady. I wanted to brush my long blond hair 100 times a night too. I wasn’t jealous of Marcia the way Jan was, though. In fact, I was also jealous of Jan if only because of her long blond hair. (That girl couldn’t dance to save her life!) I couldn’t understand why she would want to hide it beneath a hideous wig that made her look like a brunette Annie. (If you’re not familiar with The Brady Bunch, then you won’t get the reference. But no, I will not provide one. Because if you are not familiar with The Brady Bunch, then we have nothing further to talk about, you and I.)
I hate blondes because they don’t have to do anything more than just be a blonde to get the attention of the hoi polloi and stupid men. Blond hair is the equivalent of big tits. Of course, most blondness is artificial and manufactured. As are most big tits.
Not that I even like the hoi polloi. Or want a stupid man.
Or blond hair.
Or big tits.
But you know what I mean. If you’re a brunette (or other non-blonde), that is.
P.S. No “stupid blonde” jokes, please. Even if you’re a blonde and thus consider yourself exempt from censure, I still won’t be amused. Really.
UPDATE, 5 February 2004:  Sadly, my archives were a bit messed up for a few days, and although I managed to restore my original posts, I wasn’t able to restore quite a few of the comments. Those you see here are nothing compared to the dozens that people submitted months after this entry was originally posted. It’s a shame, really, because there were some really dazzling doozies among those dozens!