Mad Atoms

If something is loved by the general public, it must soon after be loathed by a smaller group of people who hate when anyone genuinely enjoys something. These people are called “buzz killers” or, as I like to mumble under my breath, “assholes”. One thing I still love that has become too well-liked to actually be liked anymore: The Simpsons, past season five. Yeah, I get it, you love the monorail episode and it was written by Conan O'Brien. And ever since you stopped watching it around season nine, it just hasn’t been the same. Well, jerk-off, it’s because you stopped watching the show. One episode is still funnier than an entire season of According to Jim, so lay off it. More than a decade has gone by. Stop living in the past.

Also despised due to its popularity: Ugg boots. Maybe they’re silly looking, but I see no joy in mocking something that actually serves a purpose – comfort. You can stomp on the hard, unfriendly ground of the earth, but I prefer gliding in the soft, warm cloud that is sheep’s skin, thanks.

The most recent example of hate-to-love-it is Juno. The movie was a critical and box-office success, making more than one hundred mil, which is weird, since I thought hipsters were cheap. Don’t tell me they drink Pabst’s Blue Ribbon for the taste. 

I really enjoyed Juno, particularly the mini-Arrested Development reunion with Jason Bateman and Michael Cera, and screenwriter and ex-stripper Diablo Cody’s whimsical use of teenage text-talk is charming and unique, as though the film were written by an LOLcat. (I Can Haz Oscar, Plz?).

But there’s a Juno backlash, of course. It’s too cutesy, it’s too original, it’s too entertaining. Since when are these insults? And a lot of people are shocked that someone who once was a stripper could one day not be a stripper, and what’s more, write an award-winning script! You mean someone who used to do one thing now does another? Crazy!

Okay, so Cody looks more like a contestant on Rock of Love than an Oscar-winner, sure, but this is America, and more specifically, Hollywood. We can pick ourselves up from our garter belts and climb the social class ladder as high as we please. Pamela Anderson and Jenny McCarthy went from Playboy centerfolds to, well, other kinda-more-clothed career paths. And lest we forget a humble little girl with only the fortune of an entire hotel chain on her back who went from amateur porn star to clothing designer, fragrance-hocker, and main reason why most little girls have body issues.