Yes, I said it. Fuck John Hughes. Fuck him and his old, narrow-minded white ass, racist ass ass. Fuck that guy.
I am so sick of white art being revered and called “classic” and “cult status” when it really ain’t shit. Everybody loves the Beatles when they really weren’t even that good until they started doing drugs. White mediocrity is always rewarded. I am so sick of white directors not being held responsible for their fucked up views of society just because a bunch of people think their movie fits a certain aesthetic or widely has its dick sucked for being an embodiment of the culture and society of the time. But this was before social media, so everything was fine.
Now don’t get me wrong, I loved Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club and the Home Alone movies. I grew up watching Macaulay Culkin slap his cheeks with both hands and scream in the mirror. When I was a teenager and going through my 80s phase, I watched a lot of John Hughes movies and paired it with a helping of Joy Division and Kate Bush. I fell in love with the romanticized, almost shoegaze-y, pastel glow of these 80s teen movie classics. But I didn’t realize that the director of some of these movies seemed to have a pretty homogenous take on what his view of teen life is.
In Sixteen Candles, a really whiny girl named Samantha is pissed because her oh-so-cruel parents forgot her birthday, although they literally had a million things going on. They even apologize about it, wholeheartedly after they realize they fucked up. It wasn’t like her parents were evil people who just didn’t like Sam. They just made an honest mistake. Her dad even consoles her after Sam cries about not being able to date the guy she barely knows, has never spoken to and only likes because he’s hot. But that’s a major component of the movie. I get that Sam was basically feeling unimportant even though she was going through a major life change, but I mean, nothing really happens in this movie except a bunch of sexist, racist bullshit.
Besides Jake basically allowing someone to potentially date rape his ex girlfriend–who was, might I add was not even an asshole to the protagonist and was, if anything, just cocky and a bit conceited but her whole existence was to show how she’s the “wrong” type of girl and Sam is the “right” type of girl–what the fuck were they really gonna do? Jake is all of 18 or 19 and Sam is 16. Not only is this illegal but…you don’t even know each other? And to top it all off, they insert a wacky Asian stereotype into the mix, gleefully poking fun at the fact that he is not white.
Then there’s the cute little scene beforehand where Sam and her stupid friend discuss birthday gifts. When she thinks Sam wants a black guy and a pink Trans Am, she steps back in horror at the thought of her bestie letting an ugly black dick enter her sweet, pink domain. When Sam reassures that no, you got the colors wrong, she rolls her eyes in relief.
Then you have Hughes’ white entitlement series called National Lampoon’s, in which one white guy from the all-white city known as Chicago with a family decides to make their vacation the best as it possibly can be, and when it starts to unravel due to his own dumb ass decisions, he turns into a psychopath and resorts to illegal measures. But he doesn’t get into trouble. Ever! No jail, no community service, no nothing. This man has held up an amusement park hostage with a fake gun, basically been an accessory to a kidnapping, had a SWAT team called on him, stole money from a hotel, accidentally killed a dog, etc. But does he ever get punished? Of course not! He’s a white guy, just a well-meaning type o’ guy who just wants to do right by his unappreciative family. Oh, and I love the bit in the first of these movies where he points his gun at the black cop and makes him get down on the ground, humiliating him. I also loved the scene where they were driving through the “hood” and a guy comes over to his station wagon bouncing a fucking basketball. At night. Sometimes I wonder if John Hughes had even seen a black person in real life.
I get really fucking irritated thinking of all the angsty little white teens who collectively worship movies like The Breakfast Club who can see themselves on television displaying all the emotions they feel, but someone like me can’t even see a black woman as an extra. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a black woman in a John Hughes movie in any capacity unless in a service position. And I’ve seen very few black men. But then again, what could I really have expected from the era that gave us the Reagan administration?
Featuring: Emily Prentiss x Reader Setting: Season 5 Rating: Teen
A/N: This is my first requested piece, I am so honored to be asked. This is an awesome idea. I hope I did the request justice. I don’t own the images, characters or lyrics xoxo Stu
I’m turnin’ off the light right now
I’m callin’ it a night now
Wishin’ you were ‘round with me
But you’re in a different town than me
You held the phone to your ear, counting the unanswered rings. One, you turn towards the fridge. Two, you turn towards the island. Three, you give up and lean against the island in frustration. A familiar, yet robotic
voice answers, “This is Agent Prentiss with the BAU, please leave a message.” You exhale and hang up, you were not leaving her another message. If she cared, she would have answered the damn phone. You knew you were getting nervous and edgy, but it was hard to turn off those feelings.
Tossing your cell on the side table, you sit down on your couch with the wine you had forgotten about. You lose yourself in the censored for television version of a random eighties teen movie. After another glass of wine, you make your way to the bedroom. Alone, you slip into the lonely bed to pass out in your shared apartment.
You woke to the sound of metal working the lock. You sit straight up, reaching into the nightstand for your gun. The alarm clock a blatant red glow of 3:42am. On high alert, you quietly get out of bed and hide behind your door. Suddenly the lock released, whoever was on the other side of the main door now had full access to your home. Your mind racing with possibilities, old collars, current suspects, hired hits, or maybe just a random burglar.
Your training was not going to let this punk get away with it. You slip into the hall, flush with the blindside of the wall. You check all access points before slipping behind the island in the kitchen, crouched with your gun in hand. The intruder’s heavy footfalls echoing in the unlit space. You dove for their knees, scrambling for control. You sat upon the assailant with your gun pointed in their face. “Freeze!”
You were greeted with a matching Glock in your face. Your eyes adjusted to the dimness surrounding you. Laying below you was your girlfriend, Emily Prentiss, whose chest was heaving in anticipation. “What the hell, Y/L/N!” She fumed up at you, instinctively using your last name as you had caught her off guard.
You disengaged your weapon, sliding to one side to release her from your thighs. “Christ, Em, I didn’t know you would be home tonight.” You panted, catching your breath.
She slowly got to her feet and holstered her gun. She grabbed your hand to help you up, intertwining her fingers with yours as you stand. “Surprise?” She smiled simply, nuzzling your jawline with her nose. You slid your gun in the waistband of your pajama bottoms, freeing your arms to grab her in a bear hug, jostling her strong, yet slender frame. “Uh, I am so glad to see you!” You plant a dramatic kiss on her cheek. “Please tell me Hotch gave you the day off?”
what about doppelgangland? the one where the scoobies think willow's dead, due to alt universe vamp will, sterekfied? :D
first sign that something’s wrong comes in the form of Lydia Martin stalking up
to Scott in the hall after first period and snapping: “What the hell is going
on with Stilinski?”
had graduated to a first name basis with Lydia at least since the winter formal
(Scott should know, Stiles had made a celebration out of it, toasting the
occasion with a slopping bottle of Jack Daniels, composing odes to the way his
name sounded on her “perfect, probably berry-flavored lips”) so this
immediately catches his attention.
do you mean?”
hands go to her hips as she continues stalking forward, leaning right into his
space in a way that makes him fight the urge to flinch away.
mean that he’s walking around school
looking like a reject from the Lost Boys,
and I do not use that comparison
lightly. When I asked him how the research for our joint chem project was going
he called me babydoll. Babydoll,
McCall. Get your friend in line before he ends up with one of my Louboutins up
his ass and has to foot the bill for the dry cleaning.”
is weird, for sure, but Stiles hasn’t always had a history of being entirely
coherent around Lydia Martin, and even though he seems to have more or less
given up on his epic crush in the light of her “true love’s resurrection”
moment with Jackson (claims of a ten year plan notwithstanding), Scott shrugs
the encounter off quickly enough.
not really sure what a “Lost Boys reject” would look like anyway. Is that a
maybe Stiles in a leather jacket over tight jeans and a red tank, with
too-spiked hair (Scott hadn’t even realized it had grown far enough out of his
buzz cut to spike like that), leaning
against a locker and looking for all the world like he’d just need a cigarette
between his lips to look at home in an eighties teen movie.
friend’s gaze slides his way, narrowing as it does. By the time he’s looking at
Scott it’s a full-on squint. He pulls it off in a way Scott never would have
expected, and he bites down on a grin.
this your Derek impression or something?”
doesn’t smile back, eyes rolling and pushing off the lockers with his elbows.
to blame me for some new disaster, McCall?”
demotion to last name, on the tail of Lydia’s scathing usage, pushes the smile
right off Scott’s face.
Stiles… no? Are you mad at me?”
brows crease for a second before he forces his face back into a scowl.
act like that.”
what?” Stiles huffs and starts to
stalk off, and Scott moves after him. “Hey, sorry I insulted your new look, ok?
It surprised me, but if it’s what you—“
feels his jaw crack before he even registers Stiles swinging, impossibly fast.
And then the ground is slamming his face hard. There are shouts of alarm from
somewhere up the hall, but all he sees when he looks up, clutching his cheek,
are Stiles’ eyes blazing crimson before bleeding back to brown.
done, Scott. Got it? Don’t talk to me
Taylor Swift Kicks Off 1989 Tour in Tokyo, Talks About Her Life-Changing Year
Taylor Swift started her 1989 Tour at Tokyo Dome in the city’s Suidobashi district on Tuesday night. The 55,000 seat cylindrical stadium was packed to the hilt, and the organizers placed light-emitting wristbands on every seat so the entire crowd illuminated and changed colors in unison.
The show started with video testimonials and comments from Taylor’s friends, like Selena Gomez, Haim, and others (there was no opening act, unlike her upcoming U.S. dates). This technique continued throughout the show, primarily when the star disappeared to change costumes (which happened at least 10 times).