Fuck Vampires.

Posted on June 13, 2010


This blog rant has been a long time coming. By a long time, I mean at least a year. I’ve tried folks. I’ve tried real hard to be objective about this thing. That’s probably been the reason it’s been so long since I shared an opinion about this subject. But you can finally read it right now, straight from me. Fuck Vampires. Fuck them with their fangs.

A few years ago, there lived a woman. This woman was probably unlike many other women in this world, in that she probably owned a diary where she used to pen down her most intimate thoughts since she was twelve years old.  This diary contained information about her life, its hardships (read puberty) her tryst with members of the opposite sex, and the usual asinine adolescence a young girl tends to write about. Again quite like other women her age, she probably devoted a lot of private time to penning down what her idea of an ‘ideal mate’ would be. This perfect man would be just that, perfect in every respect. His face, stony yet soft to touch. His eyes, fiery yet not without emotion buried behind them. His skin, cold yet ready to embrace her in a comforting warm hug.

There was only one problem, which she realised as she kept re-reading her diary accounts dolefully. This guy did not exist. He never would. Not in her lifetime anyway.

This made the young woman depressed. She sought out romantic novel after romantic novel to try and find this guy. She made it her mission in life. The endings she found in most, if not all of these stories never did quite cut it for her. All the guys she encountered had all the right qualities, for sure. Depending on what sort of man attracted an average woman, they fit the bill each time. They were either dashing rogues like Han Solo, foul mouthed bad boy Southerners like Sawyer, even rich ‘pro-pah’-speaking connoisseurs like William Darcy. The problem was, it wasn’t long lasting enough. She wanted a man that would be her ‘forever.’ That women would know would last way longer than the last page of the book involving him. And that’s when, probably with a lot of coffees and completely by miraculous chance, she stumbled across ‘vampires’ in a public library.

Thus began the story of Twilight, and the birth of Edward Cullen. It was around this time that all of mankind (man being the operative half-word there) did a collective double facepalm.

For those of you who are unaware of what that might look like:

Commander Data had just finished his Edward Cullen impression

Twilight changed everything.

Suddenly all vampires were the object of teenage pre-pubescents’ affections, and Bram Stoker turned circles inside his grave like a cement mixer. Gone were the days where these Transylvanian terrors wrecked havoc and panic amongst villagers, prompting them to attack with pitchforks and fire torches. That’s what really pissed me off about Stephanie Meyer’s books. And I tried to read them to be objective, knowing fully well that they aren’t targeted at me.  On my favourite dead cat Ginger, God rest his soul, I swear I was objective about it.

I could not get beyond a half of the first book without putting it down in disgust. I had heard too much and could not stand how shallow the writing was.

These new age vampires would juggle high school time tables, beat up jocks and would-be rapists, seduce young women with ‘deep penetrating and perfect eyes‘ and…sparkle. Yes. Vampires would sparkle, light up like a Christmas tree, in the sunlight. Meyer contemplated burning them to fuckin’ ashes like all vampires, but where’s the romance in that? What if the two of them wanted to go for a romantic picnic in the countryside? Should something as rigid as ‘canon literary rules’  come in the way of that?!

I think not!

Here comes the sun Tu doo doo doo! And it's alright!

Then of course, came the movies. I must say, like most men, I was curious to see what women were on about when it came to these vampire fantasies. It was as puzzling as trying to figure out why they were so attracted to some Colin Firth fellow, for awhile. Still, after a while that guy disappeared into complete obscurity, much like the band Hanson. This Edward Cullen was still a strong contender apparently. When the film came out, we all held our breath. Women held theirs because they were orgasming, while the rest of us men were just wondering what the ‘perfect man’ looked like.

And this is what they gave us. Robert Pattinson.

I'm a vampire.

Really? This is what we were worrying about? This is the object of every woman’s fantasy, the perfect man?

You know what I feel the most sorry about? It’s that now these actors are properly and royally fucked. Its a typecast that they can’t escape from. I heard Robert Pattinson once mention on air that he was actually scared because he’d run into some loser women who had cut themselves and thrown themselves at him. That shit is messed up. What’s even more messed up is the giant invisible gun that a Marketing team is pointing at him and Kristen Stewart right now, watching their every move. I bet they have ninjas in his bathrooms, ready to kill him if he even thinks about shaving his trademark stubble, or washing out that disgusting hair gel.

It pains me to say it but I think the bottom-line here is most young women today are dumb. They are stupid to lap this shit up, and if they had even half an ounce of self respect, would go back to some really good romantic alternatives to fill the void a ‘perfect man’ might leave behind in their adolescent lives. Mills and Boon novels are more original than this trash, I’ll be bound.

You must be asking yourselves why am I complaining about it so late? Because lately, things have gotten worse. Women I know, otherwise smart, intelligent, and confident young women with a lot of self esteem get completely suckered by this marketing fluke, and it pains me to see them STILL taken in. It’s getting far worse. Justin Bieber is another itch that begs to be scratched out, but I can’t for the life of me understand the attraction. But that’s another story for another day.

For now though, fuck vampires.

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