Tomorrow I shall start coverage of Full Figured Fashion Week in June!
But this morning in my email was a request to publish the following statement, from one of the cast members of House,MD. This is a cast member who has not been allowed to speak until now, so I felt that it would be noblesse oblige to allow them to have their say.
Particularly in light of the heated debate after the season finale, "Help Me". Many critics thought it was terrible except for the last five minutes, in which Cuddy declared her love for House, many other critics thought it was brilliant except for the last five minutes. For once, let me step aside and use the blog-thing for altruistic purposes.
(Faithful readers, be assured that this statement does not reflect the opinions of the blog owner or Blogger.com. My apologies for the language used in this statement. Your faithful correspondent abhors profanity, but censorship is not practiced in this blog-thing. Unless it's negative comments calling me a "fuck-tard." )
Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog
P.S. You can also read this statement in Spanish at http://tinyurl.com/258a5se
I’m not a doctor, but I play one on tv. Actually, part of one. I am Gregory House’s leg. No, not the pretty left one, the ugly rarely seen crapped up right one. I had major problems with Season Six, but due to contractual agreements with Fox and David Shore, I had to hold my tongue (I know, legs don’t have tongues, but let it go) until now.
One misunderstanding I would like to clear up is that I hurt, okay? I hurt more some days than others, but really, IF YOU HAVE A HUGE PIECE OF MUSCLE AND BLOOD VESSELS AND FAT REMOVED, WOULDN’T YOU FEEL IT JUST A TAD?
Excuse me, but being walked on all of the time makes me cranky.
In “real life,” as people like to call that dimension I don’t live in, a leg like me couldn’t support a guy Greg’s size (we live together, he’s always cursing at me, so I think I have the right to call him by his first name) at all. Mo-fo would be in a wheelchair. But that would turn the show into—what was that show with the fat guy in the wheelchair? “Ironside,” with Burl Ives or Jackie Gleason or some shit. A leg like me would be torture to live with, day in and day out. And I was. I was one bad-ass leg.
But this season?
I’m only allowed to hurt when the writers say I hurt. Fuck “conversion disorder,” people, I HAVE A HUGE PIECE OF MUSCLE MISSING! IT HURTS, OKAY? DON’T LABEL ME!
Say it loud, I’m a leg and I hurt! Sometimes it’s a stabbing pain, sometimes it’s a throbbing pain, sometimes it’s like electric wires are being shot through me. This is NOT a fun way to live.
And you should have seen Greg once he started PT and had to drag me around. I did my best, but I HAVE A HUGE PIECE OF—sorry, I just said that, didn’t I? I don’t have a brain, it belongs to Greg, so I get a bit off topic if I’m not careful.
Oh, yeah, physical therapy. So then Greg learns to live with a cane. There are reasons you’ve never seen this part of the man’s life. It’s awkward as hell. Let me tell you a few things you’d never see on the show for a reason (Greg thinks it makes him look less cool, the asshole):
Using an umbrella. Think about it. That’s why he’s always indoors when it rains. We are talking seriously gauche, people.
Walking Hector and having to pick up his poop. Cane, leash, poop—need I say more?
Walking Hector and having to get the mail.
Getting a cup of coffee from the local Starbucks and getting his mail. We are talking obscure rock band t-shirt destruction here.
Hitting people in front of you on the back of the foot, and not on purpose. Greg almost lost his shit when this jerk yelled at him about it. I would have kicked him but I HAVE A HUGE PIECE—damn, did it again. But it’s kind of hard to forget that I HAVE A HUGE PIECE OF—never mind.
What was I talking about? Yes, I know I don’t have lips, imagine it’s the scar talking. Do you think I wanted a big honking scar on the front of me?
I was one goddamned good-looking limb before this went down.
So, the writers figured they’d have to change it up from Greg taking painkillers all the time to getting off of them (THANKS FOR NOTHING, MOTHERFUCKERS) and then being put on Advil. Advil. When I have a HUGE PIECE—actually, yes, opiates can make the pain seem worse than it is, blah blah, you reboot the system, you go to ibuprofen blah blah. Advil. Old people take Advil.
Then this whole season they couldn’t figure out how much I hurt. Most of the time it was like I didn’t hurt at all. WRONG, ASSWIPES! But I had to go along with it, because, you know, confidentiality agreements and all that, and I didn’t want to lose my job. And get amputated. Bad enough my part kept getting smaller.
Then they decided they’d let me hurt a little, then a lot, then a whole hell of a lot, still on stupid Advil! Greg rubbed me a lot, which mostly made me think about how denim is a really annoying fabric choice when you are a GINORMOUS LENGTH OF DAMAGED FLESH! Why not soft cotton khakis for work?
And then in the last episode, Greg drags me to hell and back in this giant wrecked parking garage, I get bent all kinds of ways (I think I have PTSD now), we have to go home WITHOUT the cane! So I’m not only throbbing, I’m burning, stabbing, aching, off the charts on the pain scale!
Greg doesn’t take the fucking pills! It’s not a moral decision, jerk-off, it’s PAIN! What about PAIN don’t you understand at this point? Man, I was seriously pissed, but it’s not like I have hands or a mouth or free will. I’m just a goddamned leg, for Christ’s sake.
Then Cuddy showed up and I had to act like I wasn’t in shrieking pain because Greg was getting all like “wow, she’s here, I’ve wanted to bone her since the Crusades! And I looooove her.” They kiss and through some sort of magical endorphin boner process, I’m not supposed to hurt. After one of the worst days of my life.
I tell you, if I had hands, I’d tear up my contract.
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