Oh Roseanne. Roseanne, Roseanne, Roseanne. I’m afraid that I need to revoke your Badass Membership Card. Now you just have an ‘ass’ card. Or an ‘arse’ card. Whichever you prefer.
You know, I used to be a fan. I even wrote to you once, many years ago, after reading your autobiography. I’d always found your raw and painfully honest humour both hilarious and thought provoking. Provoking was definitely something you enjoyed. But that was OK then, because you had a brain and a heart and you used them for good. You were a working class woman, with considerable life struggles under your belt, packing a punch in the male dominated world of comedy. You were pretty fucking cool.
Your autobiography told stories I could really relate to and so, I felt compelled to write to you. I’d never done that before. You replied. I was sort of fan girl thrilled. Later on, when Twitter became a thing and we both discovered it, you even replied to one of my Tweets. Fan girl thrilled again. Then, I made the mistake of actually reading things you were posting on Twitter.
At first, I was working on convincing myself that you were just trying to compete in the new era of extreme comedy and finding your feet again as a relevant provocateur, but then I started to feel like I wanted to vomit. In fact, I wanted to vomit in close proximity to you so you could smell it. Maybe even get a little bit on your shoes. That way you might get how you were making me feel. A fan.
I stopped reading your Tweets and unfollowed you, but still tried to make excuses for your increasingly repugnant behaviour in my head. I still wanted you to be the clever comedian who could take difficult social issues and use humour to crack them wide open in all their filth. I was a fan. I wanted that.
The nausea started to subside once I stopped reading your Tweets and old memories moved back in to replace them. Your nut farm show exposed your creeping instability, but you were still amusing, though sometimes a little bit sad and embarrassing. I held on to the occasional laugh you still gave me by a thread. I mean, Sharon Osbourne had once proclaimed loudly, in a row with her neighbours, while holding up a rotten piece of meat ‘This is a picture of his wife’s cunt’ and yet, here she is, all prim and proper, presenting a popular morning TV show in the USA. I like Sharon.
So, I still felt there was hope for you. In fact, you even followed Sharon down the road of gastric bypass surgery and then became a TV talent show judge. Were you inspired by her career path, reclaiming the public eye with a new persona? Were you losing your edge? Were you going to become safe and boring? That worried me too. I suppose you railed against that future, and I sort of get that. But still. Roseanne. I had been a fan.
When your new show was announced, I was momentarily hopeful that people like Wanda Sykes and Sara Gilbert would not want to be anywhere near you if you were as awful as you were presenting yourself. My excuses started to rear their ugly heads. ‘It must have all been an act’. Oh, how I wanted that to be true. I had been a fan.
I watched the show, but still had doubts. Could you really have been faking being such a scrote, all that time? It made me squirm uncomfortably, but I wanted to be able to stop being an ex fan. I wanted to be a fan again. I read reviews, which were generally good and the reviewers placated me. Phew. It was OK. Roseanne wasn’t really as racist and scuzzy as she’d been presenting herself. Sara, what the fuck were you thinking?
And, now here we are.
The world, aside from some very stupid people, who feel obliged to preserve the sanctity of the great orange one, like the kids at school that no one likes, in a desperate attempt to be picked for a team, have roundly called you on your fucking hideous behaviour. For fucks sake, even Tomi Lahren, wanna be poster girl of bland white nationalism, called you out.
Quite frankly, the Tweet that broke the camel’s back, was pretty consistent with your recent repertoire that veered between wildly paranoid conspiracy theories and outright unfunny racist shit. Roseanne, you’ve turned into a revolting bag of utter, stinking, runny shite and it pains me so to say that.
You have no excuse. None. You may have been born working class but you are and have been hugely privileged for a very long time. You have mental illness. You know it. We know it. So, fucking, what. Neither mental illness or fucking Ambien cause racism and wilful stupidity. You did that yourself.
You’re lucid enough to know the difference between appropriate and inappropriate. The only issue for me is where did all the stupid come from? You used to be smart as a whip. Now you do and say dumb shit that’s beyond the realms of the idiocracy. You seem incapable of fact checking or critical thinking. No, wait a minute. Not even a chance of an excuse. You’re not incapable. You have chosen to be an utter scumbag. Why?
Right now you are mean, bitter, unfunny and behaving like the sort of person the original Roseanne Barr would have pummeled into the dirt with wit and derision. Now you’re paying for it. Stop whining. Stop attention seeking. Go get some professional help. Sort your fucking life out. The truth is that you’re redeemable. Recent history has taught us that as long as you haven’t raped anyone (please tell us you haven’t raped anyone…that would just be the nail in the fucking coffin), and especially if you’re white, you are redeemable.
So, Roseanne. As someone who used to be a fan, I’m telling you, get off your ignorant, self pitying, rancid arse and prove to the world that you can earn your Badass Membership Card back. I’ll never be a fan again, but I’d love to be able to forgive you.