My relation with Harvey Weinstein: His dad was my grandma’s first cousin.
We haven’t spoken in a while, or ever, but I thought I’d reach out to you, via open letter on the internet, since it seems you’re having a rough few weeks. And after all, what is (very) extended, never-once-acknowledged family for?
We’re living in tough times. AOL recently announced the death of their iconic messenger platform; America topped America’s record for America’s largest mass shooting four weeks ago, and we’re most likely on the precipice of World War III (which I’m convinced will be declared by Kim Jong Un to Donald Trump via Twitter).
And yet, despite all this horror, you’re trending as the world’s biggest douche on all social media platforms, everywhere. (Despite the impending doom of WWIII, despite hurricanes and earthquakes running amock, and despite Nickleback.)
Well, that’s just downright impressive, Harv. (Subtext: Ew.)
We’ve been (distantly) related for a while. I turn 29 this coming January, which marks 29 years of being related. (Just to clarify.)
And although I’ve never met you, spoken to you, or been given the opportunity to provide you with the evidentiary support I exist (29 years), I feel like I know you. Not just as who are you to the world now, but who you’ve always been.
A complete shitbag.
Storytime: Growing up, you were like a fable. The stories our parent’s told made it seem like they held you in high regard. Cousin Harvey was our claim to fame. Our living proof that we came from a special line of chutpaz (subtext: the good kind). Our way of saying to the world, hey, look what we can do.
But just like how heroes of fables don’t exist, Hillary won the popular vote, and nobody will ever finish the bottle of conditioner first, cousin Harvey was as physically present in our lives as the Tooth Fairy (subtext: no disrespect to the Tooth Fairy).
Sure, back in the glory days of having big dreams, I thought sharing blood ties with one of Hollywood’s biggest producers was pretty nifty. A losery little one with razor-sharp self-esteem issues (middle school bullies, your roast letter is coming next!), I held onto the hope that one day we would meet and you would make the rise to fame much easier for me than for those other wannabes. (Although, knowing what I know about you now, no thanks. Ew.)
But as I grew older, I realized that was never going to happen. You didn’t care about us, and you didn’t wish to be a part of our family. Our incredible family.
I could (possibly) understand wanting to trade in a family of white supremacists, Creed fans, or vegans, for a life of glitter and gold (or, I guess in your case, sexual misconduct), but not us. We’re like, the best. The fun kind. And we have each other’s back in sickness and health for as long as we all shall live (subtext: who has your back now?).
So when the initial story broke that you are actually a gross, disgusting turd, I wasn’t surprised in the least. Actually, I was entirely apathetic. Not regarding learning about your horrid, demeaning actions toward women (subtext: #metoo), but regarding learning your truth. It seemed completely within character. Unlike the others (why Cosby, why?) you were never a hero to me. You were never a good person, even. You were sleaze, personified.
I’m not really sure what I’m trying to say here. Maybe I just want to show off my chutzpah (subtext: never needed you to find my dreams!). Maybe I just want to give a shout out to Rose McGowan (hey girl, you’re a legend). Maybe I just want to have the last laugh (our Bat Mitzvahs > prison).
The shittiest thing is that since you’re loaded with money, you’ll probably make it out of this thing okay. But fortunately, your actions have sparked a glorious uproar, and a much overdue conversation is now louder than ever.
And so, distant cousin Harvey, I’ll close with this: They say you can’t choose your family. You can, however, chose to take advantage of their plight and blast them on the Internet for the crap cannon you’ve always known them to be. If only for you’re own enjoyment.
Take care Harv, and take a seat (subtext: shitbag). Your reign is over.