An Angry Letter to Tyler Perry
Dear Tyler Perry:
Why are you all up in my shit, man? Ever since Diary of a Mad Black Woman in 2005, your subway ads have been ruining my commutes, and since I live in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn (an obvious focal point for your wicked, racially-roofied marketing campaign), my exposure to this radioactive drivel is exponentially increased. When I first saw the overblown movie poster for the aforementioned cinematic blasphemy on the G-Train platform, I chalked it up to mere commonplace Hollywood stupidity: nothing to get riled up about. When I found out that it was made for $5.5 million and grossed $50.6 million domestically in spite of horrible reviews and a 16% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes, I didn’t lose any sleep. Poorly reviewed movies make money all the time. I’ve learned to live with this as a harsh fact of American life. However, six years and ten pictures later (4 of which involve you dressing up as a woman), I can take it no more.
