Today, I’m going to crap on your favorite actress, Meryl Streep.

There’s only one thing more annoying than an unsuccessful actor, and that’s an actor who’s meager abilities has garnered them unprecedented adulation. There is no actor more adulated than the depressingly average-looking Meryl Streep. She commands legions of adoring fans, each one of them more eager than the last to die defending her honor whenever a brave soul like me dares to knock her down to size. It’s an embarrassing display of hero worship that never fails to leave me absolutely flabbergasted. I mean really, you’d think this half-baked, two-bit hamboner was the second (third?) coming or something. She isn’t. She’s just another stupefyingly mediocre actor who’s Plain Jane looks have convinced thousands of self-esteem challenged geeks that she’s “one of them.”

She’s not one of you. She walked up your back to the top of the mountain.

Somewhere out there, a fan is choking on her indignation, appalled that I could call such a strong woman with so much “inner beauty” a Plain Jane. Save it, sister. I just call ’em like I see ’em. I couldn’t care less about her internal bombshell, and neither could the camera. We simply know what director Phyllida Lloyd knows: Meryl Streep is the perfect actor to play one of the most homely public figures of all time, the former Prime Minister of England Margaret Thatcher. Some would say she’s born to play it. Going on looks alone, I would agree.

But if we’re talking about acting…

Ok, enough with the cheeky gab regarding appearances. It has its relevance — you can’t parade yourself as America’s duchess of cinema and not expect someone to talk about your looks or lack thereof — but the thing that really chaps my hide about Her Highness is how obnoxiously pleased she is with every project with which she is involved. It’s written all over her smug face. Not only in every insufferable interview I’ve ever sat through — watching Morley Safer drool through his age-blasted, loose lips as he watches her speak; hanging on her every average word; over-joyed simply to be within radius of her smell; knowing he hasn’t a chance in hell yet maybe he does (oh the things he’d do to her) — but also in any movie I have ever had the misfortune of watching her traipse through. It’s unforgivable.

The point: an actor’s job — you know, the job we pay Meryl millions to do — is to try her best to NOT be herself for the ridiculously short amount of time the film is rolling. To tuck her real — and, in the case of many celebrity level performers, disfigured and bloated — ego away so that we may be allowed to lose ourselves for a moment within a story somewhat more illuminating and eventful than our own. Some, like Holly Hunter or Gary Oldman, seem to create whole new personages to inhabit, with unique affectations specific to whatever role they happen to be playing. Others, like Bob DiNero or Tina Fey, simply infuse their own strong personalities into the character. Both of these approaches work, because the actors in question are successful in BEING the character. The real person seems to disappear, and we are left to follow the fictional one.

With Streep, it’s different. Everything is a wink from her to us. No matter what she’s doing, it’s like she has a creepy, life-size puppet propped up in front of her, and Meryl’s always peering over its shoulder, glancing at us out of the corner of her eye. “Can you believe this?” she says to us. “Can you fucking believe how hard I am rocking this script right now? I am acting the SHIT out of this, right? Don’t try and put me in a wet paper sack, because I will act myself right the fuck OUT of that bitch, people.” I hate that. It drives me bat shit. It’s an invitation to agree with how great Meryl thinks Meryl is; but while confidence is a wonderful thing, braggadocio sucks ass.

Not to mention she always dresses like crap. Please. Hey Meryl, you have the cash, you have every designer in the world clamoring to dress you. Get it together. Stop wearing gold lamé sacks everywhere. You look like the world’s oldest swing choir nerd.

I’ll never forget the first and only time I suffered through Out of Africa. Actually, let me take that back. I did forget it. Entirely. I couldn’t tell you one thing that happened in that horrible film. It’s as if I were molested in a large, dark closet filled with other people also getting molested by a snooty, frumpy blonde with a 10 inch zipper, and then blocked it all out. I guess I’m glad to not remember. It’s far better this way.

Here’s a little breakdown outlining how I feel about a few of her other ‘films:’

Silkwood: yawn.

Postcards From the Edge: exhausting portrait of a woman adrift, and Streep does nothing to make her likable.

The Bridges of Madison County: I have never been more disappointed with Clint Eastwood than I was at this time. It’s like Clint stepped back into time and rubbed shit into the nostrils of the boyhood Jose. To work with such a wuss actress on such a wuss movie based on the wussiest book ever written…it hurt so much, and still does.

She-Devil: please. Just. Fucking. Stupid.

The River Wild: again, yawn.

Sophie’s Choice: a boring movie about a unconscionable woman. What kind of mother is she? To hell with her. She gets everything she deserves.

Death Becomes Her: pure stupid. Goldie Hawn’s lowest ebb. Bruce’s, too. Even his Levi commercials were better.

Kramer Vs Kramer: ok, the one movie with any saving grace. Perhaps it was filmed before she became spoilt.

The following is a list of movies that are so pitiably retarded that I would never even consider seeing them, even if it meant saving my own life. If I had a big ole’ heap of cancer, and these movies would cure it like nothing had ever happened, I would rather die:

Music of the Heart
The Devil Wears Prada
A Prairie Home Companion
Momma Mia!
Momma Mia!
Momma Mia!
It’s Complicated
One True Thing
Julie and Julia
The Hours
Lions for Lambs
Momma Mia!
The Iron Lady

To be honest, I could add more movies to the second list all day, but I’m getting tired of typing.

I’m going to wrap up with this thought: Meryl Streep sucks.

Ok, I’ll expand upon that. There’s a movie out there better than anything Meryl Streep has ever made. It’s called Rocky III. Somewhere in the middle of the film, there’s a scene where Mickey tells Rocky that the only way he could keep Rocky winning fights is to send sub-par fighters his way:

Well Rock let’s… Well let’s put it this way. Three years ago you were supernatural. You was hard and nasty. You had this cast iron jaw. But then the worst thing happened to you that could happen to any fighter. You got civilized. Don’t worry kid. You know presidents retire, generals retire, horses retire, Man o War retired, they put him out to stud. That’s what you should’ve done, retire.

Meryl, maybe there was a time when you were worth a damn. But now, please, you and your baggy gowns…retire.