Guilty Pleasures

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about “guilty pleasures.” The term makes less sense the more I think about it. Unless it’s illegal or is hurting anyone (animals included, of course), why should you feel guilty about something you enjoy? And why should anyone have the right to make you feel embarrassed about it?


So you collect potato chips shaped like characters from The Wizard of Oz, like the way peanut butter feels between your toes and think the Twilight movies are the greatest example of American cinema since Citizen Kane…that’s your right. You’re not hurting anyone. If someone catches you dancing to the greatest hits of Milli Vanilli, are you going to turn red and tell them it’s a guilty pleasure? No. It’s a pleasure, plain and simple. There’s no reason to feel guilty about it.

If you’re on the other end of the exchange, shut up. You don’t have to like Milli Vanilli, but you do have to keep yourself from being an ignorant asshole that makes fun of their own friends. It’s one thing to politely express an opinion. It’s another thing entirely to be a dick about it.

Let’s recap, shall we? Serial killer who murders homeless people because it’s fun = guilty pleasure. Cartoons and crayons after puberty = pleasure, no guilt. Be it a brain, an athlete, a basketcase or a princess (but not a criminal), just be you and be proud.