I want to know more about this awful, minimally talented woman and her hot husband.
I know only that she went to Brandeis, that she is a former beauty contestant, and that she reputedly has terrible breath.
She was Mary-Louise Parker''s understudy on Broadway
She''s a cunt
She can cure eye cancer.
She''s the Lucille Ball for the 21st century!
NBC publicity machine circa 1997
I admire her breasts more in 2010 than I did in 2003.
I heart you, r4.
I want someone to tell me about Deb Messing!
Debra Messing was damn funny in "Will & Grace," as were the other cast members. I love watching the reruns on Lifetime. And "Will & Grace" is still the best-written show currently airing on television.
Will and Grace, like Seinfeld, benefitted from a cast of actors who, on top of being excellent comedians, were actually believable as New Yorkers.
Friends always felt like L.A. to me. LeBlanc's "dim outer borough hunk", Schwimmer's "neurotic New York Jew", and Aniston's "Long Island Princess" were all Los Angelenos doing New Yorkers.
Cox's Monica was less of a "New York" type, which was strange given how "New York" brother Ross and childhood best friend Rachel were in comparison, though this is probably a result of the writers recognizing Cox's limitations as an actor. I think that Jennifer Grey would have worked much better in the part.
Kudrow (whom I love) was playing a part that was probably conceived of as a "downtown bohemian" but in reality ended up being a Californian (she's a hippie masseuse! she's into crystals! she's blonde!) due to the writing. Unlike Cox, I'm confident that Kudrow could have played a more believable New Yorker, if the writing had supported it.
Perry's Chandler was the only one I actually bought. For some reason Canadians tend to be entirely believable as Connecticut transplants (see Eric MacCormack).
[quote]Will and Grace, like Seinfeld, benefitted from a cast of actors who, on top of being excellent comedians, were actually believable as New Yorkers.\
Isn''t she a New Yorker in actuality? I hardly think that''s a huge achievement. It''s like applauding a dog because it barks.
Let me tell you about Deb Messing.
In early January, I had just returned to the States from Victoria, where I had been immunizing some of the indigenous tribes there in the grueling Australian midsummer heat. I'd been home barely a week when the earthquake struck Haiti, collapsing building and killing thousands, and within the day I was headed back to the airport %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%93 destination, Port-au-Prince.
Commercial flights were, you may remember, were unavailable for days afterward. I was standing in LAX, cursing my stupidity, when a woman tapped me on the shoulder. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CI noticed your bag,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she said (I was carrying my Medecins Sans Frontieres kit). %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CAre you trying to get to Haiti?%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
The woman told me she had chartered a Cessna and hired a pilot skilled enough to land it in a small parking lot if necessary. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CWe have one more seat,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she said, insisting I come with her.
There was a brief argument on the tarmac %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%93 apparently Anderson Cooper had been promised a seat, but my mysterious benefactor said medical help was more important and insisted I take his place. When I boarded the small plane, I found it filled with a veritable United Nations of aid workers, all as somber as I.
Once we were in the air, her warmth and humor quickly put an end to our initial shock. She introduced herself as %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CDeb%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D and %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%93 though she was obviously well-off %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%93 said the biggest regret of her life was dropping out of medical school just short of getting her degree. (She had supplied portable DVD players under each seat, and it wasn't until the flight was underway and I was engrossed in a double feature of her films %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThe Women%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D and %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThe Starter Wife%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D that I realized she was a film actress.)
The devastation in Haiti was beyond description. We had to land in Cite Soleil a few miles outside the city and take a Jeep down a rutted road, where we came across a roadblock of armed guerrillas that terrified us all, but Deb took them aside and conducted negotiations in perfect Haitian Creole. (The DVD players from the plane flight came in handy as barter, and they allowed us to pass.)
There were so many buildings collapsed in the city center we didn't know where to begin. We set to work in a pile of rebar and concrete, where a team of National Guardsmen was scaling the rubble with scent-rescue K-9s. When a dog would alert to someone trapped below, the National Guard would excavate the site, and if the patient showed any sign of life, the Guardsmen would carry them to us on a makeshift stretcher and we would begin triage there, in the middle of the filthy Avenue John Brown. (Deb was a great help here, too, holding the patients' hands and singing to them softly; her husky contralto was perfectly suited to %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CLa vie en rose%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D and brought a tear to the eye of even some hardened rescuers.)
As the day went on, fewer and fewer patients were being brought to us and the rescue K-9s, sadly, were only uncovering corpses %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%93 and small ones, covered in concrete dust, their mouths open in a silent scream. We realized, to our horror, we were excavating a day care or elementary school.
I was setting the crushed leg of one old woman who was hysterical with shock, eyes rolling back in her head, babbling. I tried to hush her, but Deb stopped me:
Deb put her shell-like ear to the woman's mouth, inadvertently smearing her earring with blood, and listened to the old woman's wheezing Creole. The expression on Deb's face changed from puzzlement to incredulity to horror.
%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CStop!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she yelled to the Guardsmen atop the rubble. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThis woman's grandchild is buried up there!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she told them, pointing to a precipice of gnarled rebar and crumbling concrete.
The young Guardsman who was helping us was a towheaded Southerner, probably no more than eighteen. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CWe can't, ma'am,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D he told her.
Deb would have none of it. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CShe says he's alive; she can feel his cries in her heart!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CMa'am,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D the Guardsman told us, %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9Cit's not safe up there, not even for the dogs.%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThen I'LL do it!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
Quick as a wink and before any of us could stop her, Deb was scaling up the face of the rubble like a mountain goat, her Tevas barely finding purchase on one crumbling piece of cement before she shinnied to the next. (Later we would find that mountain climbing had been Deb's passion as a teenager.)
The Guardsmen stood mute and unbelieving, but the towhead found his voice: %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CRanger!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D he cried. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CHelp her!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
The biggest of the German shepherds raced after Deb, catching up to her just as she reached the spot the old woman had described. Deb and Ranger fell to digging, the animal with his paws and Deb with her hands, while we could only watch from the ground and pray.
After a few minutes, Deb staggered to her feet, holding a tiny object in her bloodied hands. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CJean-Phillippe!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she yelled to us. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CAnd he's alive! Il est vivant!%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
The most hardened Guardsman could not hold back his tears as Deb descended from that pile of rubble containing so many corpses of the young, pressing the tiny miracle to her breast as Ranger led the way. When she finally reached the ground, I held out my hands for the baby, but Deb shook her head.
%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CHe needs her touch,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she said. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CAnd she needs his.%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
With that tender smile I had seen in %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThe Starter Wife,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she placed the infant in the arms of his grandmother, where he worked his tiny fists for a moment before letting loose a cry in the destroyed streets of Port-au-Prince.
%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThe kid's got some lungs on him,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D said Red. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThat's the sound of a healthy baby.%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
Deb put her finger to his lips. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CNo,%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D she said. %C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CThat's the sound of LIFE.%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D
As the other medics turned their attention to the blood and glass in Deb's feet (she had lost her Tevas on the downhill climb), I looked at the old Haitian woman on the stretcher. With one hand, she pressed her grandson to her heart; the fingers of the other hand worked an invisible rosary.
Her parched mouth moved in silent prayer, and I knelt next to her to dampen her cracked lips with a few drops of water from my canteen when she suddenly grabbed my sleeve with a strength belying her advanced years. At that moment, the blood left her face, and I knew we had lost her; she had held on in hopes of an angel saving the life of her grandson, and now that God had done His work, she was ready to meet Him.
I bent down to moisten her lips once again, and in a palsied wheeze, she uttered her last words:
[italic]%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9CQui etait cette cunt?%C3%A2%C2%80%C2%9D[/italic]
Alright R12&13. That''s one of the best posts I''ve ever read in the four years I''ve been coming here.\
Thank God she had you to tell us this story as I''m sure modesty has prevented her from telling it herself.
OMG--I am in fucking [bold]TEARS!!![/bold] I am laughing so hard.\
THAT''S what I''m talking about!
R8, wiping tears
God bless you R12/R13! I was SO hoping someone would do one of those when I opened this thread and you came through!
This got buried late last night--I want toher people to see it, so I''m bumping it up.
Oh, Deb Messing Troll. This is your finest work yet.
You have been sorely missed.
That was brilliant R12/13!
The Deb Messing troll is the funniest fucking poster since Bonnie Mace! Surely the most hilarious and inspired...\
I doff my hat in your honor.
Bumping the brilliance that is R12/R13
Thank you, r12/r13. That was the most amazing thing I have read in a very long time.
Well done, R12/R13. Are you sure you''re not Richard Lawson?
Isn''t this a rehash of a post from years ago, when Deb Messing was relevant?\
"Convenient" that someone brings her up so the DM troll can regurgitate it all again. Cue fawning adulation.
Cue someone killing R27
All of you actually read that long ass shit?
R29 = Stumped if given anything more than a flashcard to read.
I thought the original Deb Messing story was about Darfur orphans or Katrina victims.
Why do we hate her again?
Wow r27: how bitterly jealous can you be?
My heart is still torn by this wonderful woman and her wonderful selfless acts. How much more in wonderful harmony with the wonderful essence of life we would be if we all could react to the vagaries of life as this wonderful woman.%0D\
Have they cast wonder woman yet? If not I feel that only Deb could truly fill those shoes.%0D\
My tears are still flowing and I thank the wonderful poster for sharing this wonderful true story of wonderfulness.
wonderful, wonderful Lawrence Welk
I didn''t find R12/R13 funny at all. He better hope I don''t sue his ass.
Deb Messing, steaming like a pile of dog shit in a snowbank
Who could be bothered to read all that shit R12/13 spent hours posting? Jeeeez.
Bump for the Deb Messing troll
Let me tell you about Deb Messing.
As Katrina roared toward New Orleans, more than a million people fled the area, but 29 of the city's littlest, most sickly babies were left to ride out the storm in University Hospital with Deb Messing. Many, born prematurely, were too weak to make the trip out. Deb’s job, some would describe as Herculean, was to make sure they all stayed alive. That we all stayed alive.
The horrors began the first day when the staff heard that the levees had been breached. "People got really scared and thought they were going to drown," said Deb, a volunteer who I discovered was in town visiting a friend. "I wasn't scared. I had been in touchy situations in Haiti and Darfur, but instead of machete toting rebels, we had water. And lots of it."
The staff was getting calls from members of their families who were stuck in attics as the water was rising. Some wanted to leave any way possible--and take their tiny charges with them. Deb Messing went from group to group, telling the frightened nurses that they would get out "when it was safe. When it was safe." But she too was worrying--about her husband and child, whom she had not heard from who stayed behind in New York.
Katrina posed an extraordinary challenge, isolating Deb, hospital staff and their charges for five harrowing days. Without power, the incubators had stopped working, so Deb had no choice but to carry the babies in her arms most of the time to keep them warm. For once in her life, Deb was grateful for the extra room in her bra. "Sometimes you have to roll up your capris and open your heart," she said to me, and I wept.
With no electricity and the backup generators flooded, the staff got news from the hospital's lone ham radio. At one point, a helicopter rescue was planned with a pickup point atop Tulane University Hospital three blocks away. Deb Messing gathered up her courage and led a bunch of desperate nurses carrying babies and boarded rowboats --respirating the sickest ones by "hand bagging," a method of forcing air into the lungs that Deb had taught them that morning, just in case. Just in case.
But the helicopter was commandeered for another mission, and Deb and the nurses returned with their swaddled patients. "We shall overcome," Deb reassured the party and led the nurses back, wading through the hip-deep water. "The staff was just emotionally drained. They're crying and upset as they came back," said Messing. "I wish they could perk up," she confessed to me, "pretend for the moment that they had some hope, that all wasn't lost, pretend for babies. Pretend for life."
She walked the units reassuring the nurses. She told me, "They needed to look in my face and see that it was going to be all right. This was the most important role of my life. I told them our No. 1 focus is our patients. Those teeny, tiny, veiny patients. We don't want to rush out of here and go drown and die in the process. That would be horrible and unfortunate."
Deb Messing was near exhaustion, having had no sleep most of the week and eating sunflower seeds she fished out of a vending machine. Yet she took on more duties, overseeing nurses in other areas of the hospital, all in the name of service and compassion. On what turned out to be their last night, Deb successfully delivered a 23-week-old preemie and even BBQd the placenta with a Bic lighter. "There is nothing she can't do," a nurse sighed, "except empty a bedpan."
The next day, they were finally evacuated. All the babies were fine. "We don't feel like heroes," said Deb "We feel like humanity."
Then, standing off to side, another nurse quietly added, "We just wanted our babies to go home alive and be reunited with their parents. And we wanted that crazy cunt with the hair to go back to New York."