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The fantastic, utterly glorious return of superstar of the ages (and DL fave) Deb Messing

Are you ready for Season 2 of SMASH?

Did you miss me? I missed me!

by Deb reply 2902/05/2013

Season Two! Coming soon!

by Deb reply 102/01/2013

Where are the Deb Messing troll's stories?

by Deb reply 202/01/2013

Let me tell you something about Deb Messing: They've already put the first hour of the two-hour premiere on Hulu, and she spent the hiatus losing her abortion-bloat. She wasn't swaddled in nearly as many layers as before.

by Deb reply 302/01/2013

Smash is horrible.

by Deb reply 402/01/2013

I take my scarf off to Deb Messing!

by Deb reply 502/01/2013


by Deb reply 602/01/2013

Will Chase won't be back on SMASH this season, but Deb gets to keep him chained to the bed at home...

by Deb reply 702/01/2013

Who fathered her aborted fetus? Wasn't her husband, that's for sure.

by Deb reply 802/02/2013

It was Will Chase.

by Deb reply 902/02/2013

I think there should be a deathcage match between our Debra Messing and Connie Britton.

It would have to involve huge bludgeony clubs to make use of upper body strength and reveal upper arm tone.

Upon the defeat of her opponent, the victor would have to remove her stacked heel and hold it aloft. On the instep would be printed her name - "Connie" or "Cunt".

The crowd roar, "FINISH HER!!!!"

And she'd kill the bitch.

by Deb reply 1002/02/2013

Deb Messing - even Julie can't believe what a bitch she is.

by Deb reply 1102/02/2013

[italic]Qui était cette cunt?[/italic]

by Deb reply 1202/02/2013

Deb Messing learned parenting skills from Shirl "Big Mama" MacLaine.

by Deb reply 1302/02/2013

bump it

by Deb reply 1402/02/2013

By all accounts, a talented actress, loving mother, and all-around nice, down to earth woman. Not to mention steadfast supporter of gay rights. So why the hate?

by Deb reply 1502/02/2013

Why the hate, you ask?

by Deb reply 1602/02/2013

Scroll to R28 & R29 for one of the DM troll's stories.

by Deb reply 1702/02/2013

Coke Mom.

by Deb reply 1802/02/2013

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 -- 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. "I noticed your bag,” she said (I was carrying my Medecins Sans Frontières kit). “Are you trying to get to Haiti?"

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. "We have one more seat," she said, insisting I come with her. There was a brief argument on the tarmac -- 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 "Deb" and -- though she was obviously well-off -- 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 The Women and The Starter Wife 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 "La vie en rose" 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 -- 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:

"No!" (to be continued..)

by Deb reply 1902/03/2013

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.

"Stop!" she yelled to the Guardsmen atop the rubble. "This woman's grandchild is buried up there!" 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. "We can't, ma'am," he told her.

Deb would have none of it. "She says he's alive; she can feel his cries in her heart!"

"Ma'am," the Guardsman told us, "it's not safe up there, not even for the dogs."

"Then I'LL do it!"

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: "Ranger!" he cried. "Help her!"

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. "Jean-Phillippe!" she yelled to us. "And he's alive! Il est vivant!"

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.

"He needs her touch," she said. "And she needs his."

With that tender smile I had seen in The Starter Wife, 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.

"The kid's got some lungs on him," said Red. "That's the sound of a healthy baby."

Deb put her finger to his lips. "No," she said. "That's the sound of LIFE."

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:

"Qui était cette cunt?"

by Deb reply 2002/03/2013


by Deb reply 2102/03/2013

R19 / R20?

Chante, you stay.

by Deb reply 2202/04/2013

R22 - I posted that but it is not my work of beauty - that's a DL classic from another thread!

Can't wait to see the train wreck tonight....

by Deb reply 2302/05/2013

"you might want to rethink the scarves"

by Deb reply 2402/05/2013

Deb, the show sucks.

Not even Karen Walker as a last minute investor can save your fat ass now.

by Deb reply 2502/05/2013

She is so FAT now.

by Deb reply 2602/05/2013

Please catch me up.

Why does everyone hate Debra Messing?

Did she really have an abortion?

by Deb reply 2702/05/2013

Her character on W&G was an annoying child-woman, the least likeable of the main cast.

by Deb reply 2802/05/2013

Sorry, R28, but Jack and Karen were easily the least likeable. They were the reason I stopped watching after season 2, anyway.

by Deb reply 2902/05/2013
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