It’s Friday night, mid 90s, and that can only mean one thing: the TGIF line up on ABC. TGIF was a block of family-oriented sitcoms that lasted for about 12 years (1988-2000). Every Friday I would remember rushing to take my shower after dinner (drying after the shower was optional, and often ignored due to my desire to get in front of the t.v. as soon as possible. Consequently, trying to pull my pajamas on while still wet lead to much loss of balance and gaps in my memory) and running to the t.v. to sit approximately five inches away.
Usually, I didn’t care what the show was, I pretty much loved them all. Of course, I did have a few favorites, Dinosaurs, Perfect Strangers and Family Matters (Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper was alright too.) But the show that drew my attention every Friday, (yeah, that’s right, I didn’t have that many dates back then. Fancy that! Television was, and always will be, my first love.) was Boy meets world.
Now, I could get into the entire seven or eight year history of the show --its many twists and turns, its highs and lows, its pathos, drama and how it was heavily influenced by the writers of Greek tragedies and the lessons and teachings of Confucius—but I won’t. Suffice it to say, Boy meets world was a work of genius, and (dare I say it?) far superior to Saved by the Bell. Not a TGIF show I know, but it longed to mimic the success BMW had achieved, (yes, SBTB came first, but it was still jealous.)
The highlight of the show was everybody’s favorite high school hippy: Topanga. Ahhhh, Topanga! Where have you gone? Relegated to G-Movies made by National Lampoon, acting alongside Vida Guerra. It’s a shame. But today we shall not dwell on what woes time hath wrought upon this unfortunate cherub, rather, we shall focus on the Topanga of old, the Topanga who could put your eye out with her nipple, the Topanga who wasted her time dating a complete and total (damn, how redundant is that?) tool who never lived up to the name “Savage.”
I must begin with the physical description. Though let me state that any words I commit to paper could never match up to the beauty and poise that was Danielle Fishel. Her eyes imparted a special glow, as if to say to me and me alone “hey there tough guy, I might be here stuck on t.v., but my fondest wish in life is to be all over your junx!” Her lips had the appearance of two plump Jimmy Dean sausages*, (or, Bob Evans if you prefer) as if she purposely had them stung by bees each morning.
Her breasts were full and large. She could have served as a wet nurse to a camel! (Can you picture that? Unsavory.) I’m more of a leg man myself, but even I couldn’t help but admire her dirty pillows.
Her chest was attached to one of her best features: her body. Topanga, as the veganized, soy-sucking hippy she was, somehow developed one of the tightest thick bodies in Hollywood. She was smart; she knew that guys really wanted a woman who could take their breath away (when she’s laying on top. Rim shot!!) And she delivered. Man, I miss the days when a Reubenesque body was seen as more than a person’s weak will power. Looking at Topanga, you got the feeling that she wore the pants in her relationships and made Corey Matthews her bitch. And I bet he didn’t mind at all. Lucky bastard!
You also got the feeling that she could beat up her female costars at any moment and probably ran shop behind the scenes, threatening to beat innocent women with her enormous ta-tas at the drop of a hat.
The only problem I had with Topanga was how she just let Corey run her life. In the first few seasons, Topanga was strong-willed. She didn’t hesitate to let people know the truth, and they could only stare slack-jawed, lamenting their pitiful brainpower in comparison. But one day, all of a sudden, she became a sheep. She seemed to like taking orders from Corey and forgiving him his trespasses when she shouldn’t have. It was a travesty.
A dark and gloomy day occurred in my life on November 5, 1998, (three days after my birthday no less!) the day Corey and Topanga tied the knot. Their marriage, (which took an excruciating two weeks to unfold) struck me as a dagger in my naïve heart. I could have offered her so much! Our marriage would have been the stuff of legends! The blasphemy was compounded by the terrible quality of life her husband supplied once they were in college. Corey was no provider. He was a fraud. He didn’t deserve to sniff Topanga’s farts!
A piece of me died the day Topanga Lawrence became Topanga Lawrence-Matthews. A piece of me is gone, never to return again.
Danielle Fishel, (unfortunate last name by the way) if you’re out there and you somehow manage to find this, let it be known: I will take you as my own! I shall show you pleasures and make all of your fantasies come true! I know you’re younger than me and for once, I am willing to make an exception to my older-women rule. I’m here baby! Let me know! I’ve been following the decline of your career for years, and I’ve got an idea for you. Dig this: an actress does a reality show wherein she marries a fan of hers she’s never met before. It’s brilliant! Give me a call, send me an e-mail, do some smoke signals, it’s all good!
(To Alyssa Milano, if you’re reading this, don’t be discouraged, you still have a chance, you just have to contact me first.)
*Sorry, I have no other way to describe her lips that doesn’t sound completely gay, or involves comparing them to food.