Social media spoilers

Let me let you in on a little secret.

I'm pathetic.

Yep. I'm one of those people who sit on my increasingly fat ass, watching the latest realobotomy TV or awards shows while simultaneously writing on a laptop. Being extremely Caucasian, not to mention cliché, I have an unhealthy relationship with Mad Men, Downton Abbey, and now Girls and The Newsroom. I take these shows seriously, often discussing characters as if they're real people, perhaps even my friends or coworkers.

"Can you believe what Pete said to Joan? And did you get a load of his leisure jacket? 

"Lady Mary and I have so much in common, not the least of which is our ability to bungle every romantic situation that presents itself."

Yes, I really do talk like that. Out loud.

So I'm rather put out (i.e., en-fucking-raged) when some Facebook or Twitter premature e-proclaimator decides to discuss an episode or plot point while it's still airing. In a different time zone! You're not an early adopter; you're a co-opting snot. I can't even imagine how the poor kahunas in Hawaii cope with the likes of loose-lipped or trigger-fingered mainlanders hashtagging #jaguarfail or #phillipphillips while a show is airing on the East Coast. Show some discretion and stop giving away the gasp-worthy moments. If you don't, let me clue you into a spoiler of my own: #iwanttopunchyouintheface.

(This post was inspired by blogger Ryan McRae, who writes Geek in Afghanistan.)

(photo: brandwang.wordpress.com)

Red-carpet interviews

I love watching gowns and jewels and gorgeous man candy during awards season. But I have to put the TV on mute because the brain-dead “interviewers” (cough “boxes of hair” cough) are doing anything but interviewing. You’d think that Billy Bush was assaulted by The Walking Dead. Over and over, I wait for a question, and this is what I hear:

"Your dress is amazing. It’s such a beautiful color."

"It must be amazing to work with Darren Aronofsky. I mean, he’s such a visionary."

"Your body is slammin’."

No questions are actually asked. A microphone invades the personal space of a celebrity, who is then supposed to do an impromptu stand-up routine while suffering fools in designer duds. If a question is actually posed, it’s claw-your-face-off, Seacrest-on-a-chalkboard banal. “Who are you excited to see tonight?” “Isn't James Franco just SO talented?”

Please, find your pulse and ask what we really want to know: Would you ever work a red carpet encased in an egg? To what tropical bird was your hairdresser paying homage? Did you have a colonic today to drop those last couple of pounds? Do you ever buy your own clothes or jewelry? Do you want to punch me in the face?

Super Bowl halftime shows

Props to any artist who agrees to headline the Super Bowl halftime show. Even if they are getting paid a bajillion clams, it’s a losing proposition. The concert always sucks dirty pigskin.

Surrounded by hundreds of people in matching jumpsuits who were picked, not for their dancing prowess, but because they won a local radio contest, the performers lamely move around on death trap of a stage, trying to move through a medley of their most treacly hits as they screech toward the cheap seats and mug for the cameras.

First of all, when has a medley ever been good? Second, when have the singers ever sounded good? When one of the best halftime shows includes N’Sync and Britney, well… Super Bowl halftime shows are a study in lowest-common denominator performances. Performers and their body parts are picked based on their ability to offend the fewest number of people (Janet Jackson's right ta-ta was clearly an oversight). Consequently, you get a whole lot of Black-Eyed Cheese that doesn’t actually entertain anyone.

My prediction for Super Bowl XLVI: Katy Perry in Daisy Dukes and a whole lot of fireworks. A word of advice, though: skip the whipped-cream boob gun.

(photo: honeymag.com)

Proctor & Gamble

Okay, it’s a toss-up with CBS. I’m pissed at them both. I love me some Tide and CSI, but my affection is seriously dulled by this bastardly duo, who have pulled the plug on As the World Turns today.

Fuckers.

The 12^th-longest-running show on TV, ATWT goes softly into that TV goodnight after 54 years. I have been watching for a good 30 of those. I escaped to Oakdale in my teens, picking up romantic allusions while my dance card remained empty. In my twenties, I went from watching alongside football players in my dorm lounge to roping my housemates into watching a taped episode after work. When I’ve gone through rough times, the show usually had a similar storyline going on to comfort me. If not, I would get caught up with the on/off/way off/coma/consciousness/back on relationships, villains who kept coming back from the dead (I'm talking about you, James Stenbeck), and wacky tacky fashions that Barbara and Carly kept turning out.

I’ve taped, DVRed, or watched the show in real time on and off for the past decade. As a freelance writer working for myself, I have often taken my lunch break and used the show as a palate cleanser in between writing jags.

So P&G, CBS, y’all can KMA. And if that’s not clear enough, GFY. RIP, my sweet soap.

For more on my love of ATWT and the lessons I’ve learned from the residents of Oakdale, check out my posts on the Huffington Post and Salon.

What long-running show have you watched over the years?

THIS…is ah-MER-a-kin idol!

This…drives me BATshit crazy. When Ryan Seacrest announces each Idol episode in the same portentous way, I cringe. A low-rent Dick Clark, Peecrest tries to give AI added import. As if he needs to. We get it. It’s a TV phenom, no question. But it’s not the fight of the century. With four words, this box of hair makes it sound like we are about to watch Jesse Owens take on the entire Third Reich or Oprah cage fight Bill Gates.

We’re not.

We’re about to watch nervous teenagers sing.

Ryan, spend a little more time buying your soul back from the devil and a little less time dragging out the cheesy lead-in to Idol. It’s already full-up on cheese, both tasty and stinky.

Punch in the Face out.

(photo: blog.placesaroundflorida.com)

Sportscasters' comments

Play-by-play commentary must be incredibly hard. That’s why sportscasters presumably get paid a lot more than the likes of me. I’ve long been irked by the hyperbole that runs rampant in the sports world. The best catch, the worst fumble, the longest line drive in the history of the world, the highest, the fastest, the most incredible, you get the idea. One hour of Sportscenter results in the WORST headache in the world.

Enter the Olympics.

Forget the hyperbole. I’m too busy rolling my eyes at the remarks of dumbassian proportions. Remarks such as “He’s in first place. That’s a good place to be” And “She’s not without talent.” Instead of hyperbole, they seem to be going for the gold in fucking obvious. Don’t believe me. Just watch and listen; you’ll have the worst migraine since the dawn of time.

“This has been tremendously tremendous!” —as the USA hockey team beat Team Canada
“He’s a contender in this event for sure.” —downhill skier already with two medals from this Olympics
“It will not be a cool running for Jamaica.”
“The biggest battle will be the one he fights from within.”

Then there’s the local NBC reporter who asked speedskating gold medalist Sven Kramer who he was, where he was from, and what he had just won. Kramer’s awesome response? “Are you stupid?”

Clearly a rhetorical question.

What are the most redonculous comments you've heard during the Vancouver Olympic Games?

(photo of Russian ice dancing team Oksana Domnina and Maxim Shabalin, who "rocked" an Australian aboriginal look: washingtonpost.com)

Jay Leno’s chin

Maybe it’s just because NBC is trying to push Conan out of the 11:30 slot to make room for Jay's face. Maybe it’s because he reminds me of one banana-jawed ex-boyfriend. But whatever the case, I want to beat the shit out of Jay’s mammoth chin.

There’s all this talk about lollipop-headed anorexic actresses with heads too big for their body. Please. Those noggins are lightweights compared with Jay’s disproportionate head. Specifically, his elephant man chin.

Punching it will assuredly result in nerve damage to my left hand, as I suspect the bone is twice as thick as other talk show hosts. So Jay’s chin, which Google Earth is reputedly zeroing in on, would be better served with a trip to plastic surgeon Steven M. Hoefflin. If he could make Michael Jackson’s face disappear, this medical magician could certainly shave down that late-night eyesore.

(photo: dirtywhiteblog.wordpress.com)

freecreditreport.com ads

Your jingles may be annoyingly catchy, but the dude singing them is just plain annoying. If I have to see your shaggy mop kicking it at a Ren Faire or entertaining the early birds at a seafood restaurant one more time, I’m going to drive my fist so far into your face that you’re going to be pushed back a hundred or so points on your crap-ass credit report.

And here’s a thought: maybe you’re living in your in-laws’ basement, not because your dream girl had bad credit, but because your emo band can’t get a gig. Put down your guitar, lose the white man’s overbite, and stop being a whiny cautionary tale. Martyrdom never made anyone serious coin.

The Geico caveman

Apparently, the Geico caveman is working up toward a full-on docudrama. It started innocently enough: I liked the commercial in the airport. No dialogue, just Röyksopp and a moving walkway.

Then he moved into the therapist’s office. There wasn’t much room on the couch, since he was sharing it with a massive chip on his shoulder. The discomfort was palpable.

Now we’ve entered full-on Ben Stiller territory. In Fright at the Museum, Brow Ridge is a docent at the Museum of Natural History, leading a group of Greek system rejects who start circling him like they’re re-enacting a scene from “The Lottery” (that short story by Shirley Jackson we all had to read in high school). If those stones in the diorama weren’t papier mâché, I’d be worried for the dude’s survival. Sure, Clan of the Cave Bear bags the babe in the end but, like a Ben Stiller movie, the payoff never equals the shit he had to eat during the previous 89 minutes.

Cro-Gagnon gets to show his acting chops in this 3-minute commercial…well, as much as he can show under all that fur. He is a long-suffering martyr. He tries on bemusement. Here we go: he’s officially annoyed! He transitions into supercilious before finally settling on bitter. Are these the five stage of caveman grief? And why do I need bear witness?

If I wanted to see bitter, I’d look in the mirror…or re-read these blog posts. It’s time to throw him into a crate and ship him back to Olduvai Gorge. Maybe the missing link should stay lost.

(And does anyone else think that the caveman bears some resemblance to Val Kilmer?)

Jon & Kate

Here are the top 8 reasons why these two—either separately or together—need to jump on an ATV and go deep into the woods of Pennsylvania, never to return.

8. Ed Hardy clothes. Tattoos belong on the skin, not on daddy’s hoodie.

7. Kate’s last nerve. She’s always on it, I’m always over it.

6. Jon’s somnambulant demeanor. Are you walking off a bender? Did you pull an all-nighter at a college sports bar? Are your biorhythms at a low point? Lacking electrolytes? Zombie? Throw back some coffee or Gatorade, eat some brains, and look alert.

5. Matching kids’ clothing. You dress all your kids—sextuplets and twins alike—to match. Are they on a team and need a uniform? Is it your way of tagging and herding them? I wonder at what age the multiple personality disorder will start to kick in when one of them actually wants to carve out an identity.

4. Kids as billboards. If your kids aren't Oilily-ed out, you’ve got them wearing t-shirts promoting the Crooked Houses that are currently being assembled on the show or some other swag you got for free.

3. Media attention. For Christ’s sake, can the paparazzi get back to their job of stalking Lindsay and Britney and those no-talent bitches on The Hills? Baby needs to know what baby-doll dresses are in this season!

2. “I didn’t sign up for this.” Yeah, you did. TLC has a signed contract that it would be happy to show you, if Hannah happened to spill her sippy cup of apple juice all over yours.

1. Kate’s hair. Duh. Hair should attract the eye, but not from the skies. A 'do should not double as a nest for fledgling owlets or goslings, but maybe that’s just me.

(photo: gosselingossip.com)
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Unresolved TV shows

Dear TV execs:

I have a bone to pick with you. Each year, I am drawn into one, two, or twelve new shows. Some get renewed, others don’t. But when shows are canceled unexpectedly—sometimes in mid-season—there’s no chance of resolution. These permanent cliff-hangers keep me on edge and, like the Kennedy assassination and Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance, drive me cuckoo crazy with unanswered questions.

Twin Peaks ended before we found out what led up to Laura Palmer winding up in a body bag at the base of Snoqualmie Falls. At least David Lynch had the courtesy to give us the prequel Twin Peaks: Fire, Walk with Me. But fuck me if it clarified shit: it made about as much sense as a dwarf in a velvet suit dancing in slow motion and talking about the White Lodge. It was as clear as Agent Cooper's cup of black coffee. But you get points for trying, Dave.

My teenage years were permanently scarred when Paper Dolls went off the air. The show was about models, Morgan Fairchild was in it, and it ended with a giant department store fire. In other words, it was pretty much perfect. I’ll never know if Nicollette Sheridan and those rad Nolan Miller dresses survived or if Terry Farrell’s modeling career was cut down in its prime due to her first-degree burns. ABC, choke on my remote.

Millenium never made it to the year 2000 so I have no goddamn idea if the world ended or Lance Henricksen finally showed some emotion and stopped looking like that preternaturally calm android he played in Aliens.

Could you cut us a break? We suffer through bad plot lines, long-winded expository dialogue, and enough beer commercials to make us pissed-ass drunk just by watching them. The least you could do is to clean up after yourselves. Tie up loose storylines somehow: Act out Angel’s fate on youtube, post the final script for Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip online (don’t tell me Aaron Sorkin doesn’t have one), send up some smoke signals to resolve Carnivàle… Do something, anything to take care of business, take care of your viewers.

If you don’t, I’m going to sic Bob, Laura Palmer’s freaky killer-in-her-dad’s-body, on you. I’ll pour some black coffee, cut a slice of pie, and pull up a chair. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Sincerely,
TIWTPITF

What prematurely canceled shows caused you to die a little on the inside?

(photo: revistafantastique.com/revista.php?articulo=148---Twin-Peaks)

Punch Bowl Winners' Circle: David Caruso’s slow enunciation

Long time reader, first-time face puncher—and I am so excited for the opportunity! To be truthful, I think about this subject a lot. Sometimes, I will be driving or just living and either get frustrated and/or upset and just think "Argh! If only I could punch right in the face!" But then I think about how if I would really want to waste my one, good chance on said annoyance. So please know, that a lot of good mental research has gone into the following.

The thing I would like to punch in the face is David Caruso's slow way of enunciating everything he says in order to make it sound more interesting. It's not! Just say it at normal speed! Just because you lower your voice...draw out each syllable...and give a cocky little head tilt does not mean that you just made the Nobel Prize Winning statement of the year! "But it seems...that our victim...has already met....his....fate...."

Yeah, no crap! He's dead on the floor! And now you just took up 25 minutes stating that fact when I could have been figuring out through the miracle of television who killed him. It chaps me, it really does. You have so much time when he starts talking that you can change the channel, check in on another show, come back and catch the middle of his sentence, switch again, then slide on in for the last 17 seconds or so of his phrase and still know exactly what he said.

I mean really? I gave up reading because I read too slowly and wanted to get to the story line—that's why I watch TV! You're killing me, Horatio Caine. Speed it up.

—Marissa Diamond, Marissa in Houston

How can I not love this, seeing as I punched David Caruso’s neck back in March (TIWTPITF, March 19)?

(photo: toutelatele.com)

Punch Bowl Winners' Circle: Mister Six

I’m all for amusement parks. God knows, while growing up in suburban New Jersey, I enjoyed many days of a misspent youth riding roller coasters at that grand utopia of adolescent frivolity known as Six Flags’ Great Adventure which (aside from that horrible Haunted Castle incident in 1984) always seemed to be a safe, fun place to hang out. As the good folks there so aptly put it, “There’s a time for work and a time for play.” This is true. However, there is ALSO a time to bust someone square in the mush, which is why I hereby nominate “Mister Six”, the current TV ad rep for Six Flags, as the latest recipient of this well-deserved honor. If you’ve never seen this so-called “ambassador of fun” in action, you can get a gander at the child-frightening insanity here:

Now that we’re all clear on who I’m talking about, can someone please explain to me how Uncle Junior from The Sopranos got stuck with this fucking job? Better yet, what Red Bull-swilling, coke-snorting genius in the Six Flags’ advertising department came up with this concept? I would LOVE to have been a fly on the wall during that discussion: “Hey, I got an idea for a great new family-friendly way to promote our product! Let’s get an old bald guy in a tuxedo to drive around suburban America in a red-and-yellow version of the Rosa Parks bus and coerce unsuspecting adults and kids into going on a field trip to one of our theme parks by showing off his obnoxious dancing skills! Doesn’t that spell FUN?! Hah?”

How about a nice pipin’-hot fistful of NO, Six Flags? Never mind that your TV spots disregard basic rules for personal safety (RULE NUMBER ONE being: Never let a STRANGER drive you ANYWHERE, especially if he promises that it’s someplace “fun”), but watching a skinhead version of Lew Wasserman freak dance to “We Like to Party” by the Vengaboys does not spell FUN. It spells CREEPSHOW. It doesn’t exactly make me wanna get on a magic bus ride with this Gooney Goo-Goo to Six Flags either, even if it does boast the Rolling Thunder, Lightning Loops and a Log Flume. It does, however, make me wanna go smashmouth on your mascot’s ancient ass. I wanna knock him right out of his two-tone boogie shoes and throw him in front of the Runaway Train. In fact, if I set foot inside the gates of a Six Flags ever again and I see this obnoxious geriatric spaz so much as “bunny hop” within 50 feet of me, I’m gonna send a big fat knuckleblast flying into that gaping Latex mug of his. So consider yourself warned, ya rug-cutting Crypt Keeper. Fortunately, I’m not the only one who feels like inflicting physical harm on this silly, street-swingin’ septuagenarian. The folks at Robot Chicken have already arranged an all-too fitting demise for him, which is, admittedly, a lot more violent than a biff to the cakehole. But hey…this is America and the right to bear arms, even the animated kind, is one I can support in this case. So, kudos to them for offing this dancing douchebag; Uncle June himself would have approved. Then again, I would have been happy if they’d used a giant Claymation fist, too.

—Kevin Byrne

Kevin suggested I write about Mister Six a while back, but since I don't live near a Six Flags, I hadn't been introduced to—that is, driven to the brink of insanity by—the commercial.

(photo: cracked.com/blog)

Cha-Ka

What on earth—or an alternate-reality earth—are you? The missing link? Sleestak-australopithecine love child? Unwaxed bonus Jonas? Sid and Marty Kroff were tokin’ some seriously wacky tabacky when they dreamed you up. Dude, you give Bigfoot night terrors.

This Creature from the Whack Lagoon needs to get lost. There’s a reason the Land of the Lost is LOST. It’s lame. With residents like Cha-Ka, the place is too stupid to find itself.

Rather than punching your low overhang and letting you off easy, I’m sending you to an esthetician for a full-body wax (that includes your glam rock mullet). Next, you're off to a plastic surgeon who will shave down that brow ridge. And then it’s back down river in an inflatable raft for you. Back on the Island of Misfit Boys, find a source of calcium, stand up straight, and work on your posture, you knuckle-dragging biped. If I see you hunching over or falling down on the grooming front again, I’m pulling the Sleestak out of the pylons and away from their precious fucking crystals and siccing them on your hairy ass. I bet they have a few ideas on how to depilate your bum.

(P.S. Is it just me, or does Cha-Ka look like Clint Howard?)
(P.P.S. Are you as excited as I am for the new Land of the Lost movie with Will Ferrell?)

(photo: http://www.horrorremix.com)

American Idol judges

Dawg, yo, yo, check it out. Here’s the thing: After eight seasons of American Idol, I’m over the sniping and playground antics. I may be a cold-hearted snake, but I want to look into the judges’ eyes and redirect the conversation where it belongs (toward Adam Lambert).

What is going on behind the judges’ table? The wheels have come off the short bus. At one point, Paula pulled out crayons (probably what she used for her eye makeup) and handed them to Simon, suggesting he was a wittle childish. It takes one to know one, even if you are hopped up on an OTC cocktail. And Randy and Kara, I’m not letting you off the hook, either. Stop taking the bait, talking over each other’s barbs, and keep your eyes on the goddamn stage.

How can I be so heartless? Well, I need something new to do, since my “Seacrest Out” voodoo doll doesn’t seem to be working.

It’s too late to apologize. Just focus on the performances and stop bickering with each other. You’re eating up airtime that could be spent talking about Adam, I mean, the contestants. Do what you do best: Paula, keep giving us kookaloo non sequiturs. Simon, take the words out of our mouths when critiquing the contestants. Randy, take the middle ground. Kara, well, um, just follow Randy’s lead with the commentary and keep wearing pretty baubles.

To make sure you fall in line for the finale, the voodoo dolls are in play. Feel that, Simon?

(Photo: Michael Becker/FOX)

Scrappy Doo

When thinking about characters that single-handedly torpedoed a TV show, yippy Scrappy Don’t tops the list (Cousin Oliver, I'm gunning for you next). What the fuck were Hanna and Barbera smoking when they introduced this punk-ass bitch into the pack? Even Cesar Millan would lose his shit after watching you for one episode.

The Scooby gang was handling their mysteries just fine when Scooby’s Great Lame nephew arrived on the scene. Puppy power my ass. Freddy should take off his porn star kerchief and strangle Crappy Doo. Shaggy could get hopped up on Scooby snacks, get behind the wheel of the Mystery Machine, and run down Scrappy Poo. Velma should fit him with a choke chain and dump this cocky little canine in pound prison; I'm sure a few older pooches would be happy to take him in hand and make him their bitch. Maybe one of the geezer ghosts could haunt Scrappy Doo Doo for all of eternity, the way this shrill pill haunts my Saturday-morning nightmares. The beat-down possibilities are endless, but the ultimate responsibility lies with family. Uncle Scooby needs to suck it up, ball up a paw, and thrash this whippersnapper within an inch of his short life.

I’ve got two words for you, Yappy Doo. Rut roh.

(photo: newsfromme.com/images8/scrappy1.jpg)

Horror movie trailers

I’m home, minding my own business. The front door is locked, the windows secure. I’m wearing my jammies.

And then, unexpectedly, I’m violated.

By my television.

I might be innocently watching the nightmare that is the Rock of Love Bus or a grisly surgery on House when the show cuts to a commercial. Sigh. Instead of a Cover Girl or Comcast ad, it’s a goddammed horror movie trailer. A young girl is running in the woods, presumably away from a psychopath or the not-so-Steadicam that’s hunting her down. In just two minutes, I hear a lot of screaming and I see duct tape, knives, guns, menace, sweaty faces that haven’t been shaved in days, lots of moody lighting, fear, choppy editing, a microwave…



My heart is racing and I’m seriously disturbed.

It's coming from inside the house.

Like Drew Barrymore in the opening sequence of Scream, I can’t escape. It’s bad enough that Friday the 13th forever screwed my chances for a fear-free camping trip, but now I have to be afraid every time I reach for the remote. The obvious solution is to quickly turn the channel or turn off the TV before I punch it in the cathode ray tube. Fuck that. These trailers make me mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.

It's time to turn the tables on my tormentors. I need to strap on my hockey mask, pull on a red-and-black striped sweater, pick up my hand saw/ice pick/mallet/meat hook/rusty farm tool and…oh heck, who am I kidding? I can't go serial killer on these trailers' asses, as they are digital and as elusive as Jack the Ripper. Unless I infiltrate a movie trailer producer's studio and wipe the hard drive, crash the servers, and destroy the FTP site, my hands are tied (but not in a Hostel kind of way). Wait a minute, I bet that demon chicklet in need of a deep conditioner and a comb from The Ring could help. Samara could crawl back into the TV and magnetize anything that triggers my gag reflex.

Meanwhile, I'll watch a Clean House marathon on the Style network and mute the cheesy freecreditreport.com commercials. That kind of horror I can stomach any time.

Tools who don't believe in TV

I've been on loads of first dates which ultimately proved to be the last date as well. None of these guys were sociopaths or pock-marked or suffering from acute halitosis. Some were inconsiderate and some were cheap, sure, but none of them were bad guys per se (the bad boys usually get a second date).

No, my biggest beef with many of my dates was that they didn't own a television.

They weren't moving cross-country or suffering from a broken cathode ray tube. It may seem inconceivable, but there are folks in the world who don't believe in TV.

Bend over and take a deep breath. It helps the dizziness.

I watch more than my share of TV. Rock of Love Bus is not for everyone, I grant you. But for me, being on the pop culture superhighway is part of what defines me, as well as what educates and entertains me. Watching TV provides me with conversational currency. What in the world do these pretentious fucks have to talk about? Seriously?

Without a TV, flatscreen or otherwise, how can you stay apprised of Bret Michaels' bandannas and hair extensions? Or watch Joaquin Phoenix mumble and sasquatch his way through Letterman? Or get unexpectedly sucked into a Ken Burns' documentary or Shark Week? Or bear witness to the majesty of an inauguration or Aretha's inaugural hat?

You can't.

I'm not talking about the hi-tech nerd who streams stuff on his laptop or catches the latest episode of Flight of the Conchords on an iPhone. No, he's exempt from my rage. He isn't throwing the baby out with the RGB bathwater. No, I'm talking about the cappuccino intellectual who stuffs a tattered copy of Proust into an NPR totebag while listening to Philip Glass and sporting a fedora.

In other words, a massive tool.

If fuckwits such as this aren't going to watch The Office or Olbermann, here's how I think they should pass their colorless days:

• Alternately whack themselves in the face with a first edition of Sex and the City and poke themselves in the eye with the heel of a Manolo.
• Pour a steaming double espresso over their heads.
  
• Listen to the Doogie Howser M.D. theme song on a continuous loop.
• Electrical tape their eyes open and force them to watch warnings from the Emergency Broadcast System.
  
• Jump off the GE Building at 30 Rockefeller Plaza.
• And my personal favorite: Hop in a bucket and volunteer as chum during Shark Week.
  

Shlubs with hot chicks

The list is long and my temper is short.

The King of Queens, According to Jim (According to me, Jim Belushi should maybe join Courtney Thorne-Smith at a gym once in a while), Still Standing (Am I supposed to buy the coupling of Jami Gertz and the lovable but chunky Sad Sack from The Full Monty? Talk about square pegs!), Grounded for Life, Everybody Loves Raymond…

Don’t presume to speak for me, you Hollywood asswipes. I don’t love Raymond. Matter of fact, I suspect that there are a lot of foxy birds who find him anything but lovable. How such a whiny schlub ever scored Patricia Heaton is a mystery understood only by TV execs and a handful of Operating Thetan level 8 Scientologists. Humor goes a loooongggg way in my book, but it doesn’t mean that these doughnut-scarfing doofuses shouldn’t also work on their navel-gazing tendencies, hit a treadmill, and eat a salad every now and again.

Here's a novel idea: create a show for me that features a full-figured, ribald babe in a juicy marriage with some smokin' piece of ass like Jason Lewis. That show, I'd watch. That show, I'd love.

Meanwhile, instead of beating these guys senseless (it's not their fault they were cast in sitcoms that suspend disbelief), I'm going to Duct-Tape them all together and make myself a nice cushy bean bag chair, fit for a queen and suitable for all my TV viewing needs. Who needs a BarcaLounger when you've got Kevin James?

(Photo: www.xanga.com)

Those effing commercials

You know what's getting old (besides the 25 things epidemic on Facebook)? Getting blind-sided by the polar bear commercials with Noah Wyle, the starving children commercials with Laurie Metcalf, and for God’s sake, the animal cruelty spots with Sarah McLachlan. Make it stop, please, make it stop, or I’m going to have to punch global warming, famine, and animal abusers in their collective faces.

(Photo can be found at www.firstpeople.us)