Jumping the shark

January 16, 2004 at 6:59 pm (TV)

I admit, my life is not complete without television. Fuck, the alternative would be cleaning the apartment or, eek, making conversation. Yeah, not my thing. But, I’ll tell ya, my previous must-see shows are really starting to suck. Like a $10 whore with dentures. (Would that make her indentured?)
C’mon, the West Wing? Hey, Charlie? Remember being nominated for a Emmy? Yeah, well now you’re just a glorified phone operator. Oops, there ya go, off to tell President Bartlett that Leo is on the phone. Okay, off you go. I’m sure Leo will call again, so stay on your toes. The rest of you? Yeah, your jobs suck. Do I have to hear about it for an hour every week. I mean, even John Amos got the hell outta there and went to the WB. That’s telling, isn’t it? Jesus, this is a show where Martin Sheen gave ole G-d what-for, in Latin, without subtitles, in the cathedral. They had the brilliance of featuring dear old Jeff Buckley on one of the best shows ever. Now? Bartlett’s crew are all trying to hide from him, fearful they’ll have to put up with his trivia. Aaron Sorkin has left, replaced by David Wells who is….
the ex-producer of ER. He butt-fucked that show right up pretty good also, not even considerate enough to give a reach-around. Does anyone watch that show anymore? Do you care? Oh, Dr. Kovak, were I more, you know, adventurous, I’d be sleeping on your doorstep. Now? You give up any idealism for the off-chance of shagging some truck-stop nurse with a psycho son. Neela: luvved ya in Bend It Like Beckham, babe. You had a spine back then. Guess the plane trip across the pond removed it. Carter: take some of Gamma’s fortune and buy a razor. No way should you be with Thandie Newton. Every year, there’s another chick intern or resident, but don’t worry: she’ll get stabbed, do the girl-on-girl thing–sometimes with Weaver–or get in a car accident, so we won’t have to deal with her. Romano: had a personality. Got crushed by a helicopter. No one cared. Stupid. Abby: Your life sucks, you’re bringing everyone down. Bla bla, cry me a river. And then bite me. Corday: I’m starting to realise why Ralph Fiennes got the hell outta dodge. I would too if I always had to look at your over-exposed cleavage, which brings me to….
CSI. Remember this show? Remember how brilliant it was? Remember trying to identify every ’80s and ’90s alternative song, I mean obscure tunes from Cocteau Twins “Tiny Dynamine” album, etc? Yeah, that’s gone. They don’t even bother solving crimes anymore. Okay, I admit, I love the TMI camera. How could you not? But, ya know, Marg Van Hergenbergen (I don’t care how it’s spelled), nice cleavage there, hon. Oops, nice cleavage there again. And there. And there. And there. Okay, WE FUCKIN’ GET IT! You’ve got tits! You’re truly a miracle of modern plastic surgery. I don’t want to see you in a tank top again. The milliner suggested that she was wearing a tank-top ’cause it was hot out. Um, ya, and everyone else is wearing jackets. Sara: you’ve been reduced to being the errand-girl. Don’t know if that’s better than being the resident lezzie in ER (or would that be lezzie resident?), but at least you’re now getting more face time. Nicky: quit the scowl. And aren’t you sweating wearing that turtleneck? I mean, Hergenbergen practically has her tits hanging out. Continuity here, folks! Gil: less philosophy, more working. Chop chop. Besides that, don’t change. Warrick: I like you. Which means? The writers will fuck up your character. Too bad.
Until Survivor and The Amazing Race come back, I’ll probably have the cleanest apartment around, because I’ll be damned if I have to make conversation.


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