Is it still called “live blogging” when you are making fun of a program (oh, like maybe the Oscars, for example, hypothetically speaking of course) on every form of social media when you aren’t really watching it at all?
Or haven’t watched it for the past several years.
Or haven’t seen a movie nominated for an Academy Award.
Or haven’t seen an actual movie.
Or own a TV.
Or have a blog.
Or remember what his original point was.
As luck would have it (I didn’t say GOOD luck), I was sliding down the cable TV channel guide when I happened upon the Jenny McCarthy Show. Being a self-proclaimed connoisseur of the dark underbelly of popular culture, I figured that I owed it to myself to watch this train wreck of a TV show. In retrospect, this is one debt I probably will never be able to repay.
Jenny sets herself up as a boozy Hollywood floozy who invites other entertainment bottom-feeders to drink and chat up the latest nonstories and rumors that we, apparently, just cannot get enough of during our other 11 waking hours. Also on the show are a DJ (dig that phat disc-scratching, yo) and a gaggle of young, mostly female dancers that double as her studio audience. The prerequisites for such a prestigious job is to look good in club ware (or, in a few cases, under-ware) and being able to go, “Oooooooo” when Jenny or her compadres say something SCANDALOUS. Which by VH-1 contractual stipulation has to be every 15 seconds or less.
Joining our charming hostess on this night is a relatively funny woman (stated by me as such to draw a clear distinction between her and Jenny) from another VH-1 show, “Your Best Week Ever”. Another VH-1 show? Where did they ever find her? Also on the panel is a refugee from “Mob Wives”, wearing the requisite uniform of straight, black-really-is-my-natural-color hair, stiletto boots, black leather pants and jacket (with designer-placed safety pins because PUNK came back “in” while the rest of us weren’t looking). Thankfully, her lips were appropriately over-cologened or maybe we wouldn’t have recognized her from the TV show that brought her fame, fortune and bimonthly conjugal visits at the local low-security penitentiary.
My favorite quote from this “celebrity” was, “These mob guys are good because they are devoted to family. What they do outside the home is not my concern.” Who said morality is dead? Hey, she might wear an oversized, diamond encrusted cross but Jesus was no snitch, you know.
Overall, there were 2 distinct, central bits during the half hour that actually felt like an eternity. The first was a round-robin party game in which Jenny and the aforementioned guests had to stuff marshmallows and later whipped cream into their mouths after naming things from a given category. Fortunately, both versions gave the intrepid Jenny an opportunity to make the same “just another Friday night for me” joke as white stuff dribbled out from the corners of her lips. I love edgy humor that may or may not have sexual overtones, don’t you?
The second was Jenny’s interview with the Mob Wife, with both ladies laying on some pillows, faces practically touching and sucking on red Blow-pops. I think there were some allusions to sex there as well, but I cannot be sure. Perhaps the tipoff came when Jenny asked the Mob Wife if she ever was with another woman. Of course the latter said, “No!” (hey, Jesus was no lesbian either). Jenny countered by saying, “It’s just that sometimes women are yummy.”
After the show was over, and my apoplectic fit had subsided, I decided to make a short list of the things I could have done with the 30 minutes of my life that I unfortunately will never get back.
1. Gone to sleep at a reasonable hour for a 50-year-old.
2. Googled Jenny McCarthy autism-vaccination speeches for a real laugh.
3. Gone through my house and thrown out all red Blow-pops.
4. Called Jenny McCarthy at home. After all, it was just another Friday night for her.
RELEASE THE CRAGEN!
Sometimes, when you are housebound for several consecutive days, you are driven by insanity to engage in some serious, at-risk behavior. I’m not talking about substance abusive or degenerative sexual conduct.
No, I’m talking about firing up the HDTV and watching game shows nonstop. Before you continue reading (presumptuous, aren’t I?), let me provide this warning. Engaging in this kind of mind-altering activity can be extremely dangerous. Under no circumstances should children under the age of 12 be permitted to participate in a social experiment such as this.
The first show I watched was “Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?” This is a trick question; if you’re watching the show, then the answer is a definitive “No.” They use contestants that, ostensibly, are at least of average intelligence. But as soon as the first geography question is posed, they begin blubbering onto the narrow shoulders of some pre-pubescent. Shameful.
I was beginning to feel a little shaky when “Family Feud” came on. While the title hints at some real rootin’, tootin’ and shootin’, there is precious little actual violence. Instead, each family must predict how a gaggle of cretins responded to a series of surveys. I am never sure who wins the rounds because I am too busy passing judgment on the contestants first names (I am looking at you, Skip) and deciding which family has the hottest women. The latter is too easy, as evidenced by the amount of pawing in which each lecherous host engages.
I then am treated to a relatively new offering, “Dog Eat Dog”. Again, I am misled. There are no dogs here, let alone one that eats other dogs. There are no rules, apparently, either. Just a bunch of genetically engineered men and women who are asked questions, participate in elaborate “stunts” and display their abs. There’s a hot model-type who hosts the show, too. I think she takes home her choice of contestant as a trophy each day. Why am I watching this, again?
At this point, I was beginning to hallucinate. But ruining my trip was an ancient episode of “The $25,000 Pyramid”, hosted by version 2.0 of the DickClarkATron. In this game, one person peers into some kind of tunnel and basically “beats around the bush” for 10 seconds. The other person, clearly annoyed at the fact that their partner can’t just come out and just say what is on their mind, spends the aforementioned 10 seconds interrupting them. That has to be the most rude game show ever.
But then it gets kinky during the bonus round. One person is literally bound in a chair with no ability to move their hands or arms, while at the same time being forced to verbally taunt their partner with words that belong to some category or another. Hey, whatever floats your boat.
In the end, it only takes 120 minutes of viewing such programming before I begin to blather like some crack-addled idiot. Which, as luck would have it, instantly brings me to the attention of some intrepid TV producer.
Apparently, a pitch to have me host a soon-to-be-aired game show is in the works.
I just got an email from my cable company. I don’t know if you are so friendly with your cable company that you receive email from them, but I am. Jealous much?
Anyway, the subject of this most recent email differed from the ones I have received in the past. Previous emails from my BFF cable company have always informed me (as friendly as one can be, of course) that my rates were increasing, while the number of channels I was allowed to view under my current package was decreasing. But not this time.
No, this time my BFF wanted to inform me about some service interruptions due to…wait for it…SOLAR FLARES. Holy cow. My TV programming will proceed in a herky-jerky manner because of celestial events beyond our control. How cool is that?
This is what they must’ve meant by living in the space age. “Honey, is So You Think You Can Dance on?” “No, dear. It’s been canceled due to intense radioactivity jettisoned at us from the sun.” “Well, DVR it, then.”
What’s next? “We regret to inform you that today’s Jets game will be blacked out because of resulting cosmic debris caused by the Romulans destroying Altair 7.” Eh, the Jets were a 6-point underdog anyway.
I have written back to my friends, the cable company, and suggested that they consider actually BROADCASTING the solar flares. Kind of like the Yule Log for the 21st century.
I have yet to hear back from them on this matter. Or whether we are going to meet up at that Hipster bar in Williamsburg next Saturday. And so I wait.