Garbage Smells Worse In The Summertime. Television Is No Different
Right around the end of May sweeps, television unbuckles its belt, pulls away from the dining table and lets out a loud, stinky fart that usually lasts until October. Let's crane our nostrils skyward and sniff, sniff, sniff!
DANCING WITH THE STARS: Not since 'I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Outta Here' has a show lied so boldly within the title of the program itself. The Bachelorette? Kelly Monaco? J. Peterman? I might be vaguely interested to see Evander Holyfield in person just to check out the reconstructive work on his ear, but other than that, feh. I was much more star struck the one day that I worked in a Brentwood photo lab and Vicky from the Love Boat came in.
THE CUT: Oooh, just like The Apprentice, but with a charasmatically challenged fashion designer whose clothes have about as much relevance today as Cross Colors. Pee-Yoo.
HIT ME BABY ONE MORE TIME: Unless you've been dying to know how fat Mike Reno from Loverboy is now or what Kelly Clarkson's music sounds like coming out of the aged piehole of Tiffany, you can probably give this one a pass. I'll watch only to see Vanilla Ice make a hypocritical fool of himself by performing his only hit that he's spent the last couple of years telling everyone he'll never perform again.
HELL'S KITCHEN: Like your reality TV totally scripted and poorly acted? Do you lie awake at night wishing that Simon Cowell could insult cooks as well as singers? For some reason, it's slightly more uncomfortable watching someone berate and humiliate someone whose big dream is being a line cook at Dennys.
WICKEDLY PERFECT: I don't even remember this being on, and now I guess it's over. Finding the next Martha Stewart was a dumb idea even before she went to jail.
TOMMY LEE GOES TO COLLEGE: If you're not ready to kill yourself by August 16th, you will be shortly after.
There it is. You can go back to holding your nose now.