I have been relegated to the basement tonight. By which I mean the room that will eventually and soon enough be the family room here at Stewart Lane. Once again. The wife and the daughter wanted to watch fat people crying, i.e. NBC’s the Biggest Loser.
Don’t get me wrong. I respect the work that these people do and how hard they push and how much they are losing mentally and physically. But fuck that show is an exploitive mess. “We know your arteries are as congested as a hot topic on Jack Skellington Day (which is strangely in June, for the record) but we’re going to make it so you have to roll a 2013 Dodge Stratus (cue stratus commercial) up a hill, while speaking into the new STRATUSTASTIC BLUETOOTH CONNECTION (TM) dictating your autobiography, while a tiny woman rides on your back and tries to stuff Little Debbie Snack Cakes in your mouth. If you make it, you get to get in the Stratus and roll down the hill to where the medics are waiting to drive you to Cedars to manually squeeze your enlarged heart to the point where you can go back tomorrow to fellate the Old Spice Guy while testing how well their deoderant works while you pull the space shuttle from Texas to Venice Beach. If you lose you get to see your family standing just off screen while Dr. Oz gives them acupuncture while you watch, coats them in THC and LSD, and puts them in a panel van to Burning Man never to be seen again.
I’d rather watch Anthony Bourdain. He talks about boobs and eats pork while drinking Jack Daniels out of a hookers diaphragm. That’s TV.