By Scott Buckner
The past two weeks of involuntary unemployment has turned me into a surly TV watcher indeed. And quite frankly, the incessant grind has been screwing with my will and ability to write anything. When the most useful two hours of your day is reduced to arguing with yourself over whether Judge Marilyn Milian of The People’s Court or Judge Maria Lopez of, um, Judge Maria Lopez is the hotter TV-judge babe, spending the other 22 hours sprawled out in an alley with a bottle of Mad Dog and a crack pipe in your lap starts looking like an attractive option.
I’m going with Judge Milian. She’s what actress Marlo Thomas would be if Marlo decided to become a really great dominatrix instead of That Girl”in 1966.
*
So the summer of my discontent continued last night with the airing of Eddie Murphy Raw on Bravo. I spent the whole time identifying with TV viewers in whatever provinces are still under control of the Taliban because Bravo decided to silent-bleep all the cuss words, thereby diluting Eddie into a big ol’ comedy eunuch.
Silent bleeping. You know, the same crap FM radio has been pulling the past few years where, instead of hearing that annoying bleeeeeeep that makes every episode of The Jerry Springer Show so intolerable, the vocal track drops out juuuuust enough to still let us know that Avril Lavigne’s a motherfucking princess in “Girlfriend,” Gwen Stefani’s shit is bananas in “Hollaback Girl,” and Alanis Morissette’s old boyfriend is still probably thinking of her while he’s fucking someone else to “You Ought To Know” for the zillion billionth time.
Jeez, you’d think that with all his fame and wealth, Eddie could stop such nonsense from happening. But then again, maybe Eddie’s bank account is a little light from all the cash it took to dry-clean the underarm stink out of the leather suits he wore bare-chested onstage.
At any rate, I’m a good lip-reader, so Raw was still pretty funny despite Bravo’s best efforts to spoil the party. It’s probably the one film every straight man on the planet wishes every woman on the planet would see because it explains men so well. But then again, it’s probably the one film every straight man on the planet wishes no woman on the planet would ever see because it explains men so well.
*
Meanwhile, Hell’s Kitchen has – this week and last – reached that same mid-series plateau that American Idol reaches once all the wretched refuse has been booted off the show, leaving us better left to doze off until the final week or two. Adding insult injury, FOX has taken to blurring out Gordon James Ramsay’s mouth in the hope that – oh, I dunno, the Amish, maybe? – won’t be able to decipher all the choice profanity. Ramsay might be bombastic, but his verbal ass-whippings are still the only reason to tune in because, quite frankly, cheftestant Rock is the only one of the bunch who seems to know his ass from a hole in the ground.
In last night’s episode, teams Red and Blue were left to create a stupendous wedding-night dinner for some hapless couple who could only have been the call-in winners of some morning-zoo radio show, and Ramsay became an even bigger shill for the Green Valley Ranch Resort by giving the couple a honeymoon weekend there. I’m not sure if it’s a trend, but Ramsay couldn’t seem to scrounge up the balls to dispatch Red Team head bitch Melissa or somehow point out that the massive pimple, soul patch, or dead spider that’s sprouted under her lower lip over the past week is no less hygienic than her unkempt mop of witchy-ass hair hanging over whatever food she’s forever ruining.
Listen, when Bravo’s Top Chef: Miami starts becoming considerably more interesting than Hell’s Kitchen, it’s time for someone to piss off and get the fuck out of our kitchen.
*
Memorable Dr. Phil quote previewing an upcoming show about twin-sister heroin addicts:
“That’s one skanky-looking crack whore.”
*
Good try, Phil, but you’ll never be able to top last Thursday afternoon’s Springer episode, “I’m Happy I Cut Off My Legs,” featuring a transsexual who power-sawed off his/her own legs because he/she didn’t want them anymore. Skanky-looking crack whores come and go, but they can’t carry a show like a legless tranny arguing with a human torso.
*
In an early-morning episode this morning of The Andy Griffith Show, Helen Crump is being run out of town on a rail for being a gangster’s moll in college. Or flag burning. Or something. How anyone in this country was able to dig up dirt on anyone before the Internet and Google were invented is beyond me.
The episode also illustrated that The Andy Griffith Show did not jump the shark when it turned into Mayberry RFD. It was when Howard Sprague came to town, turned everyone all Technicolor, and widespread lameness followed.
By the way, The Andy Griffith Show theme song (actual title: “The Fishin’ Hole”) originally did have lyrics, but they were never used. You can find them here. Put them to music the next time you’re bored. Or stoned. Or something. Because for the life of me, I sure can’t match ’em to the whistling.
*
Commercial seen on Bravo: How many Australians on TV does it take to screw in an Uncle Fester light bulb?
*
Can’t get enough? Check out the What I Watched Last Night archives.
Posted on July 3, 2007