Monthly Archives: September 2009

Wherefore art thou, Liz Lemon? (Originally for Clique Clack Television)

nup_130277_0263It should come as a surprise to approximately no one that I, above all else, positively worship Tina Fey. That woman is a comedy genius, and 30 Rock brings a light to my life that is only rivaled by puppies and newborn babies.

So why does NBC insist on holding out this show on me every year?

Look, I understand that 30 Rock has pretty low numbers, ratings-wise, but I absolutely fail to understand how starting the season later helps matters. Wouldn’t it stand to reason that people want things to start all around the same time? I can’t help but think that the late starts are actually hurting 30 Rock in the long run — people look at a late-starting show and go “oh, I don’t need another thing to start watching” once their schedule is made. Meanwhile, long-time fans like me often miss the premiere by accident or go crazy waiting.

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Glee puts a ring on it (Originally for Clique Clack Television)


Well, if there’s one thing you can never accuse Glee of being, it’s boring.

Sure, by now you thought you had the formula down. Finn and Rachel pine! Kurt comes to terms with his sexuality! Mercedes is sassy! Will has issues! Emma loves him from afar! We illustrate this through the cunning use of songs!

Well not so, with this episode. Not only were there a shockingly low number of songs, but there were more plot twists than… some pop culture reference that eludes me but implies a shocking number of plot twists.

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The Fairest of them All – the 2009 Emmys edition

Kittens, I should let you know that, on occasion, I take a break from grading family members on the quality of their burps and pondering exactly how long I can manage to get away with wearing the same pair of underwear to engage in some stereotypically female behavior. Namely – dress ogling.

The Emmys are a fabulous time for me to do this, because, unlike at other awards shows, I know all these people. I don’t watch movies, but boy oh boy, do I watch me some television. And that makes for good oglage.

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Nothing Says Chick-lit Like Filmy Nightgowns and Rape Jokes

romancenovelOnce a year I engage in what I like to refer to as Charlie Bucket-ism.

For those of you not familiar with Charlie Bucket because you’re all a bunch of heathens,  he is the intrepid and plucky hero of childhood literature staple Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Wee Charlie lives in extreme poverty, but once a year he splurges an entire dollar (maybe a quarter? I don’t know. I remember it’s some ridiculously small amount of money, but Roald Dahl wasn’t even American, so it’s all very confusing) on a Willy Wonka chocolate bar. This is of course before he (spoiler alert!) wins a golden ticket to visit Willy Wonka’s factory and then inadvertently ends up inheriting the whole thing by proving his purity of spirit or some such childishly wonderful bullshit.

The point is, once a year I, like Charlie, buy my proverbial chocolate bar in the form of a trashy romance novel that I read on my vacation to Sandy Island. The only difference is that while these books are, like Charlie’s chocolate bars, delicious, they also cause my brain to have minor seizures and actually atrophy my smarty-parts. So really it’s like the Charlie Bucket analogy, if Charlie only had one chocolate bar a year because otherwise he’d go into a diabetic coma. (I’m not sure how this works, exactly. Maybe he can only afford one insulin shot a year? Clearly, I have never had diabetes.)

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Shankman named third So You Think You Can Dance judge, ticker tape parades commence (Originally for Clique Clack Television)

adamshankmanWell thank you, sweet baby Jesus!

Apparently the conversation that’s been happening at my house (”I LOVE YOU, ADAM!!”) has been happening Chez Everyone, and So You Think You Can Dance has been listening, because Adam Shankman has been named a permanent third judge.

Don’t worry, there’s a fourth seat that producer/judge/fine, upstanding douhchebag Nigel Lythgoe was quick to assure the public remained open for guest judges. Which means that sure to fill those seats are standbys like Debbie Allen (who manages to make everything she says sound ridiculously profound) and Lil’ C (who manages to make everything he says sound profoundly ridiculous). But this development leaves the choreographers to do what they do best — choreograph, and not judge. Can I get an amen hallelujah?

Between this and naming Ellen DeGeneres as the third Idol judge, I think we’ve just proved that Token Gay Judge is the new Token Black Judge. Now if only we could find a judge that brings the two together, well, with that we could just take over the world. (Are you listening, Ms. J? I believe that’s your cue.)

(Original Source)

You be the words and I’ll be the music – ain’t you heard that’s how they do it?


I have a confession – I love Sondre Lerche. Not his music. Him.

Okay, don’t get me wrong, I think his music is great. I’m especially fond of his album with the Faces Down Quartet. Good stuff, there. But no, the affection I feel for his music is nothing compared to the extremely fond feeling for the actual dude. He’s darling. I have a deeply held belief that when whatever higher-up created him, they used the leftover parts they had from creating puppies and marshmallows. And I want to eat him up with a spoon.

If it makes anyone feel better, it’s got nothing to do with wanting to do the horizontal tango, or anything.  I mean, is he super-dee-duper cute? Clearly. But no, the affection I feel for him makes me feel like I have a very fuzzy kitten curled up in my belly, and it is purring, only instead of just making a noise, the kitten is emitting rainbows. I would like to perhaps bake him cookies. Or knit him a sweater. Or tuck him in at night. Never mind that he’s seven years older than me and I suck at knitting. I can’t control my urges, only what I do about them. But these urges were relatively controlable.

And then… I went to see him in concert last night.

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Douchebaggery, public temper tantrums, and other reasons to put baby in a corner (Orginally for Clique Clack Television)


Nation, at this tumultuous time in history, ask not what you can do for your country, but ask where the hell are your manners, young man?

Look, I can be a totally rude person, even for the extraordinarily low standards set for my generation. I burp. I fart. I praise other people for burping and farting in my presence. (This makes me very popular with children.) I have no issues with bluntly discussing any and every function my body or any body does (hemorrhoids? Bring those puppies on), or various orifices and the things people do with them in almost any company.

But I do have standards. I say please and thank you to everyone. I hold the door. I say “bless you” to strangers in public locations and “excuse me” if I bump into them. Most importantly, I do not interrupt people when they’re speaking, especially in an extremely rude manner. And if I do, because such things do happen by accident, I apologize.

So why doesn’t anyone else?

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