Get Outta Here Pat, Paula, and Corey
Because I missed last week’s appearance thanks to the Springsteen show, I have plenty of venom stored up. There’s so much that I could vent about – KELO’s self-created controversy over the new adult toy store, the war of words over Bush’s judicial nominees, Tom Cruise hiding his gayness by making out in public with self-professed virgin Katie Holmes. Oh yeah, and the people who loudly complain about my rants without bothering to hear or read my words.
And, of course, there’s the closing of Ellsworth Air Force Base. Obviously, that’s quite a blow to this state, particularly the western half. But please keep in mind that these are just recommended base closings, and a good number of bases on the list will never close. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that there’s a little game being played here. I would be willing to wager money that some time in the near future something will be engineered to prove to us that John Thune certainly does have the ear of the President. Another possibility is that whoever will run against Herseth next year or Johnson in 2006 will use the issue during the campaign, and then will miraculously save the base if they’re elected.
But that is not my topic of the day. At first, I wasn’t going to bring this subject up, but it has been eating away at me for a full two weeks.
Let’s go back to the last time that I was sitting in front of this microphone. After my appearance, I put in a full day of work and headed home to relax. After my normal early evening of PTI and the previous evening’s episode of Springer, I began my nightly chore of scanning the dial.
I decided to have a true evening of white trash television, but I had no clue just how bad it was going to be. In fact, I have to say that Wednesday, May 4 will be remembered as the night that prime-time network television hit their lowest point in history.
The evening began with a meeting of the two biggest pieces of pond scum…and one of them is from Sioux Falls! Yes, I’m talking about party boy Pat O’Brien and Son of Satan Dr. Phil. How they fit their gigantic egos on my small television screen is simply a miracle.
If O’Brien really wanted to air his dirty laundry on national television he would have chosen a real journalist. Instead, Dr. Phil just threw softball after softball, not pressing O’Brien when he claimed he couldn’t remember what happened on the night he supposedly hit bottom; letting him get away with a claim that it was “just a little coke”; and completely throwing his dead mother and father under the train with the belief that he inherited his problems from her drug habit and his drinking. Please.
What’s worse, we had to endure twenty minutes of promos for his awful Insider show. We had his co-host, or reporter, or coffee fetcher (whatever) talking about what a wonderful man he is to work with. I bet Nancy O’Dell (or whatever her name is) doesn’t agree. Then we got to witness him coming back to work, and the celebration from his staff. C’mon; you know those people couldn’t wait for those cameras to be shut off.
Why was Dr. Phil selected to do the interview? It’s called network synergy. Dr. Phil is owned by Viacom; so is the Insider. The program was broadcast on CBS, also owned by Viacom. It’s win-win for those clowns, and lose-lose for journalistic standards – a term that Mr. O’Brien has obviously never heard.
Following that debacle, I decided I had nothing to lose. I actually tuned into American Idol. I knew I’d have to take a shower sometime after the Dr. Phil suckfest, so I figured I might as well get a little dirtier.
Truthfully, I was hoping that this great website, Votefortheworst.com, would continue their magic and keep this silly fat white guy who thinks he’s urban on the show. I did put the sound on mute to protect my dog’s ears from Ryan Seacrest, the Whitney Houston wannabe, the bimbo country girl, and this guy who is supposedly a rocker. C’mon, no true rocker would ever appear on this show, particularly when his so-called rock song was a Los Lonely Boys track that’s on the playlist of the muzak station next door.
Unfortunately for America, the antics of votefortheworst didn’t work this time, and the fat boy with a “phat” attitude was sent back to the trailer park he came from. I suggest that he hook up with William Hung for a duets album. That’s bound to sell at least ten copies.
My evening was not quite over, though. ABC was poised to waste an hour on Paula Abdul, and I had to witness that tragedy. I shouldn’t have wasted my time – ten minutes of material was stretched to a full hour. The so-called victim, Corey Clark, was shown time after time recording this awful song about the twit, and he also probably set a record by the number of times he ended a sentence with “you know what I’m saying”.
He probably did sleep with the twit, but who cares? It certainly didn’t deserve a full hour of television, nor should it have been the Michael Jackson-ish story of the week on all of the news channels. The quote of the week, though, came from Fox when they complained about ABC using an hour of prime time television for “tabloid trash”. Excuse me, this is the network of Greatest Police Chases, Nanny 911, and Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, let alone their silly little cable news channel.
That was my evening from hell, and after it was finally over I made a major decision. With the exception of Family Guy, I am now boycotting network television…which isn’t as tough as it sounds. I skipped the millionth Elvis miniseries, the final Raymond (I never watched any of the other 209 episodes, why would I now tune in?), the ten thousand CSI and Law and Order programs. Just give me Springer, Stern, Stewart, Kornheiser, and NBA playoffs, which should keep me entertained until the baseball all-star break.
Because I missed last week’s appearance thanks to the Springsteen show, I have plenty of venom stored up. There’s so much that I could vent about – KELO’s self-created controversy over the new adult toy store, the war of words over Bush’s judicial nominees, Tom Cruise hiding his gayness by making out in public with self-professed virgin Katie Holmes. Oh yeah, and the people who loudly complain about my rants without bothering to hear or read my words.
And, of course, there’s the closing of Ellsworth Air Force Base. Obviously, that’s quite a blow to this state, particularly the western half. But please keep in mind that these are just recommended base closings, and a good number of bases on the list will never close. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that there’s a little game being played here. I would be willing to wager money that some time in the near future something will be engineered to prove to us that John Thune certainly does have the ear of the President. Another possibility is that whoever will run against Herseth next year or Johnson in 2006 will use the issue during the campaign, and then will miraculously save the base if they’re elected.
But that is not my topic of the day. At first, I wasn’t going to bring this subject up, but it has been eating away at me for a full two weeks.
Let’s go back to the last time that I was sitting in front of this microphone. After my appearance, I put in a full day of work and headed home to relax. After my normal early evening of PTI and the previous evening’s episode of Springer, I began my nightly chore of scanning the dial.
I decided to have a true evening of white trash television, but I had no clue just how bad it was going to be. In fact, I have to say that Wednesday, May 4 will be remembered as the night that prime-time network television hit their lowest point in history.
The evening began with a meeting of the two biggest pieces of pond scum…and one of them is from Sioux Falls! Yes, I’m talking about party boy Pat O’Brien and Son of Satan Dr. Phil. How they fit their gigantic egos on my small television screen is simply a miracle.
If O’Brien really wanted to air his dirty laundry on national television he would have chosen a real journalist. Instead, Dr. Phil just threw softball after softball, not pressing O’Brien when he claimed he couldn’t remember what happened on the night he supposedly hit bottom; letting him get away with a claim that it was “just a little coke”; and completely throwing his dead mother and father under the train with the belief that he inherited his problems from her drug habit and his drinking. Please.
What’s worse, we had to endure twenty minutes of promos for his awful Insider show. We had his co-host, or reporter, or coffee fetcher (whatever) talking about what a wonderful man he is to work with. I bet Nancy O’Dell (or whatever her name is) doesn’t agree. Then we got to witness him coming back to work, and the celebration from his staff. C’mon; you know those people couldn’t wait for those cameras to be shut off.
Why was Dr. Phil selected to do the interview? It’s called network synergy. Dr. Phil is owned by Viacom; so is the Insider. The program was broadcast on CBS, also owned by Viacom. It’s win-win for those clowns, and lose-lose for journalistic standards – a term that Mr. O’Brien has obviously never heard.
Following that debacle, I decided I had nothing to lose. I actually tuned into American Idol. I knew I’d have to take a shower sometime after the Dr. Phil suckfest, so I figured I might as well get a little dirtier.
Truthfully, I was hoping that this great website, Votefortheworst.com, would continue their magic and keep this silly fat white guy who thinks he’s urban on the show. I did put the sound on mute to protect my dog’s ears from Ryan Seacrest, the Whitney Houston wannabe, the bimbo country girl, and this guy who is supposedly a rocker. C’mon, no true rocker would ever appear on this show, particularly when his so-called rock song was a Los Lonely Boys track that’s on the playlist of the muzak station next door.
Unfortunately for America, the antics of votefortheworst didn’t work this time, and the fat boy with a “phat” attitude was sent back to the trailer park he came from. I suggest that he hook up with William Hung for a duets album. That’s bound to sell at least ten copies.
My evening was not quite over, though. ABC was poised to waste an hour on Paula Abdul, and I had to witness that tragedy. I shouldn’t have wasted my time – ten minutes of material was stretched to a full hour. The so-called victim, Corey Clark, was shown time after time recording this awful song about the twit, and he also probably set a record by the number of times he ended a sentence with “you know what I’m saying”.
He probably did sleep with the twit, but who cares? It certainly didn’t deserve a full hour of television, nor should it have been the Michael Jackson-ish story of the week on all of the news channels. The quote of the week, though, came from Fox when they complained about ABC using an hour of prime time television for “tabloid trash”. Excuse me, this is the network of Greatest Police Chases, Nanny 911, and Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire, let alone their silly little cable news channel.
That was my evening from hell, and after it was finally over I made a major decision. With the exception of Family Guy, I am now boycotting network television…which isn’t as tough as it sounds. I skipped the millionth Elvis miniseries, the final Raymond (I never watched any of the other 209 episodes, why would I now tune in?), the ten thousand CSI and Law and Order programs. Just give me Springer, Stern, Stewart, Kornheiser, and NBA playoffs, which should keep me entertained until the baseball all-star break.
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