Have you seen this program? My son clicked it on last weekend. The host asked a woman if she knew what a right triangle was.
“Yes,” she said. “The triangle on the right.”
I had to leave the room immediately. I felt like I was losing IQ points just watching it . . .
In memory of Heath Ledger, here’s a list of 79 more stars killed by drugs . . .
Welcome to EppsNet, where the writers are not on strike!
Striking writers are stupid. Pretend you’re a TV executive and your writers are on strike.
Oh dear! What will I do? I’ll have to show reruns and only get 90 percent of the dimbulb audience I’d get showing new episodes. Boo hoo hoo! 
Television is the opiate of the masses, man! People will watch it no matter what’s on. They can’t live without it.
We’ve got TVs in restaurants, health clubs, cars, you name it. They’re ubiquitous!
The number of people like me — who think that if you want to eat dinner in front of a TV set you should stay the hell at home — is very small compared to the number of people who will not leave their homes if it means being separated from a television.
Hey scribes! People are going to turn off their flat-panel LCD high-def TVs — and do what? Read a book? Interact with their families?
Fat fucking chance!
Writers can stay on strike forever for all anybody cares.
That’s why TV shows are so stupid. They’re written by stupid people.
Stars Won’t Attend Golden Globe Awards
Golden Globe-nominated actors and presenters won’t attend the televised award show Jan. 13 because of the writers’ strike, the Screen Actors Guild announced Friday.
Well then . . . that casts things in a whole new light! Actors will not attend the Golden Globes because they’d have to cross a picket line of angry wordsmiths and ink slingers.
OMG! I hope the earth doesn’t stop revolving on its axis and fling us all into space because actors are boycotting the Golden Globes telecast!
What are the Golden Globes anyway? Another excuse for actors to get together and suck each other’s dicks?
Rot in hell, thespians!
The dog is sitting attentively watching my son eat a chili dog.
“You’re not going to get any of that,” I explain to the dog. “He’s greedy. He makes Jack Welch look like Good King Wenceslas.”
“And you,” the boy says, “make Donnie ‘We Found Him’ look like one of the Three Wise Men.”
The boy going deep in the archives to pull out a Wild Thornberrys reference, in which Donnie — seen here hanging from a tree limb — was a feral boy raised by orangutans.
My son and I are watching a Citibank commercial in which a woman in Japan drops her son off for his first day of school.
As his mom starts to walk away, the boy looks back anxiously . . .
“What’s the Asian kid nervous about?” my son says. “He’s going to get better grades than the rest of the kids anyway. Oh wait, all the other kids are Asian too. Ouch.”
Forgettable . . . although this Doritos ad was notable for the fact that it was made on a budget of $12.97.
As my son said after one particularly unmemorable spot (I can’t remember which one):
“They paid a trillion dollars to put that on my TV?”
A friend of mine’s 13-year-old daughter will be appearing as an extra in an episode of My Name is Earl airing in a couple of months.
I told my son, also 13, he should try to hook up with her before she gets too famous and the competiton heats up. He just made throat-cutting gestures and gagging noises, as he always does when the subject of the ladies comes up.
Naturally, she’ll dump him as soon as she hits the big time, but that’s okay . . . I’ve got to believe that all these starlets put a lot more into pleasing their boyfriends before they were famous than they do now that a guy is lucky just to be with them in the first place . . .
When 8th grade vocabulary words come out on the same day that Mr. T’s new show is on the TV, you may find your kid saying things like this:
“I pity the fool who’s a debacle like you.”
If there’s any justice, David Letterman will one day be recognized as the father of our era.
Like other great men, Letterman knew that Americans were dumb as rocks but still had their pride, so if you were going to feed them the intellectual equivalent of hogslop, you had better flatter their intelligence at the same time. . . .
Let the rubes in on the gag. Call the pet tricks “stupid,” make the showbiz flash-and-rattle even stupider than it needed to be, and cheerfully represent yourself as the hollowest of hollow men, and the suckers would applaud not only your twaddle, but the label on the twaddle that said it was twaddle.
Ed Bradley died today following a lengthy illness. Here’s an excerpt from an interview with Ed a few years ago:
I’ve heard the words “compassionate listener,” “soft-spoken,” “instinctive,” “intelligent,” “maverick,” and “trailblazer” used to describe you. How do you define Ed Bradley?
I guess all of those things fit.
How about “untalented and unaware of it” or “surprisingly full of himself”?
I’d have liked to buy him for what he was worth, sell him for what he thought he was worth and pocket the difference, which would have been quite a tidy sum.
Ruby Jones, 67, worked in the hospice unit at Lindy Boggs Medical Center in New Orleans. Last August, as Hurricane Katrina was zeroing in on the city, she elected not to evacuate, but to stay with the eight dying patients under her care.
She has been recognized by Newsweek as one of “15 People Who Make America Great”:
. . . we don’t need some great lurch to the right or lurch to the left or redefinition of the Democratic Party.
Fitzgerald had to kill off his own famous striver because, to the author, Gatsby represented a dying American dream based on making it the hard way. But no such grim fate awaits today’s little Gatsbys. When they peer out at the universe, they don’t see a green dock light blinking from an unbridgeable distance where the Establishment folk live. This is the age of the red camera light, where everyone arrives sooner or later, if only for a moment, and nobody ever dies of ambition or shame.
The Grinch is very mean to his dog, Max, not because he doesn’t like dogs, but he is very mean to everyone. You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch!
Continue reading My Dog Reviews How the Grinch Stole Christmas!
Ignore the rumors. L.A. does have four seasons: earthquake season, fire season, riot season, and the most ravaging — pilot season. Network TV keeps groping to win over an America it despises — a viewing public it sees as a blurry, fat, brainless blob of uninsured, Hemi-powered, God-fearing Wal-Mart clerks.
It’s getting hard to find a restaurant without a TV set anymore. Evidently, Americans don’t like to leave home if it means being away from television, even for an hour or so.
I overhear my boy saying to the dog, “What’s your favorite TV show with a dog in it? Scooby-Doo? Huckleberry Hound?”
“Huckleberry Hound!?” I say. “Where did you ever hear of Huckleberry Hound?”
“It’s on Channel 348.”
The woman cutting my hair today tells me her son’s favorite things to watch are horror movies — he really likes The Evil Dead — and The Simpsons.
Did I mention that her son is 4-1/2 years old?
It’s been pouring rain in Southern California last night and this morning . . .
Why does every local TV news show have to send some poor female reporter out to do live remotes, to stand in the biggest deluge they can find and tell people something they already know?
