I Luv TV

There's crap for TV this week – unless, like me, you've got a cop fetish. If so, then you may want to check out the premiere of Rookie Blue (ABC, Thurs June 24, 9 pm), which involves an impossibly hot group of rookie cops trying to survive their first days patrolling the streets. The upside? Unlike the somewhat unattractive cops I've been forced to bone (it's a fetish, not a choice), these pigs are WICKED SMOKIN'. The downside? None of them are naked. In fact, that's the problem with this series – unless these buff pieces of bacon are patrolling a nudist colony, an orgy, or the inside of my pants… NOT INTERESTED.
Anyway, on to more important subjects! LIKE ME! AND MY NEW BAND! For those who have been following my all-ukulele R. Kelly cover band (entitled “R. Kelele” of course), you will be devastated to hear that we've broken up. I left the band after discovering my co-ukuleleists were fanny holes and totally cramping my style. Besides, they refused to play any cop bars, cop parties, or cop conventions. LAME!

Reason #1! Her teeth look like someone knocked them out with a jackhammer, and then shot them back inside her mouth using a T-shirt cannon.
Reason #2! Watching an episode of her long-running Disney Channel TV show, Hannah Montana, is like experiencing a production of A Midsummer's Night's Dream by the Royal Shakespeare Company – if the play were cast with spastic chimps dosed up on goofballs, who are either furiously masturbating or crapping onto one of the Bard's sonnets, which they then either hurl at the audience or consume for their own enjoyment.

Look. You have your opinions? And I have mine. HOWEVER! It must be stated – and you're probably already well aware of the fact – that my opinion carries a weeeeeee bit more weight than yours. DON'T GET MAD! It's not your fault that your views of the world are somewhat less important than the donkey crap that regularly spews from my cakehole. See… here's the thing: I have a nationally renowned television column, while you… ummm, how do I put this… DON'T. But like I said: not your fault. You spent your youth and college years studying “books” and filling your head with… goddamnit, what's the word? Oh yeah… “knowledge.” Me, I chose a different path.

Look, let's get one thing clear: regularly watching Glee does not make me gay. Reading Men's Health magazine makes me gay. Thinking up increasingly convoluted high-fives to give my softball teammates makes me gay. Cut off jean shorts – makes me gay. Spending waaay too much time detailing my car? Makes me gay. In fact there are tons of “straight guy” stuff I do every day that makes me flaming gay. (However, squealing like a girl when I heard Liza Minnelli doing a cover of Beyoncé's “Single Ladies” – that makes me a very different kind of gay.) My point is that it really doesn't matter how many women or men I've pleased sexually (87 and 42, though that's a conservative count). While Glee may, in fact, be the gayest show on television – gayer than RuPaul riding a rainbow unicorn at the annual Gaytown Gay Rodeo – it's a show that celebrates everyone: gays, straights, minorities, majorities, nice people, and a-holes. Though I'm pretty sure it hasn't celebrated gay monkeys yet. They should get on that.

Ever heard that phrase, “What doesn't kill me, makes me stronger?” That's exactly why I eat Popeyes fried chicken every morning for breakfast, four Reese's peanut butter cups for lunch (washed down with a tumbler of Jack), followed by a sensible dinner. Doctors say this diet will surely kill me – while my Aunt Wanda (and Nietzsche, apparently) says “what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger.” So the way I see it, statistically, there's a 50/50 chance of this diet either killing me, or making me stronger – preferably as strong, or stronger than the Hulk. Obviously, I'm going with Aunt Wanda and Nietzsche on this one! SCREW YOU, MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS!
Obviously, the same logic can be applied to television watching. Let's say, for example, MTV is showing a nine-hour Memorial Day Jersey Shore marathon (which they are, starting at 2 pm on that day), and you're considering watching the entire thing. First of all, you should ask yourself, “WILL THIS KILL ME?” If the answer is yes – don't watch it. BUT! If the answer is “no, this will not kill me,” then by all means watch the shit out of it! BECAUSE IT WILL MAKE YOU STRONGER! Your muscles will be stronger (particularly your glutes, because you'll be squeezing them in embarrassment), your eyes will be stronger (it takes a lot of work to hold your eyes open for nine hours), but most importantly your BRAIN will be stronger (because… umm… wait. I've lost my train of thought. WHAT?).

As predicted last week, my underpants are full of crap. There are SO many TV season finales this coming week, and I'm SO overwhelmed, I've lapsed into a semicomatose state, wherein all of my bodily functions have shut down – except for life support and the ability to type this stupid column (which doesn't require significant brain power anyway). But as it turns out, there are upsides to shutting down all systems except for life support. Example: There's sincerely nothing you can do about it when your significant other is nagging you to wash a dish. The downsides of shutting down all systems: People use Sharpies to draw rude words and pictures on your face. GUYS! I'M NOT DRUNK OR ASLEEP! I CAN SEE YOU!
Another downside? Underpants full of crap. So there's that.

Guys! What… are… you… doing? Are you seriously thinking about watching TELEVISION this week? Dudes, if you're going to pick ANY week to watch TV, for the love of god, don't make it this one! This is the absolute WORST week to sit in front of the tube, and it's not just because there's a bunch of absolute crap on (even though there is, and you love watching absolute crap). The problem is that next week is going to be the busiest television-watching week of your entire life – and if you don't conserve your energy, you're gonna totally shoot your wad (in a bad way), and have no wad at all for next week! GUYS! You gotta save your wad!!

Imagine me nude. Go ahead, I don't mind. But don't dink around! Really imagine it! Picture every contour, every vein, every floppy appendage of my stark-naked body. Got a good picture in your mind? Good. Now, in your imagination, is my nudeness wildly attractive? Do my taut, finely hewn muscles glisten and throb? Is my body so sexy, so incredibly attractive that it would make the pope snub a choirboy? WHAT DO YOU MEAN “NO”?!??!?? Are you trying to tell me I'm FAT?? That when you picture me naked, the copious amounts of blubber around my midsection either scrape the floor (when I'm stationary) or smack me in the chin (when I'm galloping toward the refrigerator)? HOW… DARE… YOU!! I'm never gonna let you picture me nude again!!

How many times has this happened to you: You're strolling along in the park, gazing lovingly at the beauty and wonderment of nature, when… WHAMMO! A meteor that's roughly the size of Texas and made out of rusty razor blades and used condoms smashes into the center of town! Everything's ablaze! Buildings are toppling! The highways are destroyed! People are screaming and running in a blind panic! Twitter is down! A drippy used condom is on the shoulder of your new sweater! And everything is really, really, really
uncomfortable! WHAT… DO… YOU… DO??

I get a lot of tail – we hold this truth to be self-evident. HOWEVER! It's causing me no small amount of distress that world-famous theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking probably gets more tail than I do. Now, I realize that “getting tail” is not a competition – except that it is a competition, and Stephen Hawking is winning.
First some background on Stephen Hawking and why he gets such a copious amount of tail. As touched on earlier, Stephen Hawking is famous for advancing humanity's understanding of theoretical cosmology and quantum gravity. In other words, Stephen Hawking studies shit that happens in outer space, which includes, but is not limited to, “black holes,” the nature of space and time, as well as the formation of the universe itself. This is wildly interesting to hippie chicks, who undoubtedly furnish him with tail.