I Luv TV

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.
You see, I decided at an early age to eschew the responsibilities of adulthood and spend every waking moment sprawled on a filthy couch wearing nothing but soiled underpants, eating countless bags of Fritos, and endlessly clicking the “channel up” button on my remote. While certainly unorthodox, this decision eventually secured me employment in the only industry where such reckless disregard is actually encouraged: TV criticism.

Though one might think my sole talent is “monkey and poop jokes,” I'll have you know I'm actually extremely talented in one other area: ACTING!! Before I became America's most un-beloved TV columnist, I was a practitioner of the THE-UH-TAH. (That's “theater” for those who don't speak “annoying.”) What roles did I play? WELL! Ever heard of a little play called Hamlet? Me, neither. Sounds dumb and boring. HOWEVER! I have auditioned for many of the great community THE-UH-TAHS, and once came very close to scoring the role of Eva Peron in the Dubuque Little Theater production of Evita. Ahhh… I remember the audition like it was yesterday… (INSERT WAVEY “DREAM” LINES HERE.)
I walked onto the empty stage and faced the musical's director, producer, and pianist. Clearing my throat I announced, “I am Wm.™ Steven Hump-Me, and I am here to play… EVITA!” (I did that last part with an elaborate hand flourish.) Apparently I'd yet to impress them, because I heard the director mumble, “Okay, Mister… 'Hump-Me,' was it? Let's start with a song. Do you need accompaniment?” “Ohhhhhh, no, no, no, no, NO!” I laughed. “I brought my own!” And running off stage, I returned wearing a huge marching band bass drum, which I began loudly banging while skipping around the stage singing, “I feeel pretty! OH! So pretty! I feeeel pretty and witty and GAAAAAAY! And I pity… .”

I do not outwardly dislike old people. This is because when I do outwardly dislike them, they tend to shake their walkers at me, accuse me of being “ageist,” and then wander off, forgetting what they were yelling at me about in the first place.
HOWEVER! I do outwardly like certain old people, such as Betty White – one of the original Golden Girls, who just so happens to be turning a peppy 90-years-young this week. Why do I prefer Ms. White over other nonagenarians? Well, for one, she's never squirted her colostomy bag at me during an argument. And secondly, Golden Girls! And The Mary Tyler Moore Show! And of course her greatest role, as the potty-mouthed old lady Mrs. Bickerman in the 1999 man-eating crocodile horror flick Lake Placid, in which she utters the two greatest lines of cinematic history: “If I had a dick, this is where I would tell you to suck it,” and “Thank you, officer fuck meat.”

Welcome to 2012 – and I've got another New Years' resolution all ready to add to your list. I think you need to do a better job at expressing affection – primarily towards me. This can be accomplished in a number of ways: 1) Erotic poetry and/or fan fiction. Send me more erotic poetry, or if you have trouble rhyming, simply write some lengthy erotic fan fiction involving me dry boning a historical character. Here's a sample from my erotic fan fiction novel entitled, Got a Hankerin' for Ben Frank-er-lin:
“Ben Franklin felt lonely as he stepped out of the shower. Rubbing the rough towel over his moist naked body, he was struck by the realization he hadn't felt the soft caressing touch of a lover since that cold, cold winter he dry boned Betsy Ross. Suddenly… the bathroom door flew open. It was Wm.™ Steven Humphrey dressed as a British Redcoat! “Ha-Haaa!” Humphrey noisily purred, his bulging groin pulsating with sexual intent. 'Me thinks a certain founding father is in need of a patriotic dry boning!'”

Here are some things I said in 2011. Providing “context” doesn't really help my case.
On Batman:
Attaching a cape to a cowl is the stupidest thing ever. One step on your cape, and NECK SNAP! Stephen Hawking's teaching you how to use your fancy new wheelchair.
On I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant:
It's filled with dramatic re-creations of women who had no earthly idea they were preggo, until one day, whoopsie! Plop! Heyyyyy… why is my toilet crying?

[Hey person reading this! I'm on vacation this week… so here's a classic holiday edition of I Love Television™ to stick in your stocking. And by “stocking” I mean “anus.” Happy holidays! – Humpy]
ATTENTION: There are serious problems with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Therefore I will elucidate on those problems (and how they can be corrected) in three… two… one… GO!

Dear television in my living room: First I'd like to apologize for the stains on your screen – both you and I know how they got there, so I don't see any reason to discuss it further, other than to say, “I'm sorry.” Secondly, I'd like to thank you for the best gift any wise-assed TV critic could hope for, American Horror Story, which you've thankfully been providing me for the past few months. Even though it was created by the same person who dreamed up and eventually ruined Glee (that would be Ryan Murphy), AHS is hands down the best new show of the season. Not only does this campy psycho-sexual creep fest feature terrific acting from all involved (especially freaky next door neighbor Jessica Lange), and at least one “OMIGOD, I've never seen that before on television” moment during every episode, it also regularly showcases Dylan McDermott's naked bottom AND is the only series I can think of that co-stars a rubber-suited gimp demon. (Not counting Two and a Half Men, of course.)

Look, I get it. I'm not the most popular guy in the world. But with the people I am popular with? I'm INSANELY popular. For example; women's prisons. They love me in women's prisons. I'm just as big with the “lazy inebriate” set. And the “people who have lost the will to live” demographic also hold me in the highest regard.
So why am I furiously envious? Because apparently my “Barbara Walters” popularity numbers have crapped the bed! GOD!! WHOSE TRUMPET DO I HAVE TO BLOW TO IMPRESS THIS OLD BIDDY??
Every year Walters releases her “Most Fascinating People” list, and every year I'M NOT ON IT. Babs will be interviewing her picks in the exhaustingly entitled Barbara Walters Presents: The 10 Most Fascinating People of 2011 this coming Wednesday, Dec 14 on ABC at 9:30 pm – but what kidnaps and decapitates my goat is that the people she chose are waaaaaaay less “fascinating” than yours truly!

“Oh, Wm.™ Steven Hump-Me!” I hear you cry. “Not another column about hillbillies!” OH, YES INDEEDY! But don't blame me for my obsession with drooling, toothless hill folk. It's a scientific fact there are more TV shows about hillbillies than any other topic. TV looooves the hillbilly – and why not? Other than housewives and people from New Jersey, hillbillies are the last American culture everyone can laugh at, without fear of politically correct reprisal.
“Oh, Wm.™ Steven Hump-Me!” I hear you cry again. “That is CLASSIST.” Ha! I agree. It's totally classic. “NO, I said, 'CLASSIST'!” Oh… well… so what if it is?? Hillbillies revel in their individuality and being different from “them gol'durn cityfolk” – so I think they're being classist toward us!
Ohhhhh, you classist hillbillies! With your high-falutin' moonshine, and fancy hound dogs! You think you're sooooo great, don't you? “Ooooh, look at me, I'm a hillbilly! Unlike those stuffed shirts in the biiiiiiig city, I can wear filthy overalls all day long, lose all my teeth, and refuse to conform to society's rigid standards on who or what I copulate with! (And by 'who or what,' I of course mean 'cousin Lulu' and 'the farm hog.') Oooooh, ain't I so much better than you smarty-pants cityfolk?”

Let me tell you a little about the insides of my stomach. Recently I took a trip to the Southern United States – for the record, “Florida” is not in the south any more than “Cuba” is in the south – and I'm pretty sure they tried to poison me. WITH DELICIOUSNESS. “Poisoning via deliciousness” is an especially cruel and sneaky way of killing someone. Apparently word got around that I make fun of hillbillies… a lot… and while these Southern people acted very nice to my face, their sole intent was obviously to shovel delicious poison down my gullet until I collapsed under the weight of my own duodenum – with a small stream of gravy trickling from my anus.
Anyway! Luckily for you, those goddamn hillbillies didn't kill me with their never ending plates of barbeque ribs, banana pudding, red beans and rice, fried chicken, hush puppies, baked beans, potato salad, mac 'n' cheese, cornbread, fried pickles, mashed potatoes and the accompanying boats of “trickling” gravy. But it was close. On the day I left the south, my blood pressure reading was 199 over 110 – which most medical practitioners recognize as “legally dead.” What those hillbillies didn't know is that I always carry a portable enema kit/water cannon for just such an occasion. Two blasts later and BOOYAH! There's not a speck of fried chicken or pecan pie left in my colon, and I'm back to making off-color remarks about hillbillies, their kissin' cousins, and other various barnyard lovers.