Posts Tagged ‘worstthingonTV’

That’s right, motherfuckers. You read right.


Not just werewolves, anymore.


My Groovy Goolies squad is almost complete.



All month, The CW has been teasing the arrival of Nikita, its upcoming “erotic espionage thriller.” Here to give the “plucky female heroine” of USA’s Covert Affairs a run for the dollar bills stuffed down her bra, Nikki is a rebooted version of previous Hot-Chicks-With-Guns favorite La Femme Nikita. Always loved that show… When will folks realize that giving a tawdry product a French name only makes it sleazier. What’s the old adage? Ahh, yes… “La Fleur de Sexe by any other name would probably smell a little less like the laundry hamper at Rumps & Pumps.”

Anyway, who is Nikita? She apparently was an assasin who worked for The Government™, was Betrayed by her Bosses™, and has now Gone Rogue™ in a sexxxy quest for revenge.


Single Woman...So the other day, I ran into a promo for USA’s new show for the second time in about as many days.

My first impression? I’m kinda insulted.

I’m not really into blondes, but I want to hope that if it was a really hot, dark-haired chick, I’d feel as irritated and amused by the ad as I do now.

We’re presented with a sexy blond with a killer body, pouting to camera as she holds a gun. She’s in a skin-tight outfit that shows off her drum-tight body. Ooh, and looka the heels on those little feet of hers! Oh shit, and the zippers??! Total freak!

At this point, your sister walks into the room. (Damn, why won’t mom let you put a lock on that door?) She sees the pretty blond girl. Wait a minute — look at the fierce look on her face! That’s not a girl — that’s a woman! And look at her outfit! Pretty sweet. Killer heels, too. She totally isn’t the type to take any mess from a man. She’s a total feminist, like Christina or Gaga or KE$h@! Omg! (more…)


Remember how surprised I was at enjoying last week’s True Blood? Well, I neglected to mention one element that gave me pause: the introduction of werewolves.

Yeah, seriously. Werewolves.

In all the over-the-top madness of the show, I had completely forgotten that it was conceived at the height of Twilight-fueled vampire mania. So I was disappointed at the idea that this show, having finally hit a stride of sorts, would resort to Underworld-esque, teen-baiting trend-hopping. And late trend-hopping, at that.

Then again, I remember being pretty irritated (in a tickled kind of way) at the growing team of Supernatural All-Stars Alan Ball was recruiting to Bon Temps. Vampires and telepathic waitresses were one thing (well, two things), but then we got shapeshifters and a Maenad — an entity they were never quite able to explain properly. Dude, throw in a mummy, and you’ve got the Groovy Goolies.

So you can imagine my dismay at the first mention of the clumsily named “Operation Werewolf”. Did Bon Temps really need yet another supernatural entity? Vampires and werewolves — was there ever a more clichéd combination than that? But then, through the magic of period flashback (a TB staple), we learn that this isn’t just any old band of werewolves. They’re Nazi werewolves!

Seriously, y’all. I don’t see how this could possibly end well. At this point, True Blood has spent more time jumping the shark than not. But this time, I can’t say I’m all that worried. Nay, I welcome this latest plummet into lunacy. I expect demand that it all collapses in one huge, historically inaccurate mess, via the True Blood Period Flashback Machine®, of course. Confederate soldier Bill, disgusted by an encounter with the godless Operation Werewolf nazis, goes rogue and joins the Union army. But this enrages vikings Eric and Godrik, who recruit shapeshifting Sam and the rest of the X-Men for an all-out war!! (Featuring special cameos by Mechagodzilla and musical performance by Justin Timberlake.)

I can hardly wait.

But until then, here’s a preview of what we can expect in the coming weeks:

That’s What I Said… In which I let someone else do the talking.

Late last night, I got the following spontaneous outburst from my friend DJ, At Law,

It’s All Gone to Hell

No, not because District of Columbia high school “students demand bigger, better condoms” to prevent the nation’s second-most endowed teen populace (and their partners) from HIV and unwanted pregnancy, but because you can sign up for alerts when reality shows are casting!

Are you a Norwegian oxen-handler who’s always wanted to be a supermodel?  A Christian Pole Dancer? (If you don’t believe me, google it.)  A federal judge with a penchant for pickled pig lips?  A Male-to-Female Post-Op Transsexual with a new-found eating disorder on account of your estrogen-enhanced thunder thighs and so-called “Junk in the Trunk?”  A Mormon convert from Judaism with different children raised in each faith residing under one roof during your menopause?  An 8-year-old pianist/genius akin to Mozart with an embarrassing Vicodin addiction and more embarrassing (in this day and age) speech impediment?  Basically, if your life is a mad lib, there is hope for you yet.  Hope of the 15-minute variety.

Anyway, because of my need to read extensively about any new habit acquired (so that I don’t lose sight of real reality (not “reality”)), I’m in the middle of this book now:

I’ve read about shows where parents send their pre-pubescent children away to be on reality TV away from home for 40 days and nights and sign away any liability resulting from death or sexually transmitted disease; shows where people are promised “fame” (not cash– “fame”) in exchange for subjecting themselves to solitary confinement for longer than any other contestant (and going mad in the process); where people agree to swim with “crocodiles” (who are in fact dummies but equally traumatize the contestants); where people submit their children to examination by one of these horrible child-stars-gone-terribly-wrong so that said now-fucked-up-adult can tell their kids how to become famous, and it is all considered fair play because every of-age participant is a willing participant.  People have committed suicide or been killed (see Jenny Jones) as a result.  “We” (i.e., the Neilson-ratings families) still don’t mind watching it.

Without fully getting into my horror at the amount of attention and focus given last night to as vapid a program as Lost (which was the subject of every group email I received today and which apparently brought people to tears last night but had them posting “that actually sucked” this morning– I can make no claim either way, as I only watched it when bed-ridden in 2008 after pretty serious abdominal surgery and duly turned it off once I could manage walking over to the TV), I will say I am again disappointed.  Every attempt to re-integrate myself into society is met with a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I spend most of my free time in self-imposed exile reading Mark Twain and waxing scholastic.  Frasier anyone?

This country went to hell ten years ago this summer. The problem is the average American no longer needs sunblock.

A part of me dies whenever I see one of these youth-targeted ads. I always wonder why nobody in the room is willing to raise his hand and say to the room, “that’s kind of a bad idea.” I’ve done it before. In one case, when I was brand new to advertising. To one of the partners. It’s the reason they want young blood in advertising — to save them from looking like out-of-touch idiots.

So please, members of the coveted 18-34 demographic. If you’re ever in a brainstorming session and someone suggests a “hip,” “trendy,” or “urban” way to sell crap to your peers, clear your throat and let him/her know: bad idea.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way… Seriously, Bleek. That bad? I guess that inheritance from Jay isn’t putting food on your table today.

Also, should that ad be pitching Piperlime so hard?

No, not this. Well, that actually isn’t helping, either. But still…

So, I used to be the type who had to read in order to fall asleep. But moving to NYC almost a decade ago (yikes!) changed all that. With precious little time for recreational reading, and a seriously fatigued brain by the time I hit the sack, I developed the habit of having the TV as my sleep aid. As devoid of intellectual stimulation as late-night TV is, turn the volume down low enough and that shit’s about as soothing as a mother’s heartbeat is to an infant.

Still, this is prime advertising real-estate in both the Branding and Direct Response spheres. You’re up late, so you’re likely more easily influenced in this fatigued state: BRANDING. You’re up late, so you’re likely to be a.) seeking some form of companionship, even if it’s a phone operator, or b.) filled with self-loathing for some reason. So make that call now — before the 10-minute special window runs out! DIRECT RESPONSE. Hey, I’m not against late-night advertising. Or even late-night fitness ads. I owe my present undeniable sexy to it. I got serious and changed gyms hours after a 4AM viewing of an extended Bally’s ad. (more…)