Those are good enough reasons to avoid a telecast that could have included a
winner using his speech to plug fucking Norbit. But the best reason to
ignore Oscar is this: Lately, movies suck worse than a hooker with an overbite.
Hollywood hasn’t produced anything truly great in years. And I think the only
reason the public hasn’t noticed is because television has been so awesome
lately.
Think about it. There are dozens of kickass programs on the air right now.
Some industry analysts even say we’re living in a golden era of TV. That might
sound a bit overblown, but just yesterday I saw a show about lingerie models
traveling through time to learn erotic underwear lessons. Each season of a
quality series is like an epic movie broken up for easy digestion.
"Having another me around would be strangely erotic. I would
know all the things I like."
You don’t even have to leave the comfort of
your own sofa, perfectly customized to the unique contours of your
ass through years of lounging. There are no tickets to buy. No
overpriced snacks. No sticky floors (though I can’t necessarily
guarantee that in my own apartment).
TV wasn’t always so great though. The viewing public had to endure a long era
of hackneyed plots and stilted dialogue to get to the promised land. This era
encompassed the 80’s and early 90’s, and the guiltiest parties, by far, were
sitcoms. The plots were so formulaic that they could have sprung from the laptop
computer of Aesop himself.
I’d see these tired plots and I’d always marvel at how stupid they were. For
example, if you are a sitcom character from a bygone era, here’s a typical week
of your life:
Monday: You mistakenly think you’ve won the lottery and act like a
jackass.
Tuesday: You go on a disastrous camping trip.
Wednesday: You get bonked on the head and contract temporary
amnesia.
Thursday: You wage a practical joke war against your neighbors/coworkers.
Friday: You appear on a game show but don’t win.
Saturday: To earn an inheritance, you spend the night in a haunted house.
Sunday: Clip show.
Anyway, to fill time during my house arrest for punching that koala bear (she
totally had it coming, by the way), I’ve been mentally logging some of these
sitcom conventions, and how they would play out in real life if I were involved.
Pay close attention, because you never know when life will throw you a twist
that can be resolved in exactly 22 minutes.
Let’s start at school. Every student at Sitcom High must take a health-ed
class, and the old “babysit-an-egg-for-a-week” project is always on the
curriculum. You know the one—if your egg is broken or lost at the end of the
week, you fail. Apparently, this is something that real high schools used to do
to discourage girls from becoming pregnant or even sexually active. Thank you
very much, Moral Majority.
This assignment is typically given to boy/girl pairs, in a misguided effort
to teach them about parental responsibility. But I already know everything about
parental responsibility, having sponsored a family of orphans from El Salvador
for just pennies a day. This assignment would be way too ridiculous to take
seriously. Simply egging the teacher’s house would be poignant, but I could put
my cholesterol-filled offspring to better use.
Women desire men who will make good parents. This occurs on some Darwinian
level, or maybe because of latent daddy issues. If I ever had that egg
assignment, I’d really impress my partner. With the right moves, I’d get her in
bed, where I’d try my hardest to get the naive bitch pregnant. And that goes as
far as poking holes into condoms. Why waste time babysitting an egg when I could
be fertilizing one?
This would make a profound statement about the futility of this insane
assignment. Yes, we got an A+, but my partner is starting to get morning
sickness. Lesson learned, I guess. And the best part is, we can split custody.
She can keep the baby, and I’d give the egg a good home (on an English muffin
with some hollandaise sauce).
A lack of imagination, or perhaps a limited casting budget, means that sitcom
characters often have long-lost identical twins. When these characters meet,
they usually switch places in an attempt to improve their lifestyles or maybe to
reconcile divorced parents. This plot device alone has paid for
the ruby-studded mansion where the Olsen twins live in between stints in
rehab.
Twins freak me out. I keep expecting their eyes to turn red and send me to
hell. Little bastards. And they always have a secret undecipherable language,
which usually suggests plans for world domination. But if I ever met my
identical twin, I’d try to play it cool. I wouldn’t have any kind of agenda. I
don’t need to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. I don’t even like walking to
the bus stop.
I am kind of worried, however, that there would be some kind of sexual
attraction between me and my twin. I’m not gay, but I have to think I wouldn’t
have a problem getting it on with myself. Well, the amount of tissue paper I go
through proves it. But having another me around would be strangely erotic. I
would know all the things I like. I realize this is pretty fucked up, but I
prefer to think of it as narcissism, rather than incestuous homosexuality.
Ultimately, I’d have to get rid of my twin, though. I value my individuality
too much. Plus, I couldn’t put up with all my crap. We’d fight it out and be
deadlocked. My friends on the sidelines wouldn’t know which one to shoot. You
might think I’d tell them to shoot both of us in a noble attempt to prove I’m
the original, but fuck that. I’d tell them to smoke the miserable bastard. I
trust my friends to understand how my mind works.
Sitcom characters are always getting locked in rooms, stranded on rooftops,
or stuck in elevators. Usually, it’s at an inopportune time; they’re missing
something important after promising they wouldn’t. If and when I ever get roped
into marriage, I might just ride a lot of elevators that day, in case fate is
trying to tell me something.
They’re invariably stuck with others who will
increase the dramatic tension; a hated co-worker, a love interest, etc. In a
best-case scenario, they’ll have spontaneous, passionate sex. Otherwise, there
might be a lot of fucking charades to pass the time. Eventually, these retards
remember how to smash a window, climb through a vent, or use a cell phone, and
they emerge with a deeper understanding for one another.
I think if I found myself in this situation, I’d have a more pragmatic
outlook. The first thing on my mind would be whom I could sue, and for how much.
Some fucking locksmith owes me big time for making me miss my kid’s softball
game, especially since I forgot his last birthday.
The next thing I’d be thinking about is survival. Is there enough air for us,
especially at the rate I plan on smoking? It might be days or weeks until rescue
arrives, so I’d have to figure out who’s the best candidate to be killed and
eaten. That’s easy enough; it’s always the fattest one. And if it’s me, I’d make
sure to periodically mention that I have AIDS, leprosy, and full-body herpes.
Sure it would be embarrassing, but suddenly I wouldn’t seem so appetizing.
Denizens of the Sitcomverse are very trusting. They always go on vacation,
leaving their beloved pets in the care of neighbors and friends. But those pets
have a way of dying and/or running away. You can’t blame them; being a pet must
be hard enough without having to deal with the sound of disembodied laughter
every 45 seconds. The irresponsible caretakers inevitably buy a replacement, and
try to pass it off as the original.
This strikes me as pretty nervy, by which I mean stupid. Most animals are
unique enough for their owners to recognize a stand-in. If not from the new
pet’s appearance, then surely from its pooping habits. When I
steal food from the fridge at work, I always try to replace it, and I get
caught over half the time. If someone can identify a replacement sandwich, then
an Irish Setter’s got no chance.
Nevertheless, if I’m looking over a friend’s dead dog (Rover?), I’d give this
scheme a try. Except I’d make it interesting. Instead of using a dog that’s
similar in appearance, I’d buy one that looks nothing like the original. Maybe a
different breed entirely. Maybe even a different species. Then, when I give the
dog back, I’d maintain innocence right to the end. I’d insist that my friend’s
dog was in fact a ferret when he gave him to me. I’ll have others corroborate
it. The poor idiot will think he’s in the Twilight Zone.
In the real world, blind dates are a never-ending stream of
frustration and disappointment. Trust me, I know. But in sitcoms, blind
dating is awesome. Everyone is either super-hot, or else a nerd. And even the
nerds are only one makeover montage away from being super-hot themselves. With
these odds, it’s easy to see why so many sitcom guys manage to schedule two
dates on the same night, often in the same place.
After realizing the schedule mishap, the poor schlep will try to keep both
dates, running back and forth between the two without letting either know what’s
going on. Hilarity, as it so often does, ensues. Occasionally, the two-timer
will have to present different personas to each date; one girl likes tough
cowboys but the other likes sensitive poets (of course these days, there’s no
reason why a guy can’t be both).
I can only pray that this will someday happen to me. The solution is as
appealing as it is obvious: introduce the dates to each other. Girls like a bit
of competition, and I like the possibility of ménage a trois. Sure, the whole
thing could blow up in my face, but if it does, who cares? There’ll be plenty of
me and/or Rohypnol to go around.
And speaking of drugs, the last plot I’ll discuss can be summarized in three
words. Very. Special. Episode. The protagonist learns that one of his friends is
taking drugs, and takes steps to help him or her. This obnoxious do-gooder’s
efforts are rewarded when the friend agrees to confront the Very Special
Problem. This guest character is usually never heard from again, so the TV
audience doesn’t get to witness the vomit-soaked pain and fallout of withdrawal.
This is one situation that we’ve all encountered many times, probably. I’m
proud to say I never once acted like a TV character. I didn’t tell a trusted
adult, I didn’t threaten to withhold my friendship, and I certainly didn’t steal
or hide my friends’ drugs. No, when faced with a dilemma that only intervention
from guest star Nancy Reagan can solve, I did the only responsible thing: I
mooched as much as I could, and stayed up all night.
Watching 80’s sitcoms, ironically.
