#Television
I Don’t Get It: The Big Bang Theory
The Big Bang Theory is now on its 80th season and I don’t get it. Recently I started catching snippets from the show while I waited for Seinfeld to come on. And I don’t fucking get it. I’ve always been okay with the knowledge that the show existed and that an insane amount of people like the show, but now that I’ve seen it I want some answers. Whether you hate it or love it, please, I beg you, read on and sound off on what you think is appealing about this 30 minute saccharin stream of “nerdy” references and painfully placed Battlestar jokes.
21 Comments »
Monday Morning Commute: Hunky Brewster
Hello there!
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I spit entertainment drivel into your can of workweek-cola in the hopes that you’ll take a sip! After you’ve got my germs, hit up the comments section and share your own. After all, if we’re not going to tell one another what we’ll be doin’ to get through the 9-5 life, what’s the point of even having the Internet?
What’s that? Oh, yeah I guess porn and gambling are cool, too.
Okay, let’s do this!
‘TRUE BLOOD’ SEASON 5 TRAILER: It’s Got Jessica In Lingerie. I Submit.
I write about True Blood, so I have to watch it. The last three seasons have been unmitigated ass. Just chewy pieces of shit that get ripped up into my teeth and cause me to gag. The only soft spot I have for the show is courtesy of my hard spot (word play!) for Jessica, played by Deborah Ann Woll. The makers of the trailer must have known this, because they threw some Jessicagoodnessgracious into the mix and I’m not feeling so terrible about the experience now. Also — there could be…action on the show? Weird as hell.
Dan Harmon NOT SIGNED ON To Produce New ‘COMMUNITY’ Episodes…Yet…Right?
I was too busy flinging fluids and high-fiving my cats at announcement of Community‘s renewal to read the fine print: creator Dan Harmon isn’t signed on (yet?) to produce the new episodes. Oh man, this is rotten crotched nonsense.
THIS WEEK on Game of Thrones: “The Old Gods and the New”
Sunday’s hour of Game of Thrones felt a scant 20 minutes, loaded with shock factor, upheaval and the brand of Westerosi monstrosity we’ve become accustomed to.
“The Old Gods and the New” is a phrase we’ve heard many, many times in Westeros. The Old Gods were kept by the original, ‘first men’ of Westeros. The New Gods are the Seven — the Mother, the Father, Warrior, the Crone, the Smith, the Maiden, and the Stranger.
And still newer gods come from all directions; Melisandre’s Red God, which Jaqen has invoked. Syrio’s God of Death, to whom we say, not today. And certainly not least, the Drowned God of the Ironmen, to whom payment was made on Sunday, with Rodrik Cassel’s head.
First Look At J.J. Abrams’ POST-APOCALYPTIC SHOW ‘REVOLUTION’. Wait For Time Travel.
Here’s the first look at J.J. Abram’s new show Revolution. The son of a bitch takes place in a post-apocalyptic world, and I would like to see the Vegas line on whether or not it has time travel.
Monday Morning Commute: Bourbon-Soaked Orgy
Voodoo-prescribin’ witch doctors once invited me to a party.
It was the summer of 1987 and I was in the middle of one of the worst hangovers of my entire life. Since April, I’d spent every waking hour thrashing to Among the Living and doing lines of gasoline-soaked blow. As far as I can recall, it wasn’t until mid-July that I even realized I’d made it all the way to Nova Scotia.
Don’t let anyone tell you that heavy metal and drugs won’t lead you anywhere. They will. Specifically, to the beautiful port-town of Yarmouth.
Anyways, I stumbled out of buck-toothed Ambellina’s bedroom, leaving behind my Walkman and cocaine in the hopes of finding something slightly more transcendent. Fortunately, I found the Tim Hortons whose manager seemed eager to keep my coffee cup filled to the brim, free of charge. (In hindsight, I think must’ve let him look at my Polaroid collection. You ever see a Yeti’s genitals? No? Well, then you haven’t seen my Polaroid collection.) After my thirteenth cup of black wonder, I saw them.
The witch doctors.
There were three of `em. They were all black dudes. They were all wearing sleeveless Wham! t-shirts tucked into blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into work boots. And their accents couldn’t’ve been more diverse. The fat one spoke with a Cajun twang, the old one spoke through a metrosexual French patois, and the tall one sounded German.
In a flash, they’d all taken the liberty of joining me in my booth. Surrounded on all sides, strung out, and shaking in an over-caffeinated stupor, I had no hope of escaping `em. Which wasn’t really a concern of mine until the old one pulled a decapitated chicken out of his backpack and started rubbing it on my face. “Ah, mon ami, you need to stop stressing out!”
“Ja! Too stressed” shouted the tall one, loud enough to turn the heads of patrons.
“C’mon,” encouraged the fat man, “un p’tit boug hain’t gotta worries! We fixxya!”
I was vexed, absolutely sure that these three were going to murder me. I finished my coffee, the best last meal I could ever hope for, and prepared for my demise. “So, you’re goin’ to kill me, huh?”
Uproarious laughter.
The old man put the chicken back into his bag and did me the favor of wiping the grease and blood from my face. Granted, he cleaned my visage with his bare hand and then proceeded to clean his hand with his tongue, but the sentiment was there. He then did his best to reassure me.
“Eh bien! Murder is for poets! We are witch doctors! And we’ve got a prescription for you!”
I was curious. “Okay…what is it?”
“ES IST VOODOO!” bellowed the Bavarian.
“Um…” I equivocated, “what type of voodoo?”
Toothy grins spread across the trio of shadowy faces. And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, four of the ugliest, skankiest Canadian girls I’d ever seen appeared behind the witch doctors. If I had to bet, I’d’ve put my money on at least two of `em havin’ VD.
The old man grabbed my shoulder and cackled, “The type of voodoo that starts with a bourbon-soaked orgy!”
–-
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the feature in which I write whatever nonsense pops into my mind and then run through the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. At that point, it’s your duty/honor/begrudging privilege to hit up the comments section and share your own ennui-destroyin’ elixirs.
Enough feet-draggin’, let’s rock!
–-
Netflix May Give Cult Hit ‘JERICHO’ A New Lease. The Dude Smiles.
I never saw Jericho, being part of the band of negligent assholes who contributed to its demise. However our own The Dude did, and he was quite complimentary about it. I imagine this news will tickle him. In places.
THIS WEEK on Game of Thrones: “The Ghost of Harrenhal”
Harrenhal already seems like it could be the likeliest place in Westeros for a ghost to take up residence. Arya Stark is basically dead to the world; small wonder she finds herself in a position to be Harrenhal’s newest specter, a girl whose words can now kill.
Sunday was about Game of Thrones’ characters gaining new ground in unexpected places. Finding new sources of strength where they never imagined them to be. And naturally, having those new gains define character arcs and plots for the rest of the season. A setup episode of connective tissue necessary at this season’s midpoint.
Before all that setup could happen, and just as the show was teasing us with the prospect of an alliance between Highgarden and the North, we had to see what became of Stannis and Mel’s love-shadow. And we did.
