So I'm trying to watch a couple quick reruns on the Peacock Network (so named for Howie Mandel's habit of painting his ass and running down Hollywood Boulevard with a camera strapped to his back). After being bombarded with promos, I understand that a has-been from a mid-nineties lip-sync dance squad, who happens to be married to someone with an actual skill, has what the kids are calling a "show", in which hapless ruminants watch a spray-tanned blow-up doll do exciting things like, um, move to another house. Oooh, aaah.
I have nothing against fake titties, and I dig looking at hot chicks. But this person is someone whom I feel like I'm being told is hot, and I'm supposed to think she's hot, but it just looks and smells like mystery loaf to me. I could watch Salma Hayek read the phone book with the sound off; ditto Katherine Heigl, and (probably too many) others. They don't call me LL Cool Heywood J for nothin', you know.
But pushy high-maintenance dingbats like Old Spice do not pitch me a proverbial tent, they just make me reach for my trusty remote. Life is just too short.
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