Okay, enough with the _______ already, America. It's getting out of hand.
Blank-filler #1: Poker
Poker has infiltrated the American psyche in the last few years; it's all over TV, magazines and movies. Weekly poker nights have popped up in living rooms and break rooms in businesses. Even casinos have had a huge spike in table games derivative of poker. It seems poker rooms are always busy, from Reno to riverboat. Hell, the last James Bond movie was at least an even split of him doing things that were super cool, and then him madly perseverating over the two cards the man with the silly bow tie, paisley vest and green visor was going to turn over. By the way, that does not suspense make.
The point I'm trying to make here is that it's not 1885 anymore, and poker - while it used to be a reasonable pastime due to the utter lack of crap to do but prospect, get shot and/or die of tuberculosis in the Old West - isn't really all that fun if you aren't a gambling addict - or Chinese. Furthermore, watching people play cards is about as fun to watch as your average hospital janitor on "urinals and sinks" night.
Poker nights are only fun because of the social aspects of hanging with a bunch of friends and the remote possibility that one might leave with a few dollars more than one came in with. However, I'm fairly certain that at least ninety percent of recreational poker nights are just an excuse for people to drink heavily and smoke cigars in the company of other people without them being able to frown on such vices.
People who gamble on a regular basis like to pretend there's this whole psychological war that takes place during a poker game, an existential battle of wits honed in the Zen-like activity of learning a few basic hands of cards. And, if there is: WHO CARES? IT'S STILL BORING.
Don't even get me started on the World Series of Poker. A fat guy, a cokehead dot-com millionaire, and a bemulletted Vietnamese dude with stupid sunglasses do not gifted sportsmen make. Nor do they entertainment make. Please, get that muck off the TV.
Blank #2: Meerkats
What the hell is with the meerkats? Why are there so many meerkat-related films and shows being pushed upon my consciousness by the documentary filmmakers of today? I don't need to know about meerkats any more than I need to know about any other similar fuzzy creature, be it lemur, bush baby, mongoose or fox. And this isn't in any way to suggest that I don't care about these cute little creatures. I just don't understand how one kind of animal can so completely rule so many forms of media. They don't even have huge claws, or pose any threat to the ongoing survival of humanity.
Even Shark Week is a pretty huge stretch - one fish; one hundred and sixty-eight hours of programming slots to fill - but I get that everyone, everywhere who knows what a shark is really, really doesn’t want to get eaten by one. All a meerkat can do is stand up on two legs with a bunch of its buddies and stare kinda creepily. That does not two movies, two "making of" specials and one regular TV series make. It makes a ten minute segment on a show about the wildlife in the Kalahari Desert in Africa, where meerkats live.
See, I should in no way know where meerkats live. Why do I? I don't even know where horses come from, and they were instrumental in the forming of this country.
Blank #3: Pixar
If Pixar studios churns out another harmless, computer-generated, multi-million dollar box office earner with the EXACT same plot line as the last fourteen harmless, computer-generated, multi-million dollar box office earners, I'm going to purchase an illegal trigger-burst activator for my Mini-14 .223 caliber rifle, a large amount of illegal high-capacity magazines and several thousand rounds of ammunition and shoot every single device - computers, microphones, Owen Wilson's trailer, etc. - that has ever had a hand in the manufacture and/or viewing of a Pixar flick. I will not harm anybody physically provided they don't get in my way, but somebody has to put a stop to this drivel.
It is only a matter of time until Pixar makes a movie about meerkats playing poker. Seriously.
Blank #4: Sex and the City
If anybody ever tries to tell me that straight men haven't had it just a little bit rough over the last decade - and I'm not trying to start a gender war here, but fair is fair - than said naysayer obviously has never been forced to sit through an episode of this horrid show. Sex and the City ran for six seasons, and had a roughly-estimated average of twelve shows per season, meaning there is, if my calculations are correct, seventy two hours of Sex and the City in a continuous, never-ending, recycled loop on my idiot box, and will be for the foreseeable future.
I know there must have been more than one man, as it happened to me, who was lured into watching an episode or two with the promise of seeing Kim Cattrall's boobs, which occasionally did happen. (Kim, thanks for that, by the way. It was the only thing keeping the gun out of my mouth during the experience.) This same man then, no doubt, reeled in horror as four unemployed, privileged, cackling harpies complained endlessly about their food, boyfriends, apartments, cab rides, and who-gives-a-craps while wearing Prada shoes... and drinking cosmos. Miraculously, these same poor gents' girlfriends developed sudden urges to drink cosmos and be given Prada shoes. Weird, huh?
Then, one day, the team of dark, twisted, evil men and women who comprised the production staff of Sex and the City finally realized they'd milked a show about four women trying to get laid and/or married as far as humanly possible, and that they'd jumped the shark seasons prior and had been running on fumes for years. Sex and the City ended. There was much rejoicing.
Fastforwardafewyearslaterandthere'safuckingmoviecomingout.
I can only imagine the director of this film looming over it like an obsessed, maniacal Dr. Frankenstein over his monster screaming for it to come to life as he pumps volt after volt through the conductive bolts in the monster's neck. And when the monster opens its eyes, it says, "No, just get me a really big closet." Then it does ninety minutes of snore-inducing mediocrity. Watch this trailer, and I then dare you to summarize the plot of this film in more than thirty words.
I am possibly going to attend the premier of this film in the company of several hundred angry, torch and tool-wielding village people.
Save me, meerkats!
Blank #5: Every Member of the Spears Family
White trash. Nobody cares. Not news. And stop taking pictures of the chubby, drug-addled lunatic Spears' cooter, please.
I guarantee you there is and/or has been a Spears family poker night. |
