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Miming Towns of the Old West

If you’ve ever abandoned all fear and simply wanted to know the thoughts that go through my head, here’s a sample from the “Television in BrianLand” File:

“Tonight on Miming Towns of the Old West, Marcel Montana. We’ll visit a place where the winds rip so violently through the main square that residents have evolved to walk at a near sixty-degree angle.”

[cut to scene of cowboys leaning against non-existent boxes while one pulls on an imaginary rope to lead an equally imaginary horse – VOICEOVER: “Yes, it’s never a dull day here in Marcel, sister city to Paris, France. Here we see Bose ‘Mr. Pockets’ Ketchum wrangling some lunch!”]

“We’ll visit the high-security prison [wide shot of three men “trapped” in an imaginary cube], and get to know a four-hundred pound local known only as ‘Tumbleweed.'”

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Back to the Welles in a Hearst

My Jeopardy dreams are recorded in front of a live studio audience. I know this because I scanned every one of their stolid eyes. Even the ones with one eye, of which there were four.
 
Alex: “After his gat explodes and he switches his mind back to freak mode, both Nate Dogg and his buddy Warren G were in need of something else.”
 
Me: “What are ‘Dames that is sexy as hell?'”
 
Alex: “You’re tweaking into a whole new era, Brian.”
 
Me: “If the questions are a buster, I’ll regulate, Alex.”
 
Alex: “Save it, motherfucker.”
 
And then he shot me. As I lay there in a slowly expanding pool of the blood which was pumping from the wound on my neck, I couldn’t help but think “to be honest, I don’t think that Sajak would have been nearly as violent.” Then Bud Collyer stepped on my hand and whispered “to tell the truth, pal, he’d have been the least of your worries.” As he mashed my knuckles into the polished marble floor, he added “and my real name is Clayton. How do you like THEM apples?”
 
“That was sort of my hope,” I managed to say over the sound of snapping bone and tearing sinew. “Also, considering the blood loss here, it may not be MY time to beat the clock, you know?”
 
“Save it for the BONUS ROUND!!!”
 
As the crowd erupted into a frenzy, Collyer mouthed something but all I heard was what sounded like a thunderclap, and was thrust into consciousness and the feeling of my butt cheeks vibrating to the largest fart I’ve released in months. Having regained a sense of the moment, but one mysterious word was left ringing in my ear… “Dotto.”

More TV Show Ideas

I’m hoping to find time this week to bang out a draft of my all-new Prime-Time Action Thriller TV series starring Charlie Sheen and Bill Cosby as black-ops agents who travel the globe (and time!) to off dictators, terrorists and freestyle-rapping geniuses. Each will rely on the skills of the other, with both having help from a team of super chemists and biologists. After all, we can’t have Charlie dropping a load and the resulting damage taking several years to be effective now, can we? We have like forty-four minutes each week. If we can spring OJ, the series could go much darker.  …and in that way as well.

The working title is The AIDS Team, and we don’t expect much resistance from Stephen J. Cannell, what with him not so alive anymore.

Or how about Bruce Jenner in Half-Manimal. It could be a 15-minute time killer, backed to another series, like R Kelly’s That Ain’t 18 Yet!, which could explore bad ideas that happened in the last fifteen or so years.

Failing the action market, we simply do what Hollywood does best: Rehash the same old shit. Cosby, Sheen and Jenner in Two and a Half Men. BOOM. I smell an Emmy.

BETTER: We keep the action theme, but it’s Chuck Norris and Bruce Jenner. Same title. Hollywood loves a reboot, right? Hell, we get Peter Jackson aboard, and we can stretch this fucker to eight movies.

BETTER STILL: We reformulate The Amazing Race. In our version, we remove a vital organ, and hide it someplace on Earth, leaving only vague clues as to where it may be. IN the mid-season break cliffhanger, a contestant finds his spleen, but it’s… IN ANOTHER PERSON. And he’s hiding in a knife factory.

Next time, we’ll dive into my Facts of Life-meets-Twin Peaks conceptual game show/thriller mini-series.

Bruce’s Man Cave

It’s time for another of our “Billion-Dollar TV Show Ideas”, kids!

With the popularity of home improvement-style shows continuing from the last decade, it seemed only fitting that we throw an additional celebrity element at one, and that too has worked marvelously. Consider such greats as Vanilla Ice and now even Mr. T having shows. Yet, there’s a missing puzzle piece, and that piece is a celebrity with current tabloid exposure. This isn’t simply about mindless voyeurism or celebrity deification; it’s about revolutionizing reality and home improvement TV in one sweep using some dude’s junk.

The pitch:
People want to see a celebrity in day-to-day life. People enjoy seeing these celebrities engage in projects. Those same people like watching home improvements happen (and we’re betting that they’re not so engaging on their own). And consider that your average voter thinks that “change” can mean something in even the most inept of hands. What if we brought all of that together with a celebrity home improvement show that REALLY makes a change? Think Trading Spaces meets Bathroom/Backyard/Kitchen Crashers meets Man Caves meets What Not to Wear meets The Science of…, with a “Hey, I didn’t want to know THAT!” twist. And while I am plenty aware that our friend already has a show, I simply can’t imagine that it’s working to its full potential. And being a giver, well, I see a need and try to fill it. You can learn a lot from the movie Robots.

You may wish to sit down, as you’ll probably collapse under the weight of a “why in the fuck didn’t I think of this?!” moment of realization.

We follow a former Olympian (and current celebrity/reality TV star) as he trades his man cave for a scrap-booking room. We’ll follow along as a team of decorators and contractors help him “make the switch” in this ten-episode (oooh, a decathlon reference – see how thought-out this is?) mini-series. Plenty of room for guest appearances, and consider the genius of being able to switch demographics, bringing in fresh advertising through a season? I know. It’s that good. Guest spots from decorators, designers and handymen, as well as RuPaul, Dr. Ruth, (bonuses for the writing team if they work with me to bring in the Ghost Hunters guys – or John Edward OR even better: The Long Island Medium lady – to channel the spirit of Dr. Joyce Brothers in a… wait for it… cross-over episode) and assorted stereotypical men and women. We’ll be teaching not only design and construction, but learning all about society and gender roles, and then throwing that out of the window, should ratings dictate such a thing. This will grab awards like someone is just throwing them at it.

TLC, are you listening? Bruce’s Man Cave can be all yours… for a price, naturally.

…and of course, assuming that we can pay him enough to go along with it. Including my $1.81 found around the desk, that gives us exactly nineteen cents less than $2.00, still well-shy of even the most meager of lunchtime meetings. But it’s not about where we are, it’s about the place that we identify with as being… So long as it buys a beach house or three.

When Did Hot Rodding Become Hip Hop?

bedalle hip hop rodding

A little piece I threw down for Tubbed Magazine. Stop by and enjoy the second coming of Pro-Street.

Think back to your first memorable experience that set your fate as a “car guy.” Don’t let nostalgia sway you, just blurt it out. Just roll with the first one that comes to mind.

I’d be willing to bet that it had nothing at all to do with what anyone else thought of you. Taking that a yep further, I’d sweeten that bet by adding that it had nothing to do with fame or money. While one or two of you may have though about the guy with the bitchin’ ride in your hometown that got all of the girls  or that every other guy wanted to be, that seems pretty normal, and had nothing to do with defining just who you were. It started with the car, right?

Along that patch of blacktop we all travel on our way to becoming full-fledged car guys, we all get a taste of the pride that comes with a thumbs-up at a stoplight, or the strangers wanting to discuss our cars and the one they had “just like it” back in the day. Ego always grows a bit to fill those freshly upholstered bucket seats, and it’s all fine if you know how to keep it in check. And if you had any car guy friends worth anything, they knew how to help you keep that in check. It’s what good friends do.

It’s a family.

Compare your memories to what any kid coming into what remains of the hobby today will know it as:
A bunch of posturing and ego-driven, money-hungry wannabe celebrities driving catalog-sourced vehicles destined to provide big returns at auction. In an entitlement-driven, fame-is-everything era, we’re losing the real car guys and builders to a steady stream of TV stars and project managers. It’s an awful lot like Hip Hop and reality TV: Just a load of “look at me” bullshit with no redeeming value. And having already conquered reality TV, it’s not a far stretch to see the whole thing sink to a level of commerce-driven stereotypes telling you what’s cool this week, and making everything so base and trend-driven that they’ll be left with little choice but to either cannibalize the damned thing, or just leave it to die and move to the next.

Let’s roll with the whole Hip Hop analogy. Let’s create a fictional car guy who maybe came into the scene in the late-1970’s. He’s stoked about these “Pro-Street” cars, and can’t get enough of the look. It becomes in his mind the right look: Big, fat tires out back, a rake, skinny tires up front, and perhaps some form of induction poking though the hood. The essentials are in place. Our budding car guy is exposed to cars like Joe Ruggirello’s Mustang II or Lisk’s Challenger or Kollofsky’s ’55 Chevy (side note: Anyone else find it coincidental that all of these guys have names befitting a cool character or bad-ass cop in a movie?) or any other of a series of killer, pro-style bruisers. And much as any fan of what would come to be called “Hip-Hop” would have heard Grandmaster Flash or the Cold Crush Brothers early on and been drawn to it for the unique approach and the imagery it inspired in anyone outside of the Bronx, what would come to named “Pro-Street” did likewise to anyone who never cruised Woodward.

While Hip Hop evolved by taking outside influences from funk and soul to new wave and even punk, Pro-Street did likewise, borrowing from Street Freaks and Street Rods and other places, always looking to raise the bar just a touch. And, like anything gaining popularity, each had a stand-out that came to be the face of the movement: Hop Hop had acts like Run DMC, and we scored with names like Sullivan, Dobbertin and Hay (they could play the law firm in that film idea mention earlier). And in that popularity of a select few, we can trace the evolution of each, mans see the ongoing influences applied to shape just where each might head.

Like anything that goes popular, there exists the danger of haven it buckle under its own weight. While Pro-Street suffered from a number of ills, we could blame the decline on magazine saturation and constant competition to be the next big thing, with cars adding more extreme power plants and detailing and so-on, that it just became a caricature of itself, and begged for something to step in and rebel against it. We wound up with Pro-Touring, which didn’t seem to heed its own warnings, and is finding itself on a similar path. As for Hip Hop, it changed from a creative ocean of experimentation and arrangement to a soul-less money farm in the 1990’s (oh, the similarities between Hip Hop and Pro-Street are many, kids), and eventually a sad joke with all of the “gangsta” posturing and crunk-style bragging. (Side note 2: Consider that Dr. Seuss coined the phrase “crunk car” back in the 1970’s, and you start to feel all lightheaded, right? Scary how that works.) Where Hip Hop and its offspring found their way into the mainstream via MTV and radio play, hot rodding was doing likewise via major events, magazines and videos. TV wouldn’t be far behind.

It’s not such a far reach then, to  compare Hip Hop and Hot Rodding. Each became a pale version of its former self once television became a part of the marketing. Hell, we could take this little notion on a whole other ride, but let’s settle on the marketing of each as being hand-in-hand harbinger of destruction forthe movement. Don’t get me wrong, I get the money thing… We all need to eat. But when the problems come banging down the doors, they usually look like the fresh-from-College guys from Marketing. And when they come visiting, even the goldfish stop swimming, if you get my drift. The dollar signs flash, and it’s off to the races. On the music side, it becomes about selling the image of what Marketing thinks that it should be, with reference to moving product (as Yogurt the Wise taught us so many moons ago, the real money is in merchandising). You craft an image, and get the kids to buy into that.  On the car side, it’s eerily similar: Craft an image of what someone outside of the whole thing thinks it should be (based upon what the data shows will sell), and run with it, facts be damned if need be. Understanding that, it’s not so difficult to see why we had shows like Orange County Choppers or, keeping with the theme, Pimp My Ride. On one hand, you had screaming and yelling and time crunch drama because, by golly, that has to be how it is in a real shop, right? The natural outgrowth was American Hot Rod, Wrecks to Riches and their ilk. They appealed to the “behind the scenes” exclusivity gene which TV inserted into the genetic code, and never mind how skewed from reality it might be… Just cash that check and find more shit to fight about. Take that a step further in the appeal to “you can sell these cars and make money!” idea, and by golly, the shows practically write themselves. I am convinced that there are but two formulas for any reality-based show:

1. The Shop as setting for drama (family, client/shop, contest, money or otherwise) formula,
2. The find it/buy it/fix it up/sell for profit/repeat formula

…each of which may be seasoned to taste by adding celebrity appearances, surprises, some form of competition, pranks or canned “tech tips” wherever holes appear in the story line. Take a long, hard look at Monster Garage and tell me it isn’t so. Shit, get a hold of a script from Lords of the Car Hoards, Unique Whips, Leepu and Pitbull or Fast N Loud, mix them all up, and I’d bet that a seven year old could put a season’s worth of shows together at random, and you’d never be able to tell the difference. You could do likewise with any current Hip Hop video premise. It’s not about telling a story or building a cool car; it’s about who can brag the loudest. And that opens the door to really scary things, and can usher outcomes like not unlike the Lucifer Effect, as postulated by Philip Zimbardo (aka the Stanford Prison Experiment), wherein the wheels can be put into motion that make a good person do some really twisted evil things. I mean, what would the dollar amount be for you to sell out and bastardize the car hobby you love? Roll with your first instinct. That’s a lot of fucking zeros, isn’t it? And that’s chump change when the Advertising Department bros get involved (and you thought that little fishie was holding still earlier? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet). And when the image consultants and writers come to play, you’ll hardly recognize yourself. It doesn’t take a lot to go from singing about your sneakers over a sampled loop to bragging about the women you slept with in the penthouse last week and how big the rims on your SUV are when the residuals roll in.

And that’s where we stand today: It’s not about some guy with a cool 1970’s action movie cop name building a kick-ass machine that will set your synapses afire, blazing a whole new path for thought across your brain or even mashing two things together that have never been mashed before. It’s about having some money guy or project manager (at best) playing the douche (OK, sometimes it’s not a stretch for the guy. As a wise man once told me, “Only two kinds of people wear sunglasses indoors: Rock stars and assholes. Be on the lookout for a guitar.”) and creating some filler to top with ad sales. It’s loosely connected product placement opportunities designed to make the numbers so that Trent and Blaine in the front office can keep that tee time. You don;t have the imagination or thrill of discovery involved with your entry to the hobby anymore. Instead, you have an image to play up to, and try to out-douche so that you can make your own mark and score that show.

After all, it isn’t about the cars anymore, unless they’re a prop for your bitches to lean against while you pose with jewelry and assorted gold-plated handguns. While I can appreciate how anyone uninitiated into the family that is hot rodding can fall for this, you can bet your ass that I’ll be stepping into frame and doing my best to drop knowledge on Quick Mix Theory and Bill Jenkins’ Pro Stock Vega.

Fear the Summer Crossover

fart battle
Much like Fear the Walking Dead, the concept of a Summer prequel sub-series is not necessarily a fresh concept. In fact, a little digging uncovers one created for The Love Boat in August of 1981.
 
Anthropophobic Anna (aired in Canada as Fart Battle) tells the back-story of a cruise director suffering from a pathological fear of human company, and fills in the blanks left between the cliffhanger at the end of season four and the never-again mentioned character Jose’, the lovable stowaway with the humorous speech impediment. Loosely based on the Japanese Anime’ Taijin Kyofusho: The Farting Hostess, it’s loaded with gruesome scenes of sea sickness, food poisoning and obscenity-laced public address announcements. The pilot episode, “Lei-ing Lo/Isaac’s Dark Secret/Origin of the Feces”, which opens with the cruise director strangling a guest with a flowery necklace, quickly turns to deeper subject matter including slave trafficking and a passenger who defecates on room service trays left outside of guest cabins. An interesting sub-plot involves a Plastic Surgeon who performs an emergency anoplasty on the stunt double for an “adult film” being filmed in steerage after she falls on a porcupine (speaking of animals, sharp-eyed viewers will recognize Jack Hana of the San Diego Zoo as “Kelly-6000”, the transgender robot). The Captain has to work hard to keep his knowledge (and involvement) in the clandestine filmmaking hidden from his daughter, who is aboard the ship to write her doctoral thesis on the sexual healing potential shuffleboard, with specific regard to septuagenarian television drama stars seeking to reignite a career long faded.
 
While never released on DVD, you will no doubt stumble across a bootlegged copy or two at fan festivals, often spoken about in hushed tones. ABC has worked diligently to erase all memory of the failed attempt to lure Summer viewers. If you happen to be fortunate to find a copy or two, try to grab one with the commercials intact, if not for the rarely-seen Ted Kennedy Oldsmobile commercial, then definitely for the promo spot for the quickly-cancelled network crossover event of the week, Dr. Moreau’s Fantasy Island Celebrity Challenge.

Reality TV Show Pitch #866.2.5

Anyone can imagine a world of peace and love and never-ending happiness and blue skies and all of that bullshit. And anyone who watches enough television can imagine a world based within a world that’s taking place in an alternate reality of their favorite show.

However, it takes a real hero to imagine a world in which the most popular form of entertainment involves a mash-up of the Joie Chitwood Thrill Show, “Fantasy Island”, the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow, “Deadliest Catch” and “Robot Wars”, but as a musical with choreographed dogfights between Elvis impersonators riding on armored Zambonis, battling to the death in a variety of improvised challenges (voted on in real-time by viewers via text) for an honorary degree. Winner gets the title, while the loser’s selected school has their electricity cut for nine years, and they are required by decree to sacrifice the tenured professor with the grayest hipster beard on their campus to the Lovecraftian deity Cthulhu, High Priest of the Great Old Ones. May he eat your home last.

Fuck You, History Channel

abomination
You know why the Bangladeshi space program never really took off (I mean notwithstanding their technological breakthroughs in… uh… well, gee… screwing up their environment, or more dirt bikes per capita than any other country also named Bangladesh it’s hard to just name one, really)? I’d imagine due in part to having a country full of “designers” like this Leepu guy. Far be it for me to shit all over someone’s parade route, but I have to be as frank as possible when I shout a hearty “FUCK YOU, HISTORY CHANNEL!!” from the rooftop. What in the serious fuck were you thinking with this show??!
I have two theories:
One: The people behind this show are absolute trolling geniuses. From the creators and writers on through the actors, this could be the funniest thing on TV. And not in the “Ha-ha!” way, but the “Fill a viewer with absolute rage and send his mental state plummeting through concentric circle after concentric circle of blind hatred and sorrow and mistrust and fear and then something like understanding and then back to unrivaled anger and then a depressed state and then hopelessness and finally numbness and resolute passiveness” funny. Like a Woody Allen film wherein all of the jokes were written for his friends, so the hope of understanding it all is lost on you, unless you were married to the adopted daughter of your girlfriend, which is not unlike one of those jokes I just mentioned. It wants to be funny, but it leaves you feeling like you just showered with that odd little bar of soap in the hotel, and you can’t rinse something off of yourself.
Two: This show is serious, and the central characters and all members of History Network’s creative department are brain damaged.
Should it be numero two, then by golly, anyone watching this and thinking “hey, this guys IS brilliant” is in even worse shape than the stars of the show. I’m talking Dominoes pizza-ordering-and-setting-aside-time-to-gather-friends-for-the-show-level moron. The sort of guy you’ve worked with who is content to be in his entry-level job for eleven years, but bitches because he knows more than the suits, while showing up late every day and failing to complete even the simplest of tasks, yet can tell you every “fact” about some race bike he’ll never own and just how it’s all Bush’s fault as he brushes his ever-whitening mullety mane back from his forehead.
And far be it for me to bring “science” to the table, but for fuck’s sake… Watching a full episode the other night had me teaching my TV (and neighbors, I’m told) all about Bernoulli’s principle and other such engineering trivialities at very high decibels. Let me bring you up to speed.
Loophole and Fartwad were apparently setting out to build some drag car from an Olds Cutlass… but let’s not hold that against them. The slow kids all start someplace, and for many, it involves thinking that a GM-powered car can be a “race car”. The REALLY dim ones stick with that idea later in life (some even slap a fiberglass body around a Chrysler HEMI-powered tube chassis and think it’s a Camaro or some shit. That, my friends, is called NHRA Funny Car and Pro-Stock, but I digress). Having (thankfully – occasionally the universe throws even ME a bone) missed part ONE of this travesty (yes, a TWO-PARTER! In the first season. WTF.), I quickly gathered that a boat race led to some challenge to build a car, using a preposterous betting scenario – which may have been contrived by someone slightly LESS intelligent than our pizza-eating friend from earlier – which was somehow going to generate EIGHT HUNDRED HORSEPOWER from some wrecking yard LS engine with some poorly-designed turbo plumbing. Don’t even get me started on the PCV/catch can fix or the apparently left-alone stock rear end, mystery transmission and other nonsense. But hey, it has big-ass, shiny calipered brakes.
Aside from the technical faux pas all over this mess, it was the “aerodynamic research” that had me laughing and then thrown into a rage.
Limeaid was going to do the usual “groundbreaking design” and slap a Daytona/Superbird-style nose cone and rear wing on the car, but oh, my friend, ’twas the “logic” and “science” of it all that leads me to believe that the minds behind this are either again severely damaged, or of an utter demigod-level trolling brilliance that simply cannot be captured by mere mortals. You see, they were going to wind tunnel test this. Yes, test the aerodynamic properties of a slope-nose design wherein, mind you, THE FUCKING TOP WAS LEFT OPEN, CREATING A CLEAR PATH TO THE VERTICAL WALL THAT IS THE RADIATOR. So this “genius” has, in effect, created a shape that creates and probably AMPLIFIES the eddies as air tries to flow over this sad iteration of an automobile. I can’t begin to imagine what the Cd of this monstrosity is now, compared with its former brick-shaped self. But THAT isn’t even the funniest part. No… that comes when you see the “wind tunnel”. Now, when you think “wind tunnel”, you think “a tunnel with some wind-generating machinery”, correct? Apparently not in Bada-Fucking-Bing Noo Yawk or Bangladesh. No… they can make do with a shop fan in an open area. And a DAMNED SMOKE SIGNAL FLARE. While I could choose to go on about THAT, let’s concentrate on the science behind their “wind tunnel”, shall we? A shop fan. Benefit of the doubt given, let’s say we have a fan displacing sixty inches of blade length, each blade being three or so inches in width. Such a fan, if it’s a good one, can push between 17,000 and 19,000 CFM. That known, we can estimate air flow, when operating at peak efficiency to be around oh, say EIGHT, maybe EIGHT AND A HALF MILES PER HOUR. Add to that using a signal flare that is designed to disperse over large distances, and you can see where this is headed. Yet, the “genius designer” was out to prove that the three-foot wing “worked”… if the smoke were to flow to it. Let’s examine that just a bit. ANYTHING blown over a car will reach the back. Water. Poo. The kerosene film emanating from the landscaper’s truck ahead of me because he filled the tank in Enchilada before crossing the border this morning. A drunken bum (if you have enough lead-in speed). Apparently smoke from a signal flare blown at 8 MPH in a dispersed breeze. None of this proves any worth of design or function. Even in the remotest sense. The only scientific data to be gleaned regarding said wing would be that of visual proof that it exists somewhere on the physical plane, and that could be accomplished without the aid of Linguini’s thick-ass glasses. Yup… there it is, tacked onto the deck lid, providing absolutely no function whatsoever, unless that function is to waste materials, which you’d think that coming from a place like the sneaker-sewing capital of the universe that this ass hat would be far more frugal when it comes to things like steel or aluminum.
That all said, dear History Channel, please fuck yourself one more time. You’re undermining the things that I and others in the custom car design community have worked for, by presenting this hack as some “designer” (for fuck’s sake,he was “put off studying” automotive design “by the volume of technical work”. Jesus H. Christ… IT’S ALL FUCKING TECHNICAL WORK IF YOU UNDERSTAND THE JOB), and showing some wrench sketching something that passes for a “rendering” on the skill level of a seven year old, and then cobbling-together unsafe heaps in the name of “cars”??! Stick to “HISTORY” like your contrived bullshit shows like “Life After People” and other nonsense. It’s one thing to present garbage in the names of “entertainment” (i.e. Lifetime, Oprah’s network and MTV, for example), but to bold-faced lie to viewers (i.e. made-up timelines and budgets and other dramatic bullshit, but a quick stop on Wikipedia of all places (I know… it’s like going to CNN, MSNBC or Brian Williams for the truth most times, but till, let’s try to keep things on the level here), but in the intro, Loadsofbull claims that he brought Leapfrog to the US to build cars. Hmmm. Seems that Discovery Networks has a long history with this guy, starting as far back as 2006. This latest show is just another iteration of the prior two failed attempts. He’s lived in Idaho since at least 2013. Again, this could be one of two things going on:
One: The people behind this are mad geniuses, furthering the agenda to push the “immigrant comes to America and makes it big” pablum via a contrived TV show or
Two: The creative development at your network is in the spiral grip of the flushing toilet you float in, and you feel that this is the best you can do to feed the viewing public with insipid programming that further insults their steadily declining intelligence.
I’m really looking forward to Life After the History Channel.
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