They really need to tie up the writer’s strike. One, hello, be fair to the people who create words that give shows and movies life and two, seriously, I don’t watch television much but the reality show explosion is a sign of the apocalypse. Okay except for Girls Next Door. Because, I love that show. I know I should be ashamed, but it’s the most beautiful, glittery awesome cupcake with sparkles trainwreck ever and I can’t turn away.
I don’t even care about Hugh Hefner. Whatever. He’s a gazillionaire and we don’t even have to pretend his life isn’t all fab and stuff. Good for him and stuff.
But, oh, sigh, Kendra. Happy shiver. I. Love. Kendra. It’s not an act people. No one could be that clueless. If she was that genius she wouldn’t be sharing an 85 year old man with two other women and forty two dogs. She’d have her own gazillions and fake snow and round bed stories. When she was in Italy and she asked if they had The Olive Garden there? I win. LOVED IT.
I love the birthday parties for dogs, the trips to Vegas, those same five stories Hefner tells the alpha girlfriend about his childhood and that round bed. Oh, and when Barbi Benton came to lunch? Beautiful.
Anyway, Battlestar Galactica is around the corner, my one actual network, regular show addiction and I want it to be on because it’s been a YEAR. It’s my date night, having drinks, heavy petting and getting lucky night (well, okay, so that’s a lot of nights at my house minus the drinks because I write other nights and I don’t drink and write very often, the results are not satisfactory)
I’m babbling now. I need to get to work but before that, I need to deal with laundry. Because, yes boys and girls, I do glamorous stuff like laundry and tossing kids in bathtubs and making sure they wear clean underwear. ENVY!