TV Review III

"What is this strange creature called a female?" Travolta's skins is so waxy he looks like Data from Star Trek.

“So this strange creature is called a female?” Travolta’s skin is so waxy nowadays he looks like Data from Star Trek.

 

Whether its pointless award shows, ads for awful movies I’ll never watch, or the occasional show I’m forced to hurl expletives at whenever it’s on, the land of television has been a toxic waste dump for some time now.  Of the billions of worthy choices, here’s a couple of the shittiest things on the titty tube:

 

Saturday Night Faggot – Aaron Rogers’ favorite actor john Travolta caused a bit of a stir at the bore-fest known as The Oscars over the weekend by behaving like a raving loon.  The big fruit flitted and sashayed his way around the stage and got into several painfully awkward and uncomfortable exchanges with female presenters.  Afterwards, a stupefied press collectively began to wonder aloud about Travolta’s odd behavior.  Well, how do you expect him to act?  The man’s been trapped in the closet for forty years—he’s cracking up from claustrophobia.  Every two minutes he’s rushing to his private plane to jet to Cock Island and indulge in dick, and then he’s gotta be on TV putting on this constant public facade of heterosexuality.  No wonder he’s losing his sanity faster than his hair.

 

Red Run – Shamelessly capitalizing on the vast population of Indians in this country—that’s feather Indian by the way, not dot—experts say that literally tens of Native Americans are expected to flock to the movies for Kevin Costner’s newest Sleep Aid, “Dances With Wolves” meets “Saved By The Bell”, aka “Mcfarland, USA”.  And I thought the black swimming team movie was obscure.  What’s next, a paraplegic ping pong team?  Unfortunately, most theaters don’t barter with maize, so many featherheads will be turned away and forced to enjoy some of the more traditional Native American pastimes like huffing gas or rape.  Still, film critics say this movie might be the greatest contribution from Indian culture since Crazy Horse invented a new kind of glue.

 

The Drunken Boobs Variety Hour – That was what the producer’s originally titled Spike’s newest masterpiece, “Jail”, a show that should immediately be sponsored by the marijuana industry to promote legalization.  Every poor bastard they bring in there is shitfaced beyond belief, and the drunker they are, shockingly, the more belligerent they are to the police.  Not one person gets brought in there screaming incoherent profanities and struggling with arresting officers because they had one puff too many.  It’s stunning watching the transformation of these drunken lunatics into normal, calm human beings after a couple hours in the drunk tank.  Sobering up is like the Werewolf Curse in reverse.  Meanwhile, for every scrawny peach-fuzzed 17 year-old the goon squad act like the Gestapo with, when it’s a giant angry black dude the Paul Blart-looking pricks turn into a buncha Mary Poppins’.

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