WHOA. That was some funny crummy hump-in-the-road related letter NOT-SO-CRUMMY JOEL wrote for us yesterday, wasn’t it? Why yes, yes it was. Trust us when we tell you we laughed and laughed and laughed. Mostly because the letter made perfect sense. Pot holes? Seen ’em. Crappy American made cars? Had one. Disdain for a city government incapable of helping crank up it’s image to any thing worthwhile, hoping the words: “Drive as fast as you can through this metropolitan nightmare and pray to whatever god you have that you never find yourself living here” might score points with tourists? Hey, we lived in Fresno back when it was the “Least Livable City in the US“, and that was its motto.
NATURALLY, none of that has anything to do with today’s post. We just wanted to take a moment to nod vigorously in the general direction of someone capable of writing in a fashion both coherent AND entertaining, before offering up one of our own “crummy” letters to someone who seems to have lost that skill. Please bear with us while we attempt to get this off our chest. But don’t look, because once this is off our chest, our chest, which was rather ample once upon a time, will be bare. Maybe droopy. Whatever our chest is, we don’t want the likes of you staring. We’re nothing, if not modest. If any of that made sense to you, chances are you “get” the show we’re about to bitch slap, and will be excused from reading further. If the word fuck offends you, you should have stopped reading one sentence sooner.
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Dear David Milch (if that’s your real name):
We may not be your biggest fans, but we have been great admirers of your work over the past several years. Heck, we were glued to our sets each week, during your NYPD Blue heyday. Well, we were until you killed off Bobby, that is. After he “died”, we were pretty upset. Oh, we tried to watch during the “Rick Shroder” phase, but we kept seeing him as that kid in the film about a man who hit other men really hard until he died, and we had to stop. Besides, all that death, alcoholism, and destructive behavior? Truth be told, eventually NYPD got a little too NYPD-pressing for our tastes, if you catch our drift, and we’re guessing you don’t.
Then you came out with one of the best shows ever. And by “best shows ever”, we mean, DEADWOOD. David (may we call you David?) that was just fanfuckingtastic television. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. We were horribly and/or fuckingly disappointed when it was cancelled. Did we say “fuckingly disappointed”? Make that fuckingly verklempt. Then we realized the words “fuck” “fucking”, “fuckingly”, and/or “fuckilicious” were sneaking into our everyday vocabulary on a more regular fucking basis than was proper and/or fucking acceptable, so we decided the cancellation was a fucking blessing after all, and we let our fucking anger go. The fact that we knew we’d be treated to not one, but two 2 hour “movies” fucking softened the fucking blow, but that’s beside the fucking point. The point, which was fucking with our mood a minute ago, is that Deadwood was fucking awesome.
Now, David, as your new best friends, we feel it’s our right and/or duty to ask you a small editorial question regarding your newest creative effort, currently featured on HBO, i.e. JOHN FROM CINCINNATI. Uh, David? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHOW ABOUT? Wait… perhaps it would help if we shared a few things about this surf-related “television of the absurd” program that we know and/or wish we knew, but don’t:
1. John. From Cincinnati. Crosses the border from Mexico into California. Looks for Butchie. Maybe for directions on how to take a world class dump. Parrots the words spoken by everyone else. Might be an alien, might be an angel, might be a retard. Has “magic” pockets filled with money and/or credit cards.
3. Bruce Greenwood levitates while wearing a wet suit.
4. Dead bird and/or surfer boy — both not so dead, after all.
5. Good actors who can’t surf. Bad actors who can surf. Show set in a fictitious So Cal beach town with at least one funkified surf shop, owned by main characters. NO extended scenes involving the actual sport of surfing.
7. NYPD and/or Deadwood-esque dialog. In Southern California. Dude.
8. Luke Perry is a conniver. And he’s, like, old.
9. The guy who played Al Bundy plays a guy named Bill who talks to a parakeet named Zippy. John (From Cincinnati) manifests himself in 3 or 4 different places, in order to sermonize to the entire cast — whether they’re in the scene, or not — about circles, lines, zeros and ones, walls, boning, dumping, and/or the Father. The Father who is not their Father, but may be John’s Father, who may or may not be in Cincinnati, even as John sermonizes. Cassie’s camera, Cissy NOT teaching her son how to masturbate, Shaun parented by his porn-queen mom over a tuna sandwich, someone coming on someone else’s face, and so forth and so on.
David, David, David. Have you lost your fucking marbles? Or have we??? What were we doing with your fucking marbles in the first place, David? Our head hurts, and that’s never a good thing. In closing, David, we’re begging you to please, for the love of Bobby (may he rest in peace), explain to us, once and for all, what’s going on. And, David, if possible, it would really help if you could do so before next week. Believe it or not, David, we plan to keep watching John From Cincinnati, but we’re convinced it would be a hell of a lot more entertaining and/or fuckalicious, if we knew one thing: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHOW ABOUT?
Thank you for your time, David. And so forth, and so on.
PS: David, don’t think we weren’t more than a little chagrined to learn those 2 Deadwood “movies” were, in fact, someone’s sick-ass idea of a joke. Well, look at our faces, David. Are we laughing?
PPS: David, it recently occurred to us that HAHAHA is nothing but a bunch of oddly connected straight lines, to someone who can’t read Humor-blogs.com.
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