Dear Loyal Readers,
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Dear Loyal Readers,
Monday, October 3, 2011
There’s been a hole in my heart since the spring of 2009. For years, I’ve searched to fill it with female-lead sitcoms but my efforts were fruitless. The laughs weren’t as hearty, the joy wasn’t as sweet, the faces weren’t as pretty; I found myself left with a rotating series of poor men’s Christinas. Yes, the whole in my heart was drilled when ABC cancelled Samantha Who and took Christina Applegate out of my living room every Monday.
Suddenly… the heavens opened and I was blinded by a shining light! Could it be?! Yes! Twas’ Christina Applegate’s whimsical blonde locks! Once again she’s returned to my living room every Wednesday night in the new comedy, Up All Night. God bless you, NBC. God bless you.
If there’s a recipe for the perfect sitcom, it has been found: ((Lorne Michaels + Christina Applegate + Will Arnett + Maya Rudolph + a really cute baby)*(Viewers who miss Samantha Who)*(Viewers who hated In The Motherhood)) – Anything that sucks = Perfection || Up All Night. Umm… nerd alert—SOMEONE GET ME AWAY FROM MY DESK… STAT!
And not to overlook the fact that this show also serves as the triumphant (correct, we are NOT considering Running Wilde) sitcom return of Gob Bluth II aka Will Arnett. As most of you entertainment enthusiasts know, Will Arnett is actually the bridegroom of one Amy Poehler which solidifies his place in my fantasy dinner party. Ahh yes I can see it now: “Will, can you please pass the Waldorf salad?” “Sure, Laura, just after Tina Fey is done picking out all the grapes and tossing them in George Bush’s mouth. Might I say, this is a fabulous party.”
Someday my fantasy dinner party will cease to be a figment of my imagination and establish itself in real life… preferably at a place with a bountiful meatball selection. Until then, I can join the Brinkley’s at theirs, blissfully sipping wine with my very own Gob Bluth (manfriend, of course). I leave you now with a celebration of sitcom stars of ole and their newest programming baby. Happy pants-peeing J
Thursday, September 29, 2011
If you have ever walked into your boss’s office with your thong static-clinged to your dress…
If you have ever congratulated a barren, overweight woman on her pregnancy…
If you have ever hugged Jessica Simpson when she didn’t want you to…
If you have ever cracked a joke to your company’s CEO which prompted him to walk away unamused…
(…no, none of this has happened to me… mehhr…)
…then I say to you: CELEBRATE! The age of the “awkward chic” has arisen with the glorious dawn of New Girl. All hail Zooey Deschanel, Queen Awkwardian, Protector of the realm of geeking encounters. We praise your granny panties and love of Curly Sue (plus your roommates are total babes).
A few posts down, you will read that my rose-colored outlook on “happy tv” (would include shows such as “Glee” and 90% of the programming on “Disney Channel”) was momentarily tainted with the nausea-inducing season 3 premiere of Glee. Well, let’s just say that New Girl served as my entertainment pepto bismol. Ah yes, happy TV is here to stay.
More importantly, what we’re embarking on with the launch of this show is a complete redefining of the social spectrum. Where the clumsy, self-deprecating girls were once outcasted, they are now at the pinnacle of the female food chain. Cheerleaders and skeletors be damned… this is a new era. Beware of toilet-paper-shoe mania and the booming sound of a united "womp womp" front. Be free in your tongue-tiedness! Rejoice in knowledge that bitchy is no longer best!
We can't just thank New Girl for this magnificent transition, however. There have been plenty of awkward-chic pioneers that have blazed the trail for gauche ladies everywhere. Here's to you, Emma Stone, Tina Fey, Amelia Bedelia. I toast you with a glass of pink wine (it makes me slutty, too).
Many of you may not know this about me, but I really, really love America. My favorite day is the 4th of July and my favorite foods are of the saturated fats persuasion. I like to consider myself a patriot of the art of loving America, standing on the platform of supporting the American TV shows that make this country truly amazing (Donations for my 2016 Presidential campaign can be made at www.Sofalista.blogspot.com).
Recently, that list of truly amazing TV was appended. Whilst farting around Verizon’s oh-so robust On Demand offerings, I came across a most exciting gem: an early release of the pilot episode of Homeland for poor people without Showtime (like ME! Wahoo!). Of course I watched instantly, wrapped in my American flag blanket with a Bud Light in hand. What did I think? Patriots rejoice.
The show is a “24” for those who are still mourning the loss of My So Called Life. Ok, not really, but it does star a strangely un-aged Claire Danes (like, what is she? Benjamin Button) but in a much less “dejected teen annoying” and much more “obsessive compulsive annoying” type of way.
The story focuses on a recovered Marine who had been MIA in the Middle East for over 8 years and the uber-intense CIA agent convinced that he’s been turned. From what I can gather thus far, Homeland is a genius attempt at catering to two separate but often overlapping audiences: true Americans and crazy bitches. This CIA chick had Agent Brody’s house bugged within 5 minutes of him landing on US soil (and in the bedroom to boot! Needless to say there was a lot of very uncomfortable sexytime in there that Angela Chase was privy to). You tell me if that doesn’t sound like a jaded ex-girlfriend you or a friend might have had (Hi, Joyce! Lylas!).
In true 24 fashion, the last 2 minutes of this show had me in prime #owling position (for those of you are social media inept and unaware of the new-albeit-not-improved “planking” please see below) at the edge of my seat. t's true... any ad campaign that prompts me to "watch careful.ly" will be given my full attention. I won’t give away the ending… I’ll just ask that you watch this Sunday at 10/9c.
It’s no secret that McKinley high is in serious need of a renovation. BLECHK… excuse me while I hack the asbestos out of my lungs for lingering around the halls of this show for far too long.
Yes, it’s a sad realization when you find yourself watching your ex-favorite show like you once watched the 1960 version of The Tempest the night before your Shakespeare exam; fast forwarding through any dialogue to get to general understanding of the nonsense storyline. From what I can gather from the season 3 premiere, it went a little like this:
· Blah blah blah… Quinn has fake hair and can’t “pretend” smoke a cigarette to save her life
· Blah blah blah… Food fight
· FAB IT’S NOT UNSUAL MUSICAL NUMBER WITH THE MCKINLEY HIGH DEBUT OF MRS. KURT HUMMEL! (Climatic moment of the hour)
· Blah blah blah… Rachel is annoying
· Blah blah blah… Kurt is annoying
· Blah blah blah… Mr. Shu is annoying
· Blah blah blah… Mr. Shu is annoying and also has a serious case of blue balls
· FAB ANYTHING GOES MUSICAL NUMBER WITH NO ONE FROM THE PRINCIPAL CAST (YAY!)
· Blah blah blah… Santana rules
· …and of course finale cheeseball performance showcasing how resilient the New Directions group is. Shocker.
Womp. Womp. Womp.
Who knows—maybe the fact that my new roommate is allergic to Glee has made me a bit more sensitive to the mind-numbing nonsense that this show has become. Finn no longer gives me lady tickles; in fact, the mere thought of him dries my vajayjay up like a craisin. I no longer have a tolerance for Lea Michelle’s bowl-movement faces during her songs. My inner-gay-man is no longer giddy at the thought of a Barbara song. All-in-all, the show is going to have to step up its game to keep me from watching HIMYM reruns on WGN in its place.
Luckily for Gleeks everywhere, Tuesday’s 2nd episode was a bit redeeming. Nothing like throwing a Tony Award winning actress in the mix to stir up some fab musical numbers and semi-interesting storyline. Some promising moments:
· Brittany is a genius… no really…
· Puck is a doting dad wannabe that draws his baby girl pig clowns
· Quinn is blonde again (that was fast)
· Rachel is still annoying (but at least her rendition of Somewhere was actually something)
Let’s get real, I’ll never actually stop watching. I mean, what the hell would I have on my iPod if I did? But hear thee now, Ryan Murphy: Until I am satisfied with the state of this show I pledge to post a new adulterated photo of your bald head wearing a dumb hat every week. Exhibit A:
Never underestimate the powers of Microsoft PowerPoint.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
When I was younger I wanted to be a marine biologist (granted, when I was younger I was fat and hairy and didn’t have any friends and once read that dolphins made exceptional companions so take that as you will). Anywho, on my life journey towards my ultimate goal, I started collecting random facts about our underwater pals. Did you know that a dolphin can detect a 2.5 cm tird (roughly an inch for those metric illiterate) from over 70 meters away? I bet you’re asking yourself “WTF is she getting at?” Well…
Me : Dolphin :: Mary Murphy : Tird
A couple of months ago I began to suffer from a ringing in my ear that I can only imagine an echolating dolphin would experience. After time, I began to make out some words through the ringing; slowly but surely I heard it… “HOT.” “TAMALE.” “TRAIN.” “WOOOOO WOOOOOO.” Ugh, I’ll take the ringing. That’s the day I learned Mary Murphy was healthy (phewf!) and back on SYTYCD.
While I'm positively giddy that the Murphster is back and feeling fabulous, I have to assume that Nigel is really the one welcome her back with open arms (cough... legs). I've had a theory for quite some time that the reason Mary continues to be such a show staple year after year is that she’s giving Nigel some serious southern HJs during commercial breaks. It all makes sense, really. Every time the tamale train rings, someone at the table is climaxing. (If you’re never able to watch the show after this without involuntarily vomiting I apologize). Though knowing Nigel, he probably only exerts himself when Mary puts teeny tap shoes on her fingers and does Two for Tea on his peen (oops sorry… I swear I’m done).
If you haven’t gotten a chance to get acquainted with Season 8’s talent, I strongly suggest you do so. The contestants this year are SO good that they make Alex Wong look like William Hung. A word of advice, however: stay away from Jess Leprotto; this Broadway dancer is what Eugene Levy would be if he lost his sad excuse for a sense of humor and developed a case of dwarfism. My favorites this year are Ryan (that’s a chic), Clarice, Wadi, and Melanie. In truth, they’re all pretty spectacular (except Jess. Woof).
Tune in tonight to see who goes home (cough… Jess). Happy Dancing!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
I watched Jillian Harris’ season because she rocked.
I watched Jake Pavelka’s season to see if he shuddered with the touch of a woman.
I watched Ali Fedotowsky’s season because I was punishing myself for my failed attempts to convince ABC to choose anyone else.
I boycotted Brad Womack’s second season because if you’re going to give someone a “second chance at love,” why make it a douchemonger?
And now I watch Ashley Hebert’s season because… well… umm…
Why the frock AM I watching Ashley Hebert’s season?!
Truth of the matter is Minnie Mouse brings absolutely nothing to the table except a lousy sense of humor, the looks of a younger and less attractive Lorraine Baines McFly, and the self esteem of Carnie Wilson circa spring of ’99 (yes, I’m aware I’m not doing much to help that self esteem).
I will continue to be a loyal viewer of this train wreck, however, for one reason and one reason only: Chris Harrison. You know this guy hates his life. If he has to say “the most dramatic rose ceremony yet” one more effing time because another hormonal lunatic can’t hold it together he’s going to annihilate the cast and crew Tony Montana style. Remember the days when Chris would console the bachelors and bachelorettes after the earth-shattering breakups that shook Americans to the core? Yeah those days are effectively over. He more or less told Ashley she had the common sense of a carrot for falling for Bentley. No more roses—no more mercy. Stay tuned for the next episode where Chris pistol whips Ashley for crying over a broken nail.
Yet I must say, yesterday’s episode was a breath of fresh air without the man in the iron mask inciting terror into the hearts of America’s women. Every time that creeper popped on screen my clitoris climbed up into my esophagus like it was hiding from the Jones Beach killer. You know some bored-ass casting agent was thinking “if we start letting masked killers on the show, maybe this life-sucking program will finally close its curtain.” W.T.F. I was really expecting the FBI to jump on screen at that epic unveiling (oh and by FBI I mean Female Body Impairers and by epic I mean anticlimactic).
My goodness I just can’t wait to see who checks into the Thailand hotel next week!! Will Ashley’s stalker (ha) finally rear his ugly head (or unmasked face)?! Ah yes, this show never fails to unimpress me… Every. Single. Time.
Until then, I'll leave you with a message that will hopefully benefit our sad little mouse, Ashley. Hey Ash, keep Jessica's self affirmation and someday you'll stop falling for guys that hate you.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Ever since Monica decided to give Rachel the boot and engage in a pre-marital shack-up, I had always admired how blissfully natural the transition was for her and Chandler (and by admired I of course mean flexed my skepticism). Had anything really changed you ask? Well, Monica still spent majority of her down hours vacuuming while Chandler spent them complaining so… well… no. But wait! Were we as an engaged audience privy to their prime time viewing habits? No, no we were not. That said, I’d like to now paint you a picture of how that likely went:
Monica: “Food Network”
Chandler: “Cartoon Network”
Monica: “Grey’s Anatomy”
Chandler: “Cartoon network”
Chandler: “Cartoon network”
For those who don’t already know (but have probably guessed by now) manfriend and I have made the great leap and entered into a domestic partnership. Honestly speaking I would say that the move had nothing but wildly positive results… except one…
IF I WATCH SPEED CHANNEL FOR ONE MORE EFFING MINUTE I’M GOING TO BURN THE ENTIRE APARTMENT TO THE GROUND.
Phewwwwwwwwf… that felt nice to get off my chest. To all my faithful readers, my apologies for the lack of television commentary over the past few months (cough… year). I have little to annotate on other than the cruel monotony of a NASCAR race. My summer pledge to you, however, is to take back the ultimate right of the remote control and reclaim my throne as Sofalista, blogger of the lazy and television addicted. How am I going to do that, you ask? Simple… I am a woman aren’t I ;)
I’ve begun to lay the co-viewing foundation very subtly as not to lead manfriend on to my master plot. The key is to find a hook, spit out random facts of interest to the opposite party, and then convince him he’s enjoying a show for a completely falsified reason. For example:
“Beb, did you hear it was Lady GaGa night on Idol? I heard she eats Scotty McCreery’s ear off.”
“No way that’s nuts!”
“Yeah I think it’s on now, want to see?”
“Alight. Let me get a beer.”
Of course this process is slow at first, but before you know it he’ll be saying “hey… isn’t American Idol on tonight?” And that’s when you know you’ve won.
American Idol is the second of my two successes in the battle of the “clicker.” The first was the ground breaking win of “How I Met Your Mother.” I reeled him in with the “bro quotes” at the end of every episode. Soon enough he couldn’t wait to sit through an episode. Some losses? Yes, it pains me to say I’ve not been undefeated in this quest. I see little hope for a “Glee night” or “Gossip Girl night” in our future as a live-in couple. Though, I can only say that Glee brought it upon itself with that pathetic excuse for a season finale. Mercedes and Sam? Vom.
And so I venture on… a woman on a mission armed with TV listings and a dream. Next step: So You Think You Can Dance. Stay tuned.
Editor's Note: Upon posting the above Manfriend had retaliated with a "no TV game night" suggestion to foster "bonding." I have surely met my match...
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
January 23rd has just replaced New Years Eve as the feast day of all buzzkills.
Everyone knows what it's like to wake up on New Year’s Eve morning, spend the day primping and priming for what’s sure to be the best night of your life. You scenario yourself right before midnight happily buzzed and enchantingly flirting with that guy you didn’t have the balls to talk to sober. Welp, reality strikes and instead of getting your DFMO on with hottiepants as the clock strikes 12, you’re holding back your girlfriend’s pukey hair in the bathroom making a mental list of every hors d'oeuvres she b-lined for that night. Buzz. Kill. That’s how I felt on Sunday.
To answer the question that's probably circling your silly little brain, no... I'm not at all referring to the Jets loss to that far-better-and-stronger team. (Shocking realization insert here: No one cares about the Jets and green is an ugly color). I’m actually referring to the season premiere of Kourtney and Kim take New York on E! And no… I’m not being dramatic; it actually was that bad.
Similar to the vigor one would express on New Year’s Eve, I jumped in the car and floored it back to FSQ to make it there one hour before the premiere. This would give me the time to shower, adequately moisturize, throw on some PJs and stake a claim on the best part of the couch. “Mom! You’re gonna LOVE this show!” I told her. Ten minutes in to the show I cowered into a ball with my tail between my legs---I was wrong. The amount the show blew was no doubt comparable to amount of lines Scott Disick blows on a daily basis.
Why did it blow, you ask? The answer is simple: Kardashians – Khloe – Mason + Kim*1000 = a recipe for disaster. No wonder Kim hasn’t had her own spinoff until now; she has the personality of a damp bathing suit—uncomfortable, cold, and the cause of so many UTIs.
You know that Khloe is sitting in her giant house with her big chocolate man candy smiling her ass off that America finally sees she’s the real star of the show. And poor, Kourtney—my favorite! It’s clear that she wants to live with Kim in a NYC apartment just as much as she would like to have each one of her pubes tweezed (wait… I take it back… she’d love that).
What’s really missing here is the little Mason cake. That baby is so freaking cute he could have made Meet The Fockers enjoyable. Instead, we’ve been graced with Kanye West, who when introduced to a sales associate so gracefully replied “I think she knows who I am.” DOUCHEMONKEY!
If this show doesn’t get better fast, I’m approaching E! with the concept of “Mason takes Manhattan.” I’ll be his nanny and we’ll go to adorbs adventures like baby-likes-disco and feeding ducks in central park. A guaranteed hit for sure!
Saturday, January 8, 2011
I can always count on my girl Snooki to broaden the limits of my knowledge base. Even on the very first episode of the JS's 3rd season (the highest rated show ever accoding to the FB status of Michael "The Situation" Sorrentino. Don't judge me), Snooks taught me that looking like a hooker is awesome, you never grow out of stuffed animals, and most importantly, that squirrel monkeys are a ferocious band of beasts that should never be messed with no matter what their size might be.
This prompted me, as always, to learn more about this scrappy, Napoleon-esque creature. Please allow me to share:
Squirrel Monkey, from the Latin: Saimiri Gorilla Juiceheadeum, is native to the shore areas of central Jersey, seasonally thriving in the area known as Seaside (but if you were to ask Sammmi she'd just say "Ugh. (Pause. Eye Roll.) Jersaay").
The female squirrel monkey is the most interesting of the species. She requires an excess of Vitamin D to be accepted by the squirrel monkey community. She feeds upon cherry vodka, pickles, and whatever Gorilla juice-head sauseeege she can get her hands on. Otherwise mistaken for a "meatball," a female squirrel monkey cannot go two months without having sex or she will involuntarily show her cooch to the first male she sees.
The male squirrel monkey is also very sexual and is often forced to "stick it in one of the jetholes." Perferred mating ritual of the male squirrel monkey is to prepare with GTL (a practice similar to peacocking) and seek out non-grenades to intoxicate and bring back to the mating nest, otherwise known as the hottub. The male squirrel monkey's diet consists of burgers for the boys, protein shakes, and lady squirrel monkey.
The squirrel monkey, while often large, is not the most intellegent of primates. Shunned by most other species, the squirrel monkies band together to "beat the beat," a ritual believed to repel the more intellegent animalia.
Well... I hope this was as intellectually stimulating for you as it was for me. Until next time...