Echolacation and the Train to Pump Town

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!

The Bacheloridiot

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.

Living with a Boy and the Effects on TV Viewing

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”

Monica: “Die”

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...