September 04, 2007

Totally Infra Dig

About fifteen minutes into watching John Tucker Must Die on the Home Box Office channel, an obvious thought occurred to “Chip”: What in God’s name are you doing? “Chip”—a senior editor here at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—was viewing a movie aimed at retarded tween girls, after all. How much lower can one sink?

We mean, come on. For those of you blissfully unaware of this John Tucker picture, allow us to inform you that it is even beneath the dignity of the average 20-year-old girl. Its lame high school high jinks would make a subscriber to Teen Vogue call for the sick bag. The writers of “Saved by the Bell” are veritable Prousts by comparison.

But here was “Chip,” Bachman Pretzel Rods snug in his hand, vapidly taking in a film too stupid to be labeled a “chick flick.” You couldn’t even call John Tucker Must Die a movie for women without (justly) engendering the wrath of feminists.

We know what you’re thinking, dear reader: How has “Chip” sunk so low? What makes him waste his precious time on God’s rapidly warming earth on this arrant piffle? What compels him to use words like “arrant piffle”?

Good questions, those. And if we had the answers, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” are pretty sure we’d be millionaires. If you ask us, most Americans oft find themselves magically stuck in some sort of malignant entertainment rut. Call it the postmodern bane of the bourgeoisie.

Now, this doesn’t serve to excuse “Chip” for his obviously appalling viewing habits. Even an afternoon of Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel seems highbrow in comparison with the sordid palaver he occasionally views.

Still, one wonders how “Chip”—or any other people, for that matter—finds himself in such a predicament in the first place. Poor use of leisure time is kind of like heroin and hookers: One moment—as if by magic—you suddenly come to the realization that you’re doing something awful, but you have no idea how it happened. You just regain consciousness and recognize—as if for the first time—that Bob Saget is staring you in the face.

How the heck did that happen? We don’t even like “Full House”—not even in a Susan Sontag “it’s so bad it’s good” way. Except, of course, for one of the actor’s impressive mullets. Man, that relief pitcher hair’s a real gas.

Well, we suppose it’s not so terrible. After all, it may resemble horrible addictions in some respects, but coming to the realization that you’re completely wasting your time by watching “Celebrity Fit Club” still isn’t as horrible as PCP. It’s close, of course, but it’s still not that bad.

Posted at September 4, 2007 12:01 AM | TrackBack