I Need My Bree

I don't mean the cheese. I love Desperate Housewives. It's the best nighttime soap opera since Dynasty. On Sunday night I need me some Bree, Susan, Lynette, Gabrielle, and Edie. It's how I mark the end of the weekend. It's not on tonight. ABC is showing some movie with Michael Imperioli where he's a suicidal ex-ballplayer who is spending a day with his dying mother. What kind of crap is that?!? I don't understand the fascination with contrived, hokey tearjerkers. They don't tug at my heartstrings; they make me roll my eyes. There are a lot of genres I don't like but I understand why other people do. Country music is about the stories. Well, good country music is about the stories. Chick flicks are about real chicks identifying with the trials and tribulations of the fake chicks in the movie -- and the gratuitous nudity thrown in for the guys. That's why guys don't like Julia Roberts. She's ridiculously stingy. I also understand why people who don't like the stuff I do. Most of it's offensive and the rest of it is stupid. But who likes stories with premises so over the top that they can't possibly hope to live up to the hype? Who gets worked up about the dyslexic orphan girl trapped in a boy's body finding out she has leukemia as she's being sent to Auschwitz? Can anyone really muster any sympathy for her? A suicidal ex-ballplayer who is spending a day with his dying mother sounds like a Tina Fey joke on 30 Rock. Just pay the fracking writers their money. It's all fun and games until I'm bored.