No-prah
My wife has decided that, because it is the show’s final season, now would be a good time to start watching The Oprah Winfrey Show. In fact, she’s watching it right now. As I type this, I’m listing to Jenny McCarthy’s vapid yammering. Holy hell, this is awful. I can feel my brain dying as I listen to this – I’m like Cliff Robertson in the second half of Charly (or Lisa Simpson in Lisa The Simpson, if you’ve never seen the movie or read Flowers For Algernon). At least if I was in the studio audience, there would be the slim chance of getting a car or a trip. Instead, I’m just getting a headache watching the author of How Stella Got Her Groove Back and fat Sam Cassell in a Jaclyn Smith wig badger a younger, gayer version of Sinbad.
Maybe I can talk her into restoring last weeks episode of Outsourced and watching that again, instead.
