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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.

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