Whenever you’re ready, Apocalypse
Daytime television captures some of our country’s, well, less presentable people. With the trailer trash of Jerry Springer and halfwits on the popular television judge shows, I don’t know why anyone would dare watch TV while the sun is out. It is much to my dismay to announce that these people have a new leader.
She represents everything that isn’t funny. She is dull, annoying, obnoxious, pitiful, fetid, loud and frightening. And she hosts her own show. Damn you, CBS. Why must you thrust this monster of misery into our homes? She has the camera savvy of a crippled mule and the charisma of an oven mitt. If she were a taste, she’d be vomit backwash; if she lived a few hundred years ago, she would have been excommunicated.
Ladies and gentlemen, she is the antithesis of humor. Her name? Caroline Rhea.
Oh, woe, oh dastardly chance that thrust her from dank comedy clubs, specializing in things that are boring, why hath you placed that woman on network television? She used to hold the pivotal bottom right square of “Hollywood Squares,” acknowledging that she is less funny than someone who goes by the name Whoopi. In those times, if by some drastic mistake that show ended up on my TV, I could likely flip away before I heard the sound of her squeaky voice, like brakes that hadn’t been changed since the Carter presidency. But now, oh heavens, now she hosts her own show.
Ever since I caught a glimpse of that charlatan doing stand-up comedy, which basically consisted of her bitching and moaning about how she can’t get a date, I have despised her. I winced when she became a Hollywood square. I cringed when she played a witch on ABC’s “Sabrina.” When I learned that she replaced Rosie, I actually longed for Rosie. The mathematical odds of said phenomena makes the lottery look like a safe bet.
Hey, Chris, aren’t you being somewhat harsh here?
No. For heaven’s sake, no. For science, I handcuffed myself to a chair, bound my legs to the floor, and had my sherpa place a device over my eyes to keep them open. It was A Clockwork Orange all over again. Yes, I watched the Caroline Rhea show; I looked Medusa in the eye; I faced the demons.
It was worse than I could have dreamed. Five minutes was all I could take. But those 300 seconds were enough, for sure.
“Sweet Caroline,” was a terrific song, one that never failed to get 90 percent of a bar singing along, Sweet Caroline … Bum bum bum … Good times never seemed so good. I can’t listen to that song anymore. Thanks, Rhea.
She said things like “in the house” and “über designer” and “omigod.”
Instead of bringing real celebrities on her show, the space between the – ahem – monologue and guest segment was filled with pictures of the she-devil with celebrities from the VH1 awards. She showed a picture of herself and John Travolta. She acted like a teenie bopper with one of those boy bands.
Is this comedy? Does anyone think this fawning is funny? I’ve met a few celebrities in my day. I saw Kevin Costner with his kid at a basketball camp. I asked him to stop making movies about athletes and other people.
If Caroline Rhea is funny, I don’t know what to do with myself. The lady wore oversized sunglasses for a gag … then left them on for five minutes.
Heck, maybe I’m just a raving lunatic. Maybe the two of us will end up on Springer. I hope so. Then I can tell her she sucks to her face.
