I Like to Watch

How can the arrogant prick in charge possibly lay claim to a passable mind when he'd shortchange us on one of the most glowing examples of memorable, original, strange, unpredictable, invigorating amusements currently available? A man must put bread on his table, I well understand, but the current course defies fucking logic. Ratings are ratings, the color is any true entrepreneur's only concern, but cutting this story short when it's so clearly destined to bring great acclaim and good fortune to HBO henceforth is goddamn absurd. Milch had a story to tell in four fucking seasons, a healthy herd of cocksuckers nationwide are now addicted to said story like the dope fiend is to his concoctions, accolades untold await said tale as it continues to ripen and mature over time like a fine peach, but those short-sighted mules at HBO would still stop Milch short of his full fucking allotment? The imagination balks. Meanwhile, David Chase makes the most untenable request, be it three episodes this week, five next year, and 10 three years from now, and HBO gives it up like a whore half-drunk on bathtub gin.

Our moment permits interest in one question only: Will we, HBO's until-now-loyal audiences, be more than targets for ass-fucking? Like many fine outspoken sorts before me, I'm raising the general fucking question, that's all. Let us not forget that subscribing to HBO is not an inexpensive fucking endeavor, and we hold the purse strings. Personally speaking, I can't with sound mind walk away from HBO's offerings, lest I fail in my duties to my fine readers and in so doing, lose my source of gainful employment. As much as he's her misery, the pimp's a whore's familiar, so even as the fist is raised, he draws her to him.

That said, and while I'm not normally a partisan in territorial rivalries, I'm no bought-out cocksucker either, one who'll lift her skirt to remain in the good graces of a reckless capitalist as forward-looking as a dog next to a plate of unattended gizzards. Thus I'd be remiss if I didn't strongly encourage the rest of you to cancel HBO as soon as the fine third season of "Deadwood" has concluded, so that those big-city fucks might feel their position weakening. And as for those of you who haven't seen a single fucking segment of said televised spectacle, or you saw an episode a ways back but found it tough to mount that ornery mare mid-stream, I want to strongly encourage you to rent the first season DVD, and then the second. Cast aside any hasty assessments you may have made in the past, and mark my words: This show is not to be fucking missed.

Once you, too, join the strike against those ghoulish hounds of industry, I promise to alert you to anything of quality that might air, whilst saving you some hard-earned cash that you'd only waste on skin-deep trifles like "Entourage." Certainly "The Wire" and the last eight episodes of "The Sopranos" can't be forsaken, but until those noteworthy amusements once again see the light of day, let's strike a blow to the belly of the beast. To make our voices heard by the bean counters, it's clear we'll have to do more than grab ankle. Those that doubt me suck cock by choice!

Unsavory blond layabouts and the like
More on "Deadwood" in a minute, but I must cast aside my burgeoning rage for the moment, lest I get so thoroughly consumed by my anger that I wander the thoroughfare gibbering like a simian.

Truth be told, there are plenty of brand new summertime entertainments to peruse, and while I clearly can't speak to half of them in this sitting, I'll do my damnedest to address just a few.

The most foul and inexcusable of the lot is "The Hills" (MTV, check listings) populated as it is by the whoring sea donkeys of "Laguna Beach" fame. Whatever limited charms "Laguna Beach" may have held for those easily distracted by the wiles and worries of winsome whippersnappers up to their collarbones in gold, the sorts with soft hands and weak minds who've never worked a day in their lives and likely never will, suffice it to say that "The Hills" has none of those charms whatsoever.

We join up with Lauren, flavorless young lady of "Laguna Beach" fame, just as she's arriving in the big city, Los Angeles, and pulling up to her brand-new many-storied fortress in her horseless, roofless vehicle filled to the gills with an absurd glut of earthly possessions. Before we've time to blink in the strong Southern California sunlight, here comes her charmless sea donkey associate, Heidi, who immediately clues us in to the fact that she's got the wit and graces of a tin of stale biscuits.

As the two lily-livered, tender-pawed society girls gasp and guffaw over their posh, elaborately appointed dwelling, we wonder how on God's green earth they might afford such a residence, fresh from secondary school and without gainful employment in the works. Lest we sense the whole thing is just an elaborate exercise in fantasy, a fiction concocted by the capitalists at the dominant musical television concern, we next witness the two young fillies scurrying off to a school of higher education focused on "fashion and merchandising," the sort of place where the classics are abandoned for more pragmatic approaches to mercantilism and trade.

Next page: Another flimsy wench sucks cock by choice, whilst Tommy of "Rescue Me" turns to violence