It’s Always Sinny in Fornidelphia
As everyone knows, men’s bodies are for getting around, like a Jeep, and only a sick person lusts for a Jeep.
Ever since women got the vote, their choices in all areas of life have been subpar. From chopping off their hair and growing balls as managing director of big law firms, to intentionally having children out of wedlock on CBS, women seem intent on ruining society. Nowhere is this more evident, and alarming, than their sudden interest in male-oriented programming.
I’m not talking about fanatical devotion to football, which like the Taco Bell bacon club chalupa is simply a way to draw a man’s interest. Like gays getting married, the coopting of men’s entertainment choices by women ruins it for everyone.
Case in point is women’s love of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, a lowbrow plagiarized Seinfeld. It features constant inebriation, hateful fornication, bum fights, the s-word and flesh-eating. And yes, for a while I enjoyed this freak show of three guys, one gal and a troll competing for the title of Worst Human Ever. The snappy banter, the zany schemes, the honest portrayal of Philadelphia as Sodom - if you were denied crush videos before the Supreme Court overturned that law, you could get your fix with "Sunny." Mrs. Imperialist in particular enjoys this show, which gives my relationship with Jeremiah a complex character, like fair-trade coffee beans grown on Zimbabwean land seized from whites.
There’s a reason women typically raise children: Men are pigs, and our methods of dealing with progeny range from spanking to one-upsmanship. Women have to set the example, showing that using words solves most problems short of a nuclear-armed DPRK. They also have to officially disapprove of men’s influence on their children. Hence my mother’s ban on me watching The Simpsons, long before it was considered a defender of traditional values, and my father’s overruling her.
Cultural confusion reigns when women ape their apes. They need to stick with programming that edifies their gender and ensures complementarity with men.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for Gossip Girl!
Programming for the Lasses
Women's choices in entertainment are limited, in a large part, by what men provide them. Women make great CEOs; unfortunately, so do men, and men are physically stronger. This is socio-anthropological evolution at its finest. If (more) women had the musculature to move into the top strata of entertainment programming, you might see a lot more maternal entertainment and a lot less of the cheap, tawdry stuff that passes for television (and for better or worse, pleases men).
But they're not, so we're given It's Always Sunny instead of It's A Baby!
We graduated from the modem and safe network hokum to broadband cable and Fios-speed tv delivery, bringing the bawd at superbaud rates. We saturated the airwaves with Adam Carolla and Jimmy Kimmell (The Man Show is man's programming at its most venal and representative), "Sunny", and even the smart but still male-oriented Arrested Development, whose top writers are all men and whose running gag of Tobias' sexually explicit ("You want me to be explicit?") verbal faux pas harnessed the easy laugh that men seem to understand most readily.
Quite on par with expectations based upon the supply, women have little choice but to glom onto whatever programming the men around them prefer. That they obtain enjoyment from this is beside the point; we're all human, and everyone, even the dainty and modest, enjoy the occasional fart joke, double and triple entendre, or just plain stupid plot line leaving its characters in various states of undress and/or inebriation.
But women, even watching the dirty shows men enjoy, still manage to retain some semblance of femininity. While Mrs. Imperialist is a fan of "Sunny" she also enjoys Jane Austen on the BBC and holding tea parties for her female friends; I haven't graduated past Jack Bauer or the banana stand. And sure, "Sunny" is as dirty as they come. I don't defend it, though I'll defend to the death my wife's right to watch it, enjoy it, and repeat some of its less offensive jokes.
But I also find my wife's enjoyment of shows a natural adjunct to our non-television life. We enjoy overlap in most areas of our lives--why should we have differing tastes in scat-o-vision?
Women simply don't have much choice; sure, they've got American Idol ("it's like 'die already!'") and The Mentalist which offer something beside eye-candy, though Cowell's hateful bon mots and Simon Baker's passive dreaminess are the only thing I would consider appealing, if I were a woman). But comparatively, neither The View nor Ghost Whisperer offer the witted rapier talents of Jon Stewart or Dexter Morgan, much less the scatalogical Family Guy--again, whose creators and top demographic are men.
Women simply don't have enough representative programming. So they're stuck with ours.
But there's hope yet. We've got some powerful women starting to run more than online auction companies and computer manufacturers. And despite the dearth of more elevating female programming, I'm not alarmed at the fate of women who watch more Nip/Tuck than Dancing With the Stars or the culture which they presage, any more than I fear nature might be running amok when a photo of a bloody polar bear gives pause to the cuddly myth we've grown up with as children.
We can't put women into the box of predispositions just because it's beneficial to the prevailing gender paradigm. We can, however, enjoy cuddling while watching the worst of television's worst, secretly delighting in the fact that we both are likely to laugh at the same jokes.