Anyone else find it strange that Lisa Rinna strategically placed a tiny picture of her two daughters in her bosom? I get the good luck, superstitious ideology, but wasn’t she concerned that the friction might cause a rupture in one those metallic orbs, she refers to as her other “girls”?

Now that I’ve committed myself to watching this show each week, devoted three hours of my life (three hours that are spread over the course of two nights, mind you, and on two major club-hopping potential Night at the Roxbury scenarios at that), I find myself easily distracted, looking for idle excuses to channel surf. Last night, for instance, there I was watching a film I despised the first time I saw it, Kissing Jessica Stein. It’s so formulaic and entrenched in stereotypes. And yet there I was averting my eyes from Gisele Fernandez’ impossibly sculpted and well exposed body.

“How does that woman maintain such a stellar buff bod,” I kept asking myself. Well, on some greater conscious level I must have not cared enough to resolve my mind’s internal debate. After all, on the Oxygen channel there was a neurotic, self-involved New Yorker obsessing over nothing. And capable of putting all my Jewish neuroses to shame. Can you fault me though? Ever since, Friends and Seinfeld my soul has been craving my Thursday fix of “oy gestalt” humor. Lucky for me, Dancing with the Stars packs some entertainment value.

Why can’t black men ballroom dance? We learned from Woody Harrelson and Rosie Perez that White Men Can (in fact) Jump and shoot hoops, so why, can’t Master P do either? He’s misrepresenting his hood. And Jerry “Geriatric” Rice (thanks Bruno) might need to think of retirement from anything requiring mobility, football or otherwise. The man can barely move. I only pity his partner, Anna. Then again, I feel worse for Ashly, P’s feisty and talented companion. That girl is sure to be eliminated this week. And I’ll miss her.

Getting back to hoods, anyone tired of listening to George Hamilton trying to talk all “ghetto”? If he refers to Beverly Hills as “the hood’ one more time, I’m going to have to call his agent and have George spend a day on my street. At least then he will no longer have to solicit votes for himself at Sunrise Assisted Living Facility. In my hood, they assist you in prematurely meeting your Maker, or assisted suicide, as some of those PC legislators like to call it. George is anything but PC, however, which makes him all the more endearing.

Article Author: Beth Gottfried

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