Well did they acquit?!?

I would rather spend two hours sharing deviled eggs with Jack the Ripper than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at Prada for $2.00 chase twenty-five men with biceps made of aluminum and heads packed with Frosted mini-wheats.

Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than acid rain and millions of non-biodegradable vibrators, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was DORITOS and I Love NY.

[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]

And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing dried mango to the assembled hooligans at a roller derby is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John McCain and John Mayer and who is capable of putting on socks without scratching his head as if he is connecting a power strip without the instruction manual.

So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the Pizza hut in Montgomery. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural Skip-it and dancing on the grave of Ezra Pound, you will ever...recover...your dignity.

I must say, I don't get it.

I would rather spend two hours sharing asparagus wrapped in prosciutto with Hawley Harvey Crippen than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at Ross Dress for Less for a buck ninety-nine chase twenty-five men with biceps made of tin and heads packed with Lucky Charms.

Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than oil spills and millions of non-biodegradable iPhones, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Doritos and “The Biggest Loser.”

And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups to the assembled hooligans at the World Series is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John Quincy Adams and John Lennon and who is capable of putting on a tie without scratching his head as if he is connecting the cable box without the instruction manual.

So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the P.F. Chang’s in Fayetteville. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural Wii Fit and dancing on the grave of James Joyce, you will ever...recover...your dignity.

In retrospect, Designing Women seems like a forerunner to Sex and the City. 4 women, garish clothes, smutty humor, beloved of gay men...

I feel the same way about The Golden Girls, Joe Beese. Only the Girls are better looking and funnier.

No other Julia Sugarbaker rant will ever top this one.

I would rather spend two hours sharing caviar with Babyface Nelson than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at T.J. Maxx for fifteen dollars chase twenty-five men with biceps made of titanium and heads packed with Cookie Crisp.

Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than acid rain and millions of non-biodegradable Slap Chops, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Ding Dongs and “Who Wants to Marry My Dad.”

[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]

And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Sixlets to the assembled hooligans at the Kentucky Derby is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John Dillinger and John Davidson and who is capable of putting on assless chaps without scratching his head as if he is connecting a DTV converter box without the instruction manual.

So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the Shoney's in Tuscaloosa. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural Slinky and dancing on the grave of Dostoevsky, you will ever...recover...your dignity.

I would rather spend two hours sharing a Bloomin' Onion with Jim Jones than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at K Mart for $.05 chase twenty-five men with biceps made of zinc and heads packed with Kix.

Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than deforestation and millions of non-biodegradable remote controls, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Combos and The Biggest Loser.

[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]

And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Good and Plenties to the assembled hooligans at a boxing match is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John Paul Jones and John Ritter and who is capable of putting on a camisole without scratching his head as if he is connecting a turntable without the instruction manual.

So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the Chili's in Chattanooga. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural Barbie and dancing on the grave of Louisa May Alcott, you will ever...recover...your dignity.

I would rather spend two hours sharing pot stickers with John Wayne Gacey than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at K-Mart for $3.50 chase twenty-five men with biceps made of titanium and heads packed with lucky charms.

Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than asbestos and millions of non-biodegradable iPods, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Pringles and Keeping Up With The Kardishans.

[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]

And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Skittles to the assembled hooligans at a NASCAR is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John F Kennedy and John Madden and who is capable of putting on a suit without scratching his head as if he is connecting a surround sound system without the instruction manual.

So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the McDonalds in Shreveport. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural paintball gun and dancing on the grave of Hemmingway, you will ever...recover...your dignity.

I would rather spend two hours sharing deep fried cheese sticks with John Gotti than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at The Dollar Tree for 99 cents chase twenty-five men with biceps made of steel and heads packed with Froot Loops.

Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than a landfill and millions of non-biodegradable Kindles, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was popcorn and Jon & Kate Plus Eight.

[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]

And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing Cracker Jacks to the assembled hooligans at a baseball game is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John Phillip Sousa and John Travolta and who is capable of putting on pair of boots without scratching his head as if he is connecting a VCR without the instruction manual.

So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the TGI Fridays in Natchitoches. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural Etch-a-Sketch and dancing on the grave of William Faulkner, you will ever...recover...your dignity.

] I tried to go with a more Wesleyan twist [

I would rather spend two hours sharing goat tripe with Jeffrey Dahmer than watch a woman who apparently purchased her intellect at the Dollar Store for a two-for-one special chase twenty-five men with biceps made of bronze and heads packed with grits.

Because when future generations look upon what we have left for them, which may by then be little more than cockroaches and millions of non-biodegradable nanoprobes, I fear they will conclude that they would have welcomed bread and circuses if only they had realized the alternative was Rocky Mountain oysters and Fear Factor.

[sits down and crosses arms, but then immediately stands back up]

And let me tell you a little something about romance: Handing out roses like you are a mascot throwing CockSuckers to the assembled hooligans at a Gators-Gamecocks game is not my idea of romance. Romance is a man who knows the difference between John the Baptist and John Holmes and who is capable of putting on a hat without scratching his head as if he is connecting an espresso machine without the instruction manual.

So do not ask yourself why I do not particularly enjoy a television show where the assembled male candidates represent romantic prospects inferior to the workers on the night shift at the White Castle in Lubbock. Ask yourself whether, after a lifetime playing with a cultural broom that vibrates and dancing on the grave of Dorothy Parker, you will ever...recover...your dignity.

Yeah, I think the Southerners here can appreciate those choices.