A sarcastic look at reality TV, endless reboots, and how modern television forgot how to make us laugh.
We live in the golden age of television. Modern TV delivers hundreds of channels, dozens of streaming services, and enough programming to occupy a person from birth until the end of universe. Yet somehow, I can spend 30 minutes scrolling through menus before announcing there’s absolutely nothing worth watching.
Humanity has placed a television studio in virtually every pocket, developed algorithms capable of predicting our behavior, and made entertainment available anywhere on Earth. Yet apparently, nobody can figure out how to make a decent half-hour sitcom. I’m not asking for Shakespeare. Sometimes I just want a goofy character, a ridiculous misunderstanding, and a punchline that makes me laugh hard enough to snort whatever I’m drinking. Preferably without requiring me to apologize to the furniture.
Reality Television: Making Stupidity a Renewable Resource
Somewhere in Hollywood, an executive discovered that hiring professional actors and competent writers costs money. Why bother when you can put twelve people with questionable judgment in a house and encourage them to behave like unsupervised toddlers? And thus, reality television conquered civilization.
We have strangers marrying strangers, wealthy people arguing with other wealthy people, and contestants competing for romantic relationships with individuals they probably wouldn’t speak to at a bus stop. Every episode features someone crying in a bathroom, a dramatic confrontation, and at least one person declaring, “I’m just being real.” No, you’re being obnoxious. There’s a difference.
And why are we supposed to enjoy watching people humiliate themselves or each other? Prank shows are particularly baffling. Frightening an unsuspecting person, ruining their afternoon, and shouting “It’s just a prank!” doesn’t suddenly make the behavior clever. It makes you the reason warning labels exist.
I prefer comedy where everyone gets to laugh together. Nobody needs to cry, call an attorney, or issue a public apology afterward. A little silliness, a terrible impression, or the ridiculous convergence circumstances can accomplish the same thing without requiring a psychological evaluation.
Cooking Competitions: Because Apparently Your Taste Buds Are Wrong
I enjoy food. I eat it several times a day, sometimes when I’m not even hungry. I consider myself reasonably qualified on the subject. What I don’t understand is why watching someone else prepare food I cannot taste is entertainment.
And apparently, cooking and baking must now be competitive sports. Three celebrity chefs solemnly declare that one person’s chocolate soufflé is superior because it possesses a more sophisticated flavor profile. According to whom? Perhaps I don’t like truffles. Perhaps lavender belongs in soap rather than dessert. Perhaps I prefer my steak without a decorative smear of something resembling finger paint. Taste is subjective, regardless of how expensive the judge’s culinary education was.
Then there’s presentation. A contestant spends four hours preparing dinner, only to be criticized because the garnish fails to communicate a coherent artistic vision. It’s a pork chop, not a Renaissance fresco.
The baking competitions are worse. Someone constructs a six-foot Eiffel Tower out of cake, fondant, and what appears to be industrial scaffolding. The judges inspect it like a structural engineering project before announcing that the sponge is slightly dry. Perhaps that’s because the contestant spent eleven hours building a suspension bridge out of frosting.
And the same absurdity extends to dancing and runway competitions. Technical skills can be evaluated, certainly, but whether a performance is moving or an outfit is beautiful remains personal preference. Yet a handful of industry insiders pronounce their opinions as though they’ve discovered universal truth. Meanwhile, I’m sitting at home thinking the dress resembles a shower curtain and the dancer appears to be having a medical emergency. But what do I know? I haven’t been professionally trained to appreciate interpretive anguish.
HGTV: Home Improvement for Millionaires
Remember when HGTV actually taught home improvement? You could learn to replace a faucet, repair drywall, install a backsplash, or renovate a bathroom without taking out a second mortgage. You might even finish the episode knowing something useful.
Now we watch a freelance butterfly photographer and a part-time wellness consultant shopping for a $1.7 million home. They need five bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, mountain views, and enough outdoor entertaining space to host the G7 summit. Naturally, they reject the first house because the guest bathroom has brass fixtures. Apparently, replacing a faucet is an insurmountable obstacle when you’re spending seven figures.
Then come the renovations. A perfectly functional house is purchased, and within twelve minutes, someone is swinging a sledgehammer through the kitchen. Why? Because the house has walls. Every home must now be “open concept,” resembling an airport terminal where the entire family can enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells of whatever is burning in the kitchen.
And can we please stop calling it an open concept? A concept is an idea. Once you’ve knocked down the walls and built the damn thing, it’s an open floor plan. You don’t live in a concept. You live in a house. Although, judging by some of these renovations, the concept may have been better left on paper.
Naturally, the contractor discovers a dramatic problem behind a wall. Plumbing! Electrical wiring! Structural supports! In a house! Who could possibly have anticipated this? Fortunately, the problem is resolved by adding another $85,000 to the budget.
I miss the days when home improvement meant learning how to save $200 replacing a toilet, rather than watching someone spend $200,000 relocating one. At this rate, the next HGTV series will feature a couple spending $3 million renovating a garden shed because the lawnmower deserves an open floor plan.
Whatever Happened to Just Being Funny?
Remember sitcoms? How I Met Your Mother gave us friends navigating relationships and the general stupidity of adulthood. Two and a Half Men gave us Charlie Harper, a man whose entire existence demonstrated why good judgment matters. Neither required us to reconsider our worldview. They just made us laugh.
We had Cheers, Frasier, and The King of Queens. Ordinary people making ridiculous decisions, misunderstanding each other, and occasionally learning absolutely nothing. It was glorious.
Consider how little was required. Cheers needed a bar. Seinfeld needed an apartment and a diner. Frasier needed two brothers capable of turning a cup of coffee into an international incident. Today, Hollywood apparently needs $200 million, seventeen executive producers, a cinematic universe, and a traumatic origin story to accomplish the same thing.
And when executives can’t think of something original, they reboot something we loved 25 years ago. Except now everyone is miserable, emotionally damaged, and required to deliver important speeches about contemporary society.
Imagine a modern Gilligan’s Island. Gilligan spends six episodes processing childhood trauma, the Skipper confronts his authoritarian leadership style, and the Professor delivers a passionate monologue about climate change. Meanwhile, the Minnow is still sitting on the beach because nobody bothered to fix the damn boat.
I’m not opposed to thoughtful television. MASH* and All in the Family addressed serious subjects brilliantly. But they understood that entertainment and meaningful storytelling could coexist without every episode resembling mandatory workplace training.
Sometimes I just want to laugh at something gloriously stupid. A ridiculous voice, a terrible song about a sandwich, or a grown man attempting to convince his family that the dog has been secretly running the household finances. Nobody’s being humiliated, nobody’s delivering a message, and everyone gets to laugh together. Except perhaps the dog, who has apparently been embezzling the biscuit budget.
Congratulations, You’ve Reinvented Cable
Remember when streaming was supposed to save us from expensive cable bundles and commercials? Now we subscribe to multiple services, each with its own password, pricing tiers, and mysterious collection of programming. And the commercials are back. At least cable had the decency to put everything on one bill.
Finding an old sitcom now requires an archaeological expedition through six applications, only to discover it moved to another service last Tuesday. And when I finally locate it, the television demands that I verify I’m a member of my own household.
I’m sitting in my living room, holding a remote control, surrounded by furniture I purchased, being interrogated by a television about whether I belong here. I half expect it to demand two forms of identification, a utility bill, and a notarized statement from the dog. The dog refuses to cooperate. He’s watching squirrels and considers the entire process beneath him. Frankly, I’m starting to agree with the dog.
Just Make Me Laugh
Perhaps I’m getting older. I prefer to think I’m becoming increasingly selective about how much nonsense I’m willing to tolerate. I don’t need strangers screaming at each other, another million-dollar kitchen renovation, or a beloved childhood character reimagined as a miserable shell of their former self. And I certainly don’t need every television program joining the endless cultural argument.
Give me clever sitcoms, ridiculous misunderstandings, terrible impressions, and silly songs. Give me a detective who solves crimes, a spaceship that explores the galaxy, or a game show where somebody wins a refrigerator and everyone applauds. Give me characters who are funny because they’re human, not because they’re delivering a carefully constructed message.
The world is already serious, divided, angry, and exhausting. I don’t need my television joining the argument. Sometimes I just want to sit on the couch, turn off my brain for half an hour, and laugh.
Instead, I spend 30 minutes searching for something to watch, give up, and go to bed.
At least the pillow doesn’t require a subscription.