I sat down at my computer fully intending to purge my disdain—fuming repugnance—for a bird. You read that right: I hate that which is the innocent centerpiece of a famous lullaby.
Hush little baby dont say a word / Mamas gonna buy you a mockingbird / And if that mockingbird dont sing .
A mockingbird that doesnt sing. Pshaw. If that were possible, the vermin might be called the Extremely Quiet Darling Bird. But it does, and its not. The truth is that the sweet little thing once appropriately known as Turdus polyglottos is actually a turd of a bird. And not just because its the sucky state bird of a whole gaggle of sucky states: Arkansas, Florida, Mississippi, Tennessee and Texas all claim this winged nocturnal car alarm as their own. This by itself is damning evidence of the mockingbirds character. But to live with one is indisputable proof.
I was going to tell you today about my War on the Mockingbird; about how my daughters mantra has become Mama! Hurry! Get the hose!; about how I came to be standing in my pajamas on my front lawn the Sunday morning before the election pleading with City Councilmember Marti Emerald to Do! Something! I promised her my vote. She took my phone number and promised me follow-up.
But if you dont have a neighborhood infestation, youll have to take me at my word about how the Northern Mockingbird will ruin your life because, right now, we need to talk about another war, one that threatens the soul of San Diego. If we even have a soul, which I very much doubt.
The grave danger is U-T TV. Warning: Expletives ahead.
First of all: Fuckin A. Have you seen it? Second of all: And you thought Unconditional Surrender was our defining pockmark. Third of all: Oh no, dear reader. No-ho-ho! Papa Doug has out-pocked the Seward Johnson pock. Or cock, as the case may be, because, fourth of all: The self-masturbatory circle of jerks known as Scott, B.R. + Amber deserve a triple-X rating. They are so demeaning that your eyeballs will need a shower. They make eating off the floor at The Power Exchange seem like a preferable and reasonable choice. This glossy trifecta is bringing dumbed-down-edness to a whole new sublevel.
Really, people: What the motherfuck is this shit thats being passed off as newsy-ish-esque-lite? What is this misogynistic, lobotomized, imperious-white-person, bimbo-jock, corn-hole perverseness that is the U-T TV threesome? Its bad, is what it is.
Think back to Saturday Night Lives Butabi Brothers in their shoulder-padded shiny suits sandwiching and wildly dry humping a perplexed club chick, and thats pretty much this show.
On the one side, youve got the team captain of this online boyz club, Scott Kaplan. Oozing arrogance thinly disguised as self-importance, Kaplans looks might be considered good-ish by your average D-list star fucker, but theres a glint of something untrustworthy in his reptilian face. Is that Beavis in there, or Butthead? I cant tell. This Alpha Male is the Dumb of Dumb and Dumber, a legend in his own mind whos always quick with an inane remark. But he feigned depth and humility in one episode (yes, I watched several) when he mentioned the movie Restrepo by journalist Sebastian Junger. Note to Kaplan for future intellectual acrobatics: You dont pronounce the J.
Happy to play the bumbling doofus is the dude on the other side of our triplet, B.M. Er—wait. Excuse me. Thats an abbreviation for bowel movement. This guys name is B.R. or, short for Billy Ray. B.M, B.R.—either way, it says pretty much all we need to know about him. OK, no it doesnt. Let me go on: B.R. is the cross-eyed oaf, the duncy sidekick who grunts instead of speaking, and who laughs too loudly at inappropriate moments. He acts like he gets whats being said, but you can see on his face hes a couple of steps behind his peacocky friend. Hes the dude in high school who just wanted to get his rocks off but always ended up with blue balls because his buddy, the smart(er) one, got all the chicks. If he were a dog, B.R. would be curled up at Ambers feet, licking his own balls.
And speaking of, Amber is the meat in our little online U-T humping sandi. The quintessential Barbie doll, Ambers the ding-a-ling blonde in ridiculous off-the-shoulder shirts better saved for CityBeats defunct Shot on Scene. With a pink laptop (grrrls <3 pink, you know) and pouty pink lips, Ambers eyes are as dead as a porn star being rammed in the ass by an Eleven Stainless Steel Dildo. Busy breaking through the glass floor for women, she doesnt say much. But she flips her hair, giggles and offers the random Like, oh-my-gosh! if the segment has anything to do with tragedy. Mostly she stares off into space, her lips in a perfectly round blow-up doll o.
Not to sell her journalistic capabilities short, she did manage to single-handedly (literally; it was quite awkward) cut some pastrami for a dish prepared by Sam the Cooking Guy, who—as Ambers co-hosts were busy insulting her cooking abilities— rescued the damsel in distress.
Leave her alone, he said. Shes fine, and shes pretty. Et tu, Sam the Cooking Guy? Et tu?
With Scott, B.R. + Amber, Doug Manchester is showing us exactly what he thinks of us. Like my tree nemesis, he is out there, mocking all of us.