June 20 2012 10:40 AM

I get the feeling that we are the butt of a joke

Aaryn Belfer

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 don't say a word / Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird / And if that mockingbird don't sing…."

A mockingbird that doesn't sing. Pshaw. If that were possible, the vermin might be called the Extremely Quiet Darling Bird. But it does, and it's 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 it's 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 mockingbird's 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 daughter's 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 don't have a neighborhood infestation, you'll 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 that's 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? It's bad, is what it is.

Think back to Saturday Night Live's Butabi Brothers in their shoulder-padded shiny suits sandwiching and wildly dry humping a perplexed club chick, and that's pretty much this show.

On the one side, you've got the team captain of this online boyz club, Scott Kaplan. Oozing arrogance thinly disguised as self-importance, Kaplan's looks might be considered good-ish by your average D-list star fucker, but there's a glint of something untrustworthy in his reptilian face. Is that Beavis in there, or Butthead? I can't tell. This Alpha Male is the Dumb of Dumb and Dumber, a legend in his own mind who's 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 don't 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. That's an abbreviation for bowel movement. This guy's 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 doesn't. 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 what's being said, but you can see on his face he's a couple of steps behind his peacocky friend. He's 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 Amber's feet, licking his own balls.

And speaking of, Amber is the meat in our little online U-T humping sandi. The quintessential Barbie doll, Amber's the ding-a-ling blonde in ridiculous off-the-shoulder shirts better saved for CityBeat's defunct "Shot on Scene." With a pink laptop (grrrls <3 pink, you know) and pouty pink lips, amber's eyes are as dead a porn star being rammed in the ass by an Eleven Stainless Steel Dildo. Busy breaking through the glass floor for women, she doesn't 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 Amber's co-hosts were busy insulting her cooking abilities— rescued the damsel in distress.

"Leave her alone," he said. "She's fine, and she's 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.

Email Aaryn Belfer. Aaryn blogs at aarynbelfer.com and you can follow her on Twitter @aarynb.


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