It’s hopeless. Yet, I continue on. I’m continually rebuffed and rejected. Yet I plug away night after night. I am in search of a TV show that does not involve eating live leeches.
In my quest for quality TV, preferably something involving a cute vampire, I stumbled upon Desperate Housewives.
Desperate Housewives follows the lives of four housewives — a Martha Stewart type, a harried mother of four, a hard up divorcee, and a spicy Latina with a thing for the gardener. Oh, the stereotypes, you say? Lighten up! You should see how the men are protrayed — thoughtless, thankless, and shallow. I love it.
First impressions? There is absolutely nothing of any redeeming social or artistic value in this show. The acting sucks. The plots don’t make sense. The characters are two dimensional. But then keep watching. It is so bad that it is surreal. It’s a Gabriel Garcia Marques novel.
The suburban neighborhood is a parody of suburbia. Large homes with lawns and driveways. But the houses are too close, and the homes too large. Nobody seems to have a job, and everyone walks around in pumps and shorts. Every house has hot and cold running botox.
Strange things happen here. The hard-up divorcee lights her slutty neighbor’s house on fire by tossing a bra onto a candle. The place burns to the ground instantly leaving only the divorcee’s measuring cup. Damning evidence that will certainly come back to harm her. But the divorcee doesn’t seem that concerned about doing five to ten for arson. Nor does the slut seem particularly put out by the fact that a life time supply of hot pants have been torched. They are both competing to seduce the one single man on the cul-de-sac, and don’t you know, he has a few deep, dark secrets of his own.
What will happen next? Will someone fall asleep for forty years? Will it rain frogs? I’m hooked.