David Rees loses his cool during his final recap of Big Brother
. . .
Are you kidding me, America? If it’s really so important to you that I emigrate to Canada, just tell me they serve state-subsidized nachos and kale chips on every corner and I’ll be on the next barge north, I promise.
This is a public-service announcement to Jeff: I will meet you anywhere in America and physically fight you. I may not be muscular, but I’m from North Carolina — Tar Heels can scrap, son. I will step to your bullying, homophobic ass without batting an eyelash.
And I will use your soul patch to wipe my chin after I eat a soup made of your tears.
I end my hopeless reverie just in time to see Julie Chen turn to the camera with her robotic rictus grin and tell us the season is concluded, instructing us all to watch Rachel’s interview tomorrow afternoon on The Talk, another CBS show hosted by this talentless cyborg because she’s married to the president of CBS.
Boy! I’m acting like “Grumpy McGrumpster” right now. Let me endeavor to explain:
Friends, I was a political cartoonist for eight years starting shortly after 9/11. I covered the serial deceptions of a corrupt administration; the catastrophic results of ill-advised military invasions; and the manifold horrors of a world riven by disease, torture, genocide, and the murder of empathy by our body politic.
But I never considered myself a cynic … until I watched Big Brother.
And so I offer sour congratulations to the BB producers (and here I feel compelled to mention them by name: Allison Grodner; Rich Meehan; Curtis Colden; Jerry D’Alessandro; Chris Roach [perfect!]; Don Wollman; Michael O’Sullivan).
Why do I offer congratulations? Because these producers actually did what George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, and the odiously mustachioed Thomas Friedman couldn’t do: They made me despair for my country.
. . .