September 27th, 2009 by Hoopleton

The primetime soap Grey’s Anatomy is much like a two-dollar wine cooler. It’s pink, bright and in single doses leaves you completely empty and unsatisfied. Overconsumption will invariably lead to nausea, vomiting, an inability to operate machinery or motor vehicles and in the long-term force you, the viewer, to finally realize what a cheap, easy whore you really are.

But wait, you say, why so negative man? Just because something’s popular doesn’t mean it’s bad.

Well, first of all, that’s not true. If something popular isn’t bad right out of the monkey factory it invariably becomes bad as a direct result of its popularity. Remember how good Weeds was before people started watching it? Dexter? Remember how bad everything on the CW always was and always will be? And look at the flip side. Notice how consistently awesome Mad Men is despite the fact that four of us ever tune in? How The Wire never lost its edge? Popularity is like snake venom, it spreads slowly but without antivenin can cause paralysis and increasingly bad writing, eventually death.

Second, the popularity adage was most certainly coined by a television executive at some forth-rate network (say ABC), who was hoping to preemptively defend himself against the inevitable charge of crimes against humanity that will be brought against all television executives in the not-too-distant future for their culpability in the destruction of human culture.

At this “trial of the millennium,” as I’m sure it will come to be known by a traumatized and fearful global population, prosecutors will play hours upon hours of sitcom footage, reality TV shows, and of course, reruns of Grey’s Anatomy.

“There were worst things on television,” the chief prosecutor will say, his eyes heavy, his brow twisted into knots, “but few other programs did as much harm.”

Now that the show is in its sixth season I often wonder what it was like all those years ago when Grey’s Anatomy was being conceived.

So okay, we have a group of superficial, mean-spirited, emotionally stunted, self-absorbed assholes and all they do is fuck each other’s brains out in a hospital. Can some of them be lesbians?

And… scene!

It’s one of those shows that’s very hard to critique in any rational way as even after watching every season it seems like the episodes just blend into eachother until eventually everything becomes consumed by the gallons of oil pouring out of Patrick Dempsey’s hair. And so instead of forming constructive thoughts you find yourself sobbing in a corner wondering if Izzie will ever win her battle with cancer, if Cristina will finally let someone into her heart or whether Elizabeth will just settle down already. You find meaning in the show’s pop-philosophy/Oprah brand self-help “this is what life is all about” narration. And life changes. People become more beautiful and you feel less obligated to care for anyone other than yourself. It’s nice to live in a universe where women stop maturing past their teens and all men are just boys with a fetish for lip fuzz. Fuck any sense of mutual morality, I’m a heartless douchebag with great hair.

Hey look! That woman they gave that face transplant to is hot now too! Better go buy some of the music I heard on the show and go to the park where I can snicker at the ugly people, cause God knows if someone doesn’t fit into a McDreamy/McSteamy classification system they just aren’t worth my time!

God, like I totally agree! Do you have forth period lunch? We can go give one another handjobs in the parking lot.

Wait, where was I?

Why am I in a lab coat and why are my pants gone?