Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Two months ago, if someone asked me what I thought of Dr. Phil, I would give them the prepared statement I keep on hand for just an occasion. The abbreviated version covers your tendency to behave like a blustering vomit fountain of pop psychology, your achievement of looking exactly like a human-muppet hybrid and your hair. It is confounding how the droves of women who tune in every day to your show fail to question a man who sports a pornographic mustache, the ring-of-death male pattern baldness that plagues your head and the high probability that your million dollar shirts cover an ape-like hair suit beneath their buttons.
That was two months ago. Since that time, one of your drones-my Mom, came to stay in my house for six weeks. In my weakened state of pregnancy, which prevented me from getting off the couch and leaving the room, she perfectly executed a diabolical plan to indoctrinate me. In between brownie bites and vats of ice cream, I would scream at the television, "He's profiting from your pain, fools! How can he help you with your shoplifting addiction? The only addiction he knows is mock turtlenecks and teeth whitener!" But she wore me down, Phil. Like any good missionary, she ignored my yelps of disbelief and continued to expose me to your word against my will. Slowly, when the bratty teenager rolled her eyes and told her mom to go to hell, I began to cheer for you to slap her face with your wisdom. When the crackhead admitted his powerlessness against addiction, tears formed when you sent his ass to rehab. And the final insult, when the camera panned to your ever present wife, waves of nausea were replaced with the warmth of my cold heart. Now I have only have one question for you. Do you sell bumper stickers? I need one for my minivan.
So What? You're Famous.