Free In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy by Adam Carolla Page A

sitting across from an ass named Scott.

THAT’S
ENTERTAINMENT?
    I’ve had the good fortune to work in a variety of jobs in Hollywood—radio, television, film, the Internet, gay pornography—you name it. And I’ve always been a fan. So I feel well qualified to tear the mass media a new asshole.

TV AND OTHER MISCELLANY
    I love television. I wasn’t raised on television, I was raised by television. I watched nine hours a day back when there was nothing on. Imagine how much I watch now. As a matter of fact, it kills me to write this book because I’m not watching TV right now. If only someone could make a TV show about me writing a book, that would be awesome.
    Network television followed about the same arc American car companies took from the early seventies till now. Back in the seventies when there was no competition like cable, satellite, et cetera, you got such gems as The Brady Bunch, Hawaii Five-O, Dukes of Hazzard —the list goes on and on. Now, I know a lot of you wax nostalgic about those shows, but it’s not because they were good. They were pieces of steaming shit. The reason you like them is because these shows were all on when you still had hair and weren’t in a loveless marriage. But make no mistake, The Brady Bunch sucked. What’s this have to do with cars? Well, before cable hit our televisions and Toyota hit our shores, we had Hart to Hart and the AMC Matador. Two American piles of shit. Now we have Lost and the Z06 Corvette. See what you can do when you’re pushed by competition?
    THE BIGGEST LOSER
    I’ve never seen The Biggest Loser , but I have seen the commercials because they play the shit out of them around seven P.M . when I am trying to eat. A cavalcade of morbidly obese dudes with D cups, stretch marks, and manhole-sized areolae are herded in front of me and my spaghetti and meatballs. When did it become okay to show man boobs on prime time? I could make a pretty fucking compelling argument as to why it was more offensive and emotionally scarring for my kids than seeing chick boobs. Couldn’t they throw a wife beater on these fat motherfuckers? The guy already has to go to the zoo to be weighed. Do you think five ounces of cotton would make a goddamn difference? I don’t care whether you have a penis or a vagina, either you need a sports bra or you don’t. Of course the chicks wear a top—they’re covering up the one positive side effect of obesity, which is big jugs. So let’s quickly review the retarded society we’ve crafted. If I turn on Survivor and a hot female model is scrambling up a cargo net and a half inch of her ass crack can be seen over her bikini line, it needs to be pixelated by the network. But the lactating male long-haul trucker on The Biggest Loser , whose jugs are bigger than anything Russ Meyer’s ever beat off to, is perfectly fine, according to Standards and Practices? Does anyone else want to kill themselves? I’ll tell you who the biggest loser is: my junk!
    M*A*S*H HAIR
    I was watching a rerun of M*A*S*H the other day, a show I’ve seen two thousand times. As I was marveling at Alan Alda’s huge, dry mop of seventies hair and B.J. Hunnicut’s pube-fro and walrus mustache, it dawned on me: This show was supposed to be about the Korean War. The Korean War took place from 1950 to 1953. Not only did no one in the military have that hair, no one in society had that hair. Trapper John was rocking a full-blown Jew-fro in what was supposed to be 1950. Back then no guy left the house without a handful of pomade. And the only guys with mustaches in the fifties were either carnival barkers or Latin band leaders, and theirs were dripping with wax. At least on Happy Days they attempted to look like their hair was living in the same decade, until somewhere around season three when Ralph Malph said, “Fuck it, I’m getting a blow dryer,” and that’s when everyone’s hair jumped the shark. I blame Elvis for this. He made 425 movies in nine months, which meant