90210, aka Hell's Zipcode

Wifezilla made me watch 90210 last night. I asked if I could eat a bowl of ice cream with razor blades instead. She said no.

The new show is barely a shadow of its former self and the original wasn’t that great to begin with. It would help if most of the cast weren’t meth-abusing rejects from Disney channel auditions. I would also be appreciative if the show didn’t lecture its audience on the dangers of teen sex and pregnancy as its lead female characters pranced around in next to nothing. Don’t get me started about the parent Walshes. A more insipid duo you’ll be hard pressed to find in this season’s TV. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the display of perfect parenting, especially behind the backdrop of wealth and privilege. It doesn’t ring true and it makes my stomach turn.

Halfway through the show, I warned Wifezilla she was going to be watching the rest of the season by herself. She poo-pooed me which means I’ll very likely be tuning in again next week. My only hope is that someone at CW is forced to pull the plug, either from poor ratings (which they must surly be earning) or a grass-roots phone campaign blitzkrieg.

So far, the network hasn’t returned any of my phone calls.