Here I sit, hunched over my pad of yellow stickies and pile of inconsequential receipts, my crayon poised in shaking fingers, and I’m livid. I write this to you in Crayola “Brick” on the reverse of a Rubber Ducks, Rubber Ducks, Rubber Ducks Warehouse bill of sale for two “extra squeakies,” and I am seething. Sick of this! Sick of the atrocities in Beijing. Sick of the abuses perpetrated by the National Broadcast Company and its affiliates, and I AM SICK - nearing DEATH - of looking at Michael Phelps’s package and that lanky volleyball player broad’s oddly narrow behind.

As I wipe the vermouth and dried flecks of Taco Bell burrito beans from my beard, NBC RIGHT NOW is running its 19th segment on what Phelps had for breakfast this morning and how well that tall sausage-body chick slept last night.

OH! It’s been nonstop, worldwide, invasive coverage, beaming to you through every wavelength known to science, images of those two, half-naked, glistening, tightly spandexed and cling-wrapped in their official Olympiad Stars and Stripes underpants.

Please. Won’t someone think of the children? And by “children” I mean “chubby TV satirists wearing only one loose-y athletic sock and a satisfied smirk in a City Heights tenement slum.”

And it’s not their fault - Phelps and what’s-her-name, that chick who was born without hipbones but, even in the face of that adversity, possesses an incredible vertical leap. Nothing else could be, nor should be, expected of those fine athletes. They’ve competed at every level to rise above the tar pits in which we mortals slog about, and they’ve climbed Jacob’s Ladder to sit on their bright clouds with their metallic awards dangling from ribbons around their necks. NO! They’ve paled expectation and rewarded hope in the souls of citizens and coaches of this nation, these United States. I salute you two, however sick I am of seeing your toothsome and gummy grins.

Neither is it our fault, the TV-viewing public. For everywhere, even at the corner of Wal-Mart Street and Disney Avenue in America’s breadbasket, the denizens are filled-up to brimming with images of the two Olympian heroes. NO! Not our fault.

The blame lay soundly and roundly on the shoulders and ugly square heads of NBC programming executives, with their smug business suits and smelly little dogs.

REVOLT! Revolt, I say!

Rise up. Get your numbed rear ends off the couch and change the channel. Anything! Anything except Olympics coverage: Judge Judy! That reality show about dog grooming! SHARK WEEK!

ATTICA! ATTICA!

WHAT I WILL AND WON'T WATCH THIS WEEK

Thursday, August 21
The View
ABC 10:00 a.m.
To make it easier on the rest of us, everyone who contributes nothing to society except a lowering of the national IQ average should be named “Corky.” At the DMV and swap meets, you could address everyone as “Corky” without the bother of introductions. This show, renamed The Five Corkies, would run quite a bit smoother as well.

Battleground Earth: Ludacris vs. Tommy Lee
TLC 8:00 p.m.
Battleground what? Nobody cares vs. huh? I’ve seen a preview for this. It’s about a rap star and his rock counterpart distributing ecological knowledge and tips by traveling across the country in buses powered by their own need for attention, recycling sadness, and growing crops of pathetic on windowsills.

Friday, August 22
America’s Toughest Jobs
NBC 8:00 p.m.
Oil-drilling, logging, as well as driving long-haul trucks on icy roads are all listed here. Conspicuously missing is Mike Myers’s joke writer. Okay, Mike, this time we’re going to write something funny. “NO! I want midgets and farts!” Mr. Myers, we’ve been over this. We need something funny this time. “NO! Fart midgets!” Sigh.

Saturday, August 23
Bratz
XEWT 2:00 p.m.
Ladies, you must be gentle with me. I’ve taken a lifetime to realize I hold a certain charm. Women are attracted to me because, much like the Bratz doll of a scissor-handed blind girl, I’m still cute, but quite damaged.

Blue Collar Comedy Tour: One for the Road
Comedy Central 8:00 p.m.
In Russia, the audience makes comedians laugh. In Russia, TV watches you. In Russia...wait...I have my “ride one funny joke into the dirt and whip the corpse until it turns to dust and salt” comedy tours confused.

Sunday, August 24
Atchafalaya Houseboat
PBS 10:30 p.m.
I swear there’s a Ministry of Unpronounceable Words somewhere in Louisiana whose motto is: “Let’s see if those dumbass Yankees can say this!”

Monday, August 25
Democratic National Convention
ABC 10:00 p.m.
Once again the major networks choose the less-entertaining option. The National Convention of Schizophrenic Aestheticians is by far the more interesting rally to cover. “What do we want?! Eyebrows! When do we want them?! Teddy Bears! What do we Scotch Tape?! Unicorns! When do we...uh. My hand is on fire.”

Tuesday, August 26
Bloodsport
Versus 7:00 p.m.
If you haven’t seen this in quite a while, you are in for a treat. Eighties action movies didn’t age well. I caught the last hour of this the other day, and my running commentary consisted wholly of: “I don’t remember this being gay. Holy cow is this gay. Wha...? He just pledged eternal devotion to that big hairy guy from Revenge of the Nerds. He’s totally ignoring that hot chick. Wow, this is gay.”

Wednesday, August 27
Guarding the Queen
PBS 8:00 p.m.
Since this is on PBS (stupid PBS), I’m guessing this is about an actual queen, most likely of England, and that’s muy stupido and boring. I’d totally be in if this were about something interesting...say, Freddie Mercury’s toothbrush and jockstrap handler. FREDDIE! I LOVE YOU! FREDDIE!

Thursday, August 28
Contender Muay Thai (marathon)
Versus 5:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m.
A better excuse to ignore hygiene and remain naked, oiled, and angry for six hours has never presented itself.