In the spirit of "ask and ye shall receive," I hereby declare this evening a Reality-Free Zone. That means real comics, not the last ones standing. Actors instead of wannabes. And not a damn Amish in sight. So enjoy it, folks! I did.

That '70s Show
Mmmm-mm-mm! I am all over that hair, Laura Prepon! And even if you blonds do have more fun, this chestnutty fan had a blast with tonight's seventh-season opener, which spared us the ugly fallout from Eric and Donna's aborted wedding by making the pair actually happier having dodged the marital bullet. Too bad Eric couldn't escape Jackie's wrath for committing the ultimate crime: a sweater vest. I'm with you, girl. Unless you're 60, or screaming "Extra! Extra!" in the town square, it's not a good look. In fact, other than Foreman's fashion don't, the only other misstep here was the "peed on Cheetos" jokes. Not only are they a bitch-slap to the healing powers of crunchy cheesy goodness, but the term "Peetos" is a bit too close to my chihuahua, Pepito. Ya'll need to respect.

All My Children
Bless you, SoapNet, for daytime in prime time. It's the cable equivalent of crack, and Pine Valley is seriously wired. In one hour, we got Kendall realizing she shot her ex, Ryan, whose new wife, Greenlee, was comforted by Jonathan, Ryan's long-lost brother, who may be related to Michael, the murdered rapist of Bianca, Kendall's lesbian half sister. Meanwhile, Tad bluffed JR into thinking that he found Bess, Babe's so-called daughter, who is actually the lesbian's kid by the dead rapist, who appeared in a vision to the guy who got shot. Krystal admitted to some sort of threesome with the quarterback and tight end back in high school; Tad called David "slime" for kidnapping Adam; and Kendall, the one who shot that other guy, sauntered off with the line of the night: "I don't want to be the evil, horrible person everyone thinks I am." I know how you feel, honey. And that's the closest we'll get to reality tonight.

Bernie Mac
Four seasons and Bernie still has no clue how to deal with kids. Hee hee. He's like the anti-Cosby. 'Cause you know the Cos would never be buying gear from Snoop Dogg to spy on Vanessa. "Puttin' the brotha in Big Brother!" Then again, Rudy was never sneaking out of the house in hooch-wear like this kid. She was too busy dressing up like Theo's prospective landlady and dancing on the stairs for Clarice Taylor and Earle Hyman. Which, when you think about it, is just weird.

The Drew Carey Show
Cripes, I feel like I just passed a stone. After a summer of watching this one die faster than Barbara Hershey in Beaches, Drew and crew have left the building for good. And since goodbyes suck, I'll just say thanks, gang. You were a hoot. Though you'd think nine seasons and as many time slots would warrant a little more marketing. I mean, seriously, NBC drove us Sharon Stone-cold bonkers with all those sappy Friends and Frasier farewell promos. ABC couldn't hook a brother up with a few ads touting this finale? Especially one that let the pudgy prankster finally get the girl, a kid and his old job back. Now that's a damn shame. But like my mom always said, "God takes the good ones." Which probably explains why Yes, Dear is still with us.

The Real World
This doesn't count as reality because there's absolutely nothing real going on here. Except that I live 15 minutes outside of Philadelphia and as far as I can tell, that yappy pounce toy Sarah is the worst thing to happen to my hometown since Mitch Williams screwed the Phillies right out of a World Series win against the Blue Jays back in '93 with a single pitch.

Rescue Me
Speaking of pitching, how about the guys' "contest"? Kinda makes Seinfeld's Domain Masters seem downright... limp. And that's why this show remains hotter than hell. It refuses to take itself too seriously. One minute, Tommy's lighting candles in church to get rid of his ghosts, the next, we get Kirsten from Party of Five pulling a Jenny Jones as the scorned widow at an unfaithful firefighter's funeral. Obviously nothing is sacred. Including family ties, as proven ickily by Tommy and Sheila's botched hook-up — perfect timing, Damien. That was getting a little too Greek-tragedy for me. Now, Franco's 9-inch runner-up? That was definitely not a little too anything. Not that size matters or anything, right?