Teen Choice Awards How killer...

Teen Choice Awards
How killer is it that the very week a reader complains that some of us here at the 'Cooler write like teen girls, I get to cover this group hug to all things unblemished and underage? It's like, totally karmical, you know? And like, look at Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie in their hosty ho couture. That's hot. But you know what's not hot? The fact that less than seven minutes into the show, we got a bleeped-out F-bomb, a herpes joke and the Wayans brothers coining a new phrase for flatulence. Booty whistles. Lovely. What teens is this aimed toward? The ones in juvie or the ones spiking the prom punch with black-market Ritalin? Hopefully, the banshee howls of the audience kept the young ones from hearing that one. Because, you know, like, flatulence is so over. Now, The O.C. winning Choice TV Drama. Yeah, that's tight. No matter how old — or young at heart, hello — you are, aiiight?

Most Outrageous Game Show Moments
Bert Convy in a plunging black-and-white-checked sweater vest under a wide-collared houndstooth blazer. Kill me now. Then find that ensemble and kill it, too.

Amish in the City
I can't help it. All I want to see is the Amish throw down on the city kids. What's worse is that they all got along tonight and still, the prayer of Mose going ungodly on his glamorama roomies soothes me. So does the realization that Whitney is good people. That family barbecue at her folks' house in South Central had me ready to fire up some short ribs and tell my dad he's the best. Too bad Reese had to go ruin my lovin' feelings with his comments on Jonas' GED essay about how his brother "drownded." Buddy, "Hooked on Phonics" can work for you. That lace top you sported at Miriam's birthday feast, on the other hand, doesn't work for anyone. I don't care what they say in the International Male catalog. Boy nipple is all wrong for dinner wear, OK?

Teen Choice Awards
So, 50 First Dates is the Choice Date Movie of the year, huh? That explains why I still haven't seen it. Tragic, I know. But I tell ya, Mean Girls was stone-cold robbed of the Choice Comedy surfboard. Shrek isn't even a real person. I mean, please... Lindsay Lohan's little flick has a character named Damian in it. And trust me, he is very real. I have the night terrors and yearbook pictures to prove it.

Dr. 90210
Man, all these weeks and still no sign of David Silver's dad. He was a doctor, too. A dentist, sure, and yeah, he cheated on Kelly Taylor's mom, but you know he wouldn't let a triceps workout get in the way of date night with his pregnant wife. Plus, Mel had his own practice and Willona from Good Times working the front desk. What's this overdone nip-tucker got? Other than good triceps, of course.

Wide World of Soaps
Try to block out Bob Guiney's intros and focus on that threesome clip from All My Children. If that doesn't draw in the pervs... I mean, guys, I don't know what will. Maybe changing the town's name to Porn Valley?

Rescue Me
To quote Barney Gumble, I think my heart just stopped... there it goes.
Jeesh, this show doesn't let up. Love it! In one hour we got more twists than pilates night at the Playboy mansion. And about as much action. Seriously, if it wasn't Franco's nutbag ex teaching Sean the real reason you shouldn't smoke in bed, it's probably Mike's stalker inviting him to a pileup with his fianc&#233e and Jimmy's widow mackin' on Tommy. Dude, stick with your late-night booty call. Sheila's practically family. And speaking of family, the writers are damn lucky Colleen survived that crash. Killing off Tommy's kid would have reduced him to just a smoke-damaged Sipowicz and really, I'm having a hard enough time keeping TV's two coolest New York civil servants straight, what with their booze problems, affinities for blonds and hilariously flagrant aversions to social decorum. Which reminds me of...

Cribs
...the addictive Cristal toast to big bucks and bad taste. Dag, I love seeing how rich people can ruin a home. Nelly's room-eating white sectional alone would have Martha running for solitary. And don't get me started on Usher strutting around his Miami spread in a full-length mink. I don't care how etched your abs are, son. There's a can of red paint and a picket sign just waiting for that mess. Oh, and since MTV is so hot on putting the term "bling" to bed, maybe it's time to hold a pillow over "crib," too?