O, Joel McHale, how I sparkly pink puffy strawberry scented heart thee. Your wit and your charm, your laughter and your spaghetti cat…. Oh! and Lou. I love you and Lou. You and The Soup are all we, my husband and I, have at the end of the week to make us feel like the fun and free couple we once were. While The Soup used to be just a show we Tivo’d to catch up on at some point during the weekend (usually after sleeping in until 11, eating cold pizza in our jammies) it is now the highlight of our Friday night. Hell, it’s the highlight of our weekend.
We wait for you all day, mentioning you in phone calls throughout. “OOh! The Soup is on tonight, hon. Want to get some beer?” “Hey, don’t forget The Soup is on tonight. Are you sure the DVR is set?” “Honey, guess what? Tonight it’s The Soup, some beer and wine and my famous garlic chicken!! Are you stoked, or what?!” Oh. Good. God. we are pathetic. But you, Joel McHale, you make us feel hip again. You watch it all so we don’t have to. Clearly, The Soup was thoughtfully planned out just for our demographic – the young couple, suddenly thrown into the chaos that is parenthood. The people who no longer have time for the hours of TV programming they used to filter through the Tivo in an efficient manner. The people who can’t possibly catch a show between the hours of 7 and 8 because of the bedtime routine and who are completely wiped out by 10:30. The people who have nothing going on on a Friday night because babysitters are damn expensive on Fridays. You are there to entertain at 9 pm (central) on a Friday, and I could dry hump you for that.
Truth be told, these days the DVR doesn’t even stand a chance. We are there, glass of wine and bottle of beer in hand, plates of food on the ottoman, the baby monitor softly buzzing in the background at 8:59 anxiously awaiting, and you never fail us, Joel McHale. You never fail. Last night I really did gigglepiss myself a little when you showed this clip from some show that I only believe exists not because I have actually seen it aired, but because I have chuckled through many a clip on The Soup (not much unlike Bromance, although that usually just leaves me saying, “What the fuck?!” No. seriously. What the fuck is that show about?)
Granted, the peeing my pants may be attributed to the fact that I squeezed a baby from my vagina no more than 8 and half months ago, in combination with my hatred for kegels and my obvious neglect for rebuilding my pelvic floor. I do seem to sniss a lot these days. However, I’d like to believe that the fact that I couldn’t even breathe because I was laughing so hard had more to do with it.
O, Joel McHale, you light up my life, you give me hope to carry on, you light up my days and fill my Friday nights with song… singers… Miley Cirus… IT’S MILEY!
P.S. Could you please have your people talk to my people so that we may arrange for you to come do a private tour stop in Dallas? Oh wait. Is that too creepy for you? It’s okay. How about just a freaking public stop in Dallas. Yes, yes, I know. You’re going to be in Houston on February 15th, but if I can’t swing a babysitter on a Friday night for a few hours, how the hell am I going to be able to make it all the way to Houston?
(I am now sitting back and waiting for the childfree people to come after me for claiming that The Soup was made for parents. How could I be so INSENSITIVE?! The children, people! Think of the children of the world! Stop being so selfish and hogging your love for Joel McHale! People without babies can feel love for The Soup, too!)
Kendall is 8 months, 3 weeks and 1 day old (Here’s a secret. The only way I ever know this is by opening my blog up in another window and looking at that handy ticker. It surprises me every time).