G is for Gregory House

I am not a maniacal addict to prime-time television. If you've been reading my posts thus far, you should already know what I'm addicted to. I don't TiVo American Idol, or House Hunters, or Justified. As sad as this sounds in the media world, I really have no idea who the Kardashian's are. Is it bad for me to say that I don't pay attention to the popular television show frenzy that is going on? Somewhere Philo T. Farnsworth is shaking his head.

The one thing on television that I am addicted to (besides a single parent serial killer) would undoubtedly be Dr. Gregory House. I don't know how one cannot be adoring this sarcastically smothered, Vicatin downing patron at Princeton-Plainsboro. Along with the Simpsons, he's the one thing responsible for keeping the Fox Network alive.

Every Monday night at 10:30, my roommates and I get together to have our "House" party, where we watch the latest shenanigans involving Cuddy, Wilson, 13, Chase, Taub and Foreman. The show is brilliantly written and keeps me guessing until the the credits roll.

House is a bastard. An ingenious bastard. An unshaven prick who cares about his patients more than he lets them know. More than Cruella De Ville does for mink fur coats. Does anyone else remember the talented Hugh Laurie from 101 Dalmatians? It's a dramatic show that will keep me having House parties for as long as it's on the air. I will continue to praise, and watch, this dick of a doctor who's missing 65% of his right leg.

That's some bad hat, Harry.