A lifetime of media consumption rarely makes up for the years wasted in front of a screen—for every episode of Freaks and Geeks, _we had to sit through Punky Brewster_, and for every John Ritter there’s a Dane Cook waiting to riff on the profundity of hamburgers and bees. But sometimes the karmic slot machine flashes cherries and rewards us with a perfect shit storm. By “perfect shit storm” I mean a perfect storm of shit, filling our eyes and ears, courtesy of any given celebrity who reaches that beautiful point in their career when the Yes-Men are in abundance, everyone is still getting paid, and childhood fantasies are finally given a chance to manifest. Of course these childhood fantasies soon become poisoned by money and power, and what emerges usually resembles those hairy lumps of fetal tissue found floating in tea-colored jars on a shelf in the Mutter Museum, next to the Elephant Man’s skeleton and Zippy the Pinhead’s teeth. Supported by fawning agents, sycophantic managers, and bottom-line producers desperate to announce their next project, these hairy lumps of fetal tissue somehow find their way into production, mix with bad scripts and bad acting, and thus we get the perfect shit storm.