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Fall '99: "Time Of Your Life"

I like to think of myself as the supervillain of TV criticism. Plotting. Lurking. Stalking my prey, setting them up in the cross-hairs, cackling with glee in anticipation, and patiently waiting for the perfect moment to unleash my critic's wit.

But even a hardened critic like myself can lose his nerve. I know I have the shot. I want to take the shot. I need to take the shot. And I can't.

Jennifer Love Hewitt has that effect on me.

I'd like to unload on Time of Your Life--both barrels a-blazing--but then I think of those big brown eyes of hers, it's like looking into the eyes of sweet little puppy. And that smile of hers, that goddamned smile that could light up a friggin' stadium. And those tits. How can you expect me to unload on girl with a rack like hers?

I can't... I just can't do it.

If I were a stronger man, I'd tell you that if I hear Hewitt make one more rambling speech about coming to New York to "find myself" I'm gonna throw up. And I'd make a wisecrack that I've heard better dialogue in a badly dubbed kung-fu movie.

But I'm weak. I sit at my computer, I close my eyes and I have visions of those perfect perky pears in a tight cashmere sweater. Or perhaps a sequined tube top. Or braless in a cute little halter top.

If I were a strong man, I'd say that someone needs to tell Jennifer Garner, who plays Hewitt's roommate, to stop yelling her lines and try acting for a change. And I'd definitely say that Jonathan Schaech, the actor who plays Hewitt's love interest, needs to shave -- the whole rock-star stubble thing isn't working for me.

But I can't. The breasts... the breasts won't let me.

If Jennifer's breasts didn't have complete and utter control over me, I'd rant about the cinematography and the art direction. Everyone is darkly lit like they're characters in the movie "Seven." I want to say that New York hasn't looked this gritty since the Koch administration, and that a show that stars Jennifer Love Hewitt, America's Sweetheart nonetheless, should be filled with bright colors and beautiful light.

But I can't. Because... well, you know why.

I want to lash out at all of the convoluted crap in the pilot and subsequent episodes: Finding an apartment in Manhattan in one day? A super who also happens to be a funky club kid? A zany roommate who happens to be an actress? Finding a job at a bar that is conveniently just across the street from the apartment you found in one day? Having an epiphany on the subway that New York is the place?

But I can't... I just can't do it. Those breasts... those incredible breasts. They tell me to do bad things, you know. Crazy things... I fight... I fight... Time of Your Life is a horri... a gr... a grea... a great show. It has top-notch acting, clever writing, and it's a wonderful way to spend a Monday night.

I can't. I can't do it. The show stinks. There, I said it. I can only pray that Jennifer's breasts will forgive me.


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