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West Wing



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Again, the show reached a new plateau on the way to the bottom. I feel the need to watch it as a matter of professional obligation now more than anything else. The show does inform how millions of people think politics and liberalism work. But, as Hans and Franz used to say, listen to me now or believe me later: I would rather stop a weed whacker with my tongue than watch the heart-wrenching romantic barf-o-rama that next week’s show promises to be. Watching C.J. deal with her ailing father would be awful enough. But watching her get smoochy-faced with Matthew Modine defies several clauses of the Geneva Convention.



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