The O.C. is back! Dude, The O.C. is totally, totally back!
And not a minute too soon. Nothing makes me forget the difficulties of being an adult than watching a bunch of attractive actors play out fantasy scenarios of the awesome teen years I never had. After a long day of commuting to work, being belittled and humiliated by employers, forced into small talk with ignorant coworkers, trips to the ATM to see you have less money than yesterday, skimming magazines and seeing images of a good life you will never be able to attain, and commuting home to your tiny, over-priced hovel for another night with the partner you've settled on, nothing speaks to you like The O.C., baby!
Guys, isn't it so awesome that you can ogle the chicks on the show even though they're underage? It's like an hour-long suspension of all known statutory rape laws. They're so much younger than your wife or girlfriend, and it's a lot safer than talking to girls in AOL chat-rooms or flirting with your daughter's friends. And you can totally masturbate to it if you watch it in your den with the door closed.
And ladies, isn't it so great that you get to be in love with that nerd character, even though when you were in high school, you would've wanted nothing to do with him and probably spent the majority of your day making his life a living hell? But compared to your insensitive, foul-smelling, hairy-backed manchild of a husband or boyfriend, the so-called man who makes love to you with the repetitive, passionless finesse of a Punch Press, that O.C. geek is like prince charming. You even cut his photo out of Entertainment Weekly. You are too cute!
God, when did your life start to suck so bad that the completely fictional lives of imaginary rich kids become the ultimate escape? If you think about, you almost want to cry. You almost want to shoot yourself with a diamond bullet that would tear you apart, shattering the numbing boredom of your life, the endless trips to the gas station, the loading and unloading of the washing machine, the mortgage payments, the judgmental glares of all those people who think they're better than you even though you try your best to be a good person, the microwaved leftovers that are still cold in the middle, that feeling you have after three beers on a Sunday, sitting on the couch not quite drunk but dimly aware that this is it, this is all there is to your life. And you're, what, 32? Jesus.
Yay! The O.C.! Yay!!!