Sadly, Chris Jericho won't be putting his WWE skills to the test in the ring.

No one can say for certain, but it's hard to believe the creators of Syfy -- then the Sci-Fi Channel -- could have predicted the direction their humble little TV station would take. For sure, there have been high points (the Battlestar: Galactica reboot chief among them), but for more than ten years now, the station has been steadily moving away from its original vision, airing decidedly non-science fiction fare like Law & Order: Special Victims Unit and WWE SmackDown.

And let's not forget the original programming. Since 2003 or thereabouts, Syfy has produced some movies that give The Asylum a run for their money. From Mansquito to Mega Python vs. Gatoroid to, uh, Christmas Ape vs. CrocoStimpy (or whatever), it's enough to make you happy advisory board member Isaac Asimov died before the channel even launched.

Though the movies probably would've killed him soon enough.

But if you want to stay relevant to 21st-century TV audiences, you gotta make reality shows. Syfy's previous forays have been mostly of the Haunted Paranormal Bullshit variety, but now they've branched into a category all of us can get behind: robot fights.

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Rich kids love bowling, just like us.

Watching Teen Cribs, one of the more recent celebrations of grotesque wealth gracing the airwaves, it struck me that one of two things must be true: either we as a society aren't as hung up on the concept of the disappearing middle class or the "one percent" as the media would have us believe, or the people showcased in this program are only a couple more economic downturns away from being dragged screaming from their California kings by angry mobs and dragged to pieces behind a '72 El Camino.

I suspect it's the former, which makes a certain convoluted sense. The unending deluge of garbage television is a huge contributor to our societal apathy, so much so that even programs showcasing teenagers living like the heathen kings of old isn't sufficient to provoke revolutionary ire. At this point, we'll need footage of hedge fund executives feasting on poor children to get us off our asses.

And even that might not be enough, especially if they give us a toll free number allowing audiences to vote on which baby gets eaten first.

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One of these people is trying too hard.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

Few things add class to your reality competition like celebrity judges. In the past, those selected to judge singing shows were likely to be more recognizable to the layman than those on cooking programs, but the recent rise of the Food Network and shows like Top Chef, Kitchen Nightmares, and Chopped have created a growing number of "celebrity chefs," easily identified by even the most casual TV watcher.

Anthony Bourdain is near the top of that list. No Reservations debuted in 2005 (along with shows from Rachael Ray, Gordon Ramsay, and Emeril Lagasse), and while he's done stints on Top Chef and the like, ABC's new prime time cooking competition show The Taste is his first major network judging gig. Joining him are French chef Ludo Lefebvre (of Lavo fame), English author and TV host Nigella Lawson, and Brian Malarkey, who ... finished 4th in season 3 of Top Chef. Seems fair.

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They aren't actually sisters, so that's ... something.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

The assumption that one man having multiple spouses is in and of itself freaky enough to warrant a reality show is correct in the sense that Hollywood has decreed things once considered mundane (styling hair, fishing) are worthy of putting on the air. I imagine production meeting discussions along the lines of: "Hey, this guy auctions abandoned storage units." "Oh yeah? Well *this* guy has four wives." It's a no-brainer.

But looked at another way, the main criticism of Sister Wives appears to be: without the gimmick, there's nothing to recommend the show at all. Every one of the principals is dull beyond belief, with little to no drama to otherwise keep us engaged. The lack of [televised] conflict among the women would almost be refreshing here in Year 7 A.R.H. (After Real Housewives), except for the whole shared husband thing.

And in the end, this may be polygamy's ace in the hole concerning wider acceptance and/or legalization: on the surface, it looks just as boring as regular marriage.

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Pay no attention to the crippling poverty behind the curtain.

Young people have been behaving like insensate hooligans since the dawn of time. In fact, I'm pretty sure one of the quests in the Epic of Gilgamesh involved breaking up a teenage Mesopotamian solstice keg party.

And so it goes. Every decade or so sees its own cautionary tale of youth gone wild, from Rebel Without A Cause to Over the Edge to, well, "Youth Gone Wild." Each generation looks at the one coming up behind them and mutters, sure this time, that these kids are the worst *ever.*

Given that, I'm not really sure what the big deal is with Buckwild, MTV's new mildly shocking look at the behavior of emotionally and intellectually stunted adolescents. They may drink and fornicate and drive all-terrain vehicles through the mud (not always simultaneously), but my overhwelming takeaway was: maybe we've finally entered the realm of diminishing returns for this kind of show.

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The lineup on HBO's "Cathouse" is more dignified.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

For all my other TV-related flaws, I considered it a point of pride that -- until this week -- I'd never seen an episode of ABC's The Bachelor.

Not like the network has made in inaccessible or anything. Since 2002, there have been 16 seasons, resulting in an impressive 128 episodes (three more than All in the Family, for those yet to meet their RDA for righteous indignation). Granted, longevity =/= quality programming, but clearly *someone* is watching this show. Monday's 17th season premiere seemed like a good opportunity to see what all the fuss is about.

Two hours of my life later, I'm still not sure. This is possibly because my cerebral cortex shut down out of self-preservation roughly 45 minutes in.

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The Nuge has really let himself go.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

I've been a zombie horror fan for about as long as I can remember. Like most of my ilk, the first exposure (heh) came from George A. Romero's Dead movies (mine was Dawn of the Dead in junior high). From there, Sam Raimi's Evil Dead trilogy, Fulci, the running zombies of Dan O'Bannon's Return of the Living Dead (but not the sequels), etc., etc.

Zombies used to be the uncouth rural relatives of the horror family. Not as glamorous as vampires nor as fabulously hirsute as werewolves, they were largely ridiculed by those who missed the point. It wasn't the zombies themselves you were supposed to focus on, but what they represented: the collapse of society and attendant breakdown of human institutions and infrastructure. And more importantly, what that implied for what remained of humanity.

As you're probably aware, this is no longer the case. The living dead now rival vampires for media oversaturation, and the phrase "zombie apocalypse" is less a terrifying scenario than the punch line to a thousand Facebook status updates. The Centers for Disease Control even issued a Zombie Preparedness Guide. In light of all that, it's hardly surprising the Discovery Channel threw something as simultaneously laughable and disquieting (but not for the reasons you'd think) as Zombie Apocalypse.

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Just an average day in the life of a comic book artist.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

I should point out I started writing this before I learned of the "scandal" involving pictures of Ice-T's wife Nicole "Coco Marie" Austin getting snuggly with rapper AP.9, who in turn claimed to have nude photos of her. I have mostly ignored this tawdry imbroglio and tried to judge Ice Loves Coco on its own merits as a tasteful, understated look at the relationship between two not-quite "A" level celebrities.

One of whom, it must be mentioned, is built like a brick outbuilding of some kind.

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With that high tech array of tools, how can they fail?

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

To quote Fox Mulder, "I want to believe."

The world, in my opinion, would be much improved by the existence of monsters. And I don't mean asshole monsters like vampires or King Ghidorah, but those that are occasionally referred to as "cryptids:" those creatures who are currently unknown to science. I'm talking about yetis, or lake monsters, or the real murderers of Nicole Simpson and Ron Goldman.

So at first blush, Finding Bigfoot would appear to be right up my alley. Too bad the act of sitting through a single episode did more to further my disbelief than a lifetime subscription to Skeptic Magazine ever could.

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The Swamp Swing is a recurring motif.

There are a million reality shows on the naked television. We're going to watch them all, one at a time.

I should probably stay out of the progonostication game, because I honestly never thought karaoke would stick around as long as it has. Sure, I'm happy to trot out my heavily Shatner-ized take on "Like A Virgin" if the occasion warrants, but when it first hit our shores back in the '90s, karaoke seemed destined to go the way of disco and a healthy space program.

20+ years later, we have karaoke leagues, dedicated karaoke clubs, and American Idol. Clearly it's not going away anytime soon. Still, as entertaining as it is to watch a crowd of drunk administrative assistants butcher Reba McIntire's "Fancy," I can see how your average crowd might be getting bored with the whole thing.

Enter TruTV's Killer Karaoke, which introduces some new ideas to the concept of standing in front of a bunch of strangers and mumbling off-key renditions of your old favorites. Namely, scorpions.

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