" 'Boobs, Thighs and Butts,' " I tell her.
"That's what I'm trying to determine," I tell her.
Quickly, I click off of "Boobs, Thighs and Butts," and come across the pilot for "Confessions of a Confused and Vapid Streetwalker," which I think is a Showtime series. It is a repulsive show, rife with bad language and enormous numbers of boobs, thighs and butts. I don't expect it to last more than five years.
Thing is, after Lakers games and " Friday Night Lights," I find nothing interesting to watch these days, do you? Football is over and baseball has yet to begin. It's like TV Lent.
So I'm thinking of producing my own series. I'd take our little video camera and follow Posh around the house, recording her screen test. There would be just a hint of sexual tension, but no one would ever discuss it. Contractually, I would insist on complete access, which would be a first for us.
Then she could film me a little . . . napping, organizing the garage, removing splinters from the little guy's feet, a new hobby with me.
"Hold still . . . hold still . . . HOLD STILL!"
Recently, the little guy has taken up break dancing. He spins around on that worn little patch of wood floor in front of the washing machine, picking up splinters in his soft hands and feet.
They are the tiniest splinters you ever saw, two pixels in width, like the eyelash of an eyelash. So, I've been forced to become the Dr. DeBakey of splinter removal. With a team of 12 assistants, I pin the little guy to the couch, then remove the splinter in about three seconds. It's almost a gift, this thing I have for removing prefinished oak flooring from the foot of a kindergartner.
In fact, I am one of the best splinter surgeons around. I accept Blue Cross, Red Cross and uncashed parimutuel tickets. Seriously, if you ever get a splinter, just call my office for an appointment.
"Dad, want to clean my ears now?" the little guy asks after I take out another splinter.
This show is going to be such a hit.