There, among real news headlines like: Whistleblower: AT&T Maintained a ‘Secret Room’ for the NSA, Personal Assistant Is Charged in Broker’s Killing, Kurdish Guerrillas ‘Open’ To Dialogue With Turkey, we learn that Britney Spears ran a red light.

Red.

Light.

World news.

We also learn that there are 196 articles on the three anemia drug warnings, 301 articles on the Kurdish guerillas and Turkey—the articles flanking Britney Spears’ failure to stop at a traffic light. The incident where the government is spying on people from within a private telecom corporation: 34 articles. If we assume newsworthiness from the amount of articles about a given topic based on quantity then the most important story I am seeing right now is the one where Britney runs a red light. There are 524 different ‘news’ sources willing to tell me about it: How exciting it was to be there… at that intersection… when she went through it… to probably get coffee… or… a cheesburger.

World news.

Important stuff you need to know.

Red light.

So I watched this piece of crap last night. I didn’t just watch a few minutes of it—I watched the whole thing.

Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters’ performance of a song where they attempted to unashamedly rip off the Violent Femmes seemed to earn him a few minutes in the spotlight with that fucking rubber dog puppet in which the two of them cut on everyone in the music business that Grohl doesn’t like.

Then you had color commentary from Major Weenie and the Dumb Blond Girl™. Coincidentally, Major Weenie’s big brother, Colonel Weenie, hosted. Not much else to say about this Trifecta of Suck.

There were also stellar performances by Clay Aiken, Shania Twain with The Lollipop Guild and Beyonce. What was I thinking?!?

Man, you know, that show was lacking Michael Jackson.

Now that I have written this I feel like a contestant on Fear Factor and the second challenge was eating poop and I approached the challenge with a little too much gusto. I don’t like eating poop but the remote control had to be ten feet away… or at least out of reach of my hand.

Looking for the Mothership