My daughter, The Diva, has discovered the Hallmark Channel and with it…gawd, I feel nauseous…The Brady Bunch.
The sideburns, the bell bottoms, ‘groovy!’, Marcia. Need I say more? Himself declared he’d watched it (like he was proud of it) and knew for a fact I did, too. He lies like a dead dog. This is the same man who, as a child, went to a waterpark in a polyester suit. Of course, his mother made him do it so there’s some leeway here for laying the blame about questionable choices in the 70s. But I digress.
I can’t really tell if The Diva actually enjoys their antics are just likes picking apart their family dynamic and declaring every last one of them, down to poor Alice the housekeeper, as crazy. I sense a possible vocation as a psychiatrist in her future. It’d be just like her to medicate every last human being in sight.
His Awesomeness and I sat through two solid hours of this crap and I am now reminded why the only part of the whole shebang I actually liked was the theme song. Mainly because I can remember all the words. The last episode featured Greg in all his geekiness, hip-thrusting and gyrating through yet another groovy Bradython musical number. My corneas will never be the same. It’s like the 70s version of waterboarding. Forget capital punishment. Make ’em sit through endless loops of Greg and Jan.
Incidentally, the only questionable choices I will claim here for all and sundry will be my (gulp) love of Vanilla Ice, leg warmers and having the hots for Chuck Conners of The Rifleman fame. Golly, but he was groovy.