Dear Treehouse TV:
Let me just start by saying thank you ever so much. You are a wonderful cable network, chock full of toddler appropriate programming. I have used you, shamelessly. You’ve occupied my children for stretches of time (ranging from “brief” to “mommy-ought-to-be-ashamed-of-herself”) while I have done what I needed to do (clean the kitchen, fold laundry, use Google to find out which celebrities are really, really gay). I owe you. I know that.
But it has come to my attention that you are not as innocent as you want me to believe. You’ve been teaching my precious little angels some pretty underhanded shit. Yeah, that’s right, I’m on to you. Here’s what I’ve caught you doing:
Not only is the theme song achingly insipid, this mouthless mutant’s show includes a game called, “Who Has More?” I’m sure they intended it to be a harmless counting game. But clearly, the people who wrote this bit have never met siblings. Because my kids wake up playing that game (“His glass has more milk!” “She got more cheerios!” “He’s watching more of the TV than me!”) They need no inspiration in this department. Thanks for nothing, Mifster.
Mr. Maker snuck under my radar, at first. His delightful British accent made me want to like him, as accents generally do. And the premise of his show was wonderfully quirky: he makes shit out of, well, other shit. Mosaics, murals, collages, all made from found items. All well and good. Until I found my kids digging through the damned garbage to find art materials. Naturally, it was on a day with plenty o’coffee grounds, rotting leftovers and stuff I’d finally pulled out of the bathroom sink drain. Meanwhile, hundreds of dollars worth of real live art supplies sit untouched. Rot in hell, Mr. Maker.
3. I’ve saved the worst offender for last.
For your viewing pleasure, may I present, “The Ten Second Tidy” from “The Big Comfy Couch”:
“But she’s teaching kids to clean up! What is your problem Ginny? Man, you can be a real bitch!” Au contraire. What she’s teaching is how to make it look like you’ve cleaned up, by shoving shit into the couch cushions. And it’s these teachings that leave Mommy with a Mega-Blok wedged between her ass cheeks after she innocently flops on the couch to relax….from picking up after her kids’ “tidying”. Up yours too, Loonette.
Obviously, Treehouse, I was wrong to put my trust in you. Will I stop the kids from watching you? Oh HELL no. But the thrill is gone, biotch. The thrill is gone.