September is a very exciting month for television. In the coming weeks, the major networks will launch dozens of new comedies, dramas and reality shows to be viewed and dissected by dozens of self-appointed media critics around the country. Since I’m not gonna watch any of that horseshit, though, I’ve decided to write about Quincy. Look, I’ve suffered enough in the name of New Television Programming. I spent two goddamn weeks in an S&M relationship with Bob Costas where he teased me with promises of Platform Diving and Who concerts and then slapped me across the face with a half hour preview of Animal Practice and the late fucking news. Seriously, NBC – when did you become such a top? There used to be so many different colors in the peacock’s tail and now there are only Shades of Grey (say it with me one last time, America- JUST SHOW THE FUCKING SPORTS! Man that feels good. God, I miss the Olympics. I wonder if Bob Costas is thinking about me. I know I’m thinking about him. His smile, his eyes, the way he spoke in wry tones about Rhythmic Gymnastics. I’d love to slather his head in Grecian Formula while he slaps my butt with a badminton racket until it’s as red and swollen as China’s sporting ambitions and we watch Water Polo together. Rio can’t come soon enough, except for the fact that the Brazilians totally aren’t ready. Well, hopefully Mitt Romney will be looking for a job soon and he can help them out.) So, clearly all this exposure to New Television has taken its toll on my fragile psyche (I’m a delicate motherfucking flower) and there were only 2 possible solutions available: 1. Stop watching television completely 2. Watch Quincy...