Netflix Instant on the Wii and I are pretty much going steady by this point.  It’s not a very healthy relationship, either.  I completely ignore its terrible recommendations (ahem, dudes who made “Modify” and called it a documentary about body modification, I can tell you flunked film school) and overlook its refusal to make certain movies available to me (like “Fear,” which bummed me out because I wanted to get drunk and liveblog it*).  I’m going to get evil Internet eyes from a whole lot of women for this, but it’s almost as if there was such a thing as an emotionally abusive relationship and the Netflix Instant on the Wii and I are in one.

(Believe whatever you want, but an “emotionally abusive” relationship is really just a relationship with an asshole, and just because someone is an asshole doesn’t mean you can call them abusive.  No, seriously.  I know this.  I was married to an asshole once.  He lied, cheated, read my journals, talked bad about me to other women, and then stole all my money.  But what he emotionally abusive?  No, he was just a gigantic asshole.)

But I love the Netflix Instant on the Wii.  Now that Intervention is in perpetual re-run and Anthony Bourdain doesn’t come on until an hour after I’ve been avoiding Samantha Brown and have forgotten all about No Reservations, it’s my go-to source of entertainment.  I’ve watched the back catalog of 30 Rock and felt exactly like Jack Donaghy.  I’ve watched most of season 2 of The L Word and decided not to tell Fiala because he already tells people I’m a lesbian.  And now I’m watching Torchwood, which is…it’s really odd.

The best way to describe Torchwood is probably this: cheesy 2000s-era X-Files with no Scully, one Asian, a budget bin Tom Cruise-ish Mulder, and it’s in Wales.  The BBC has a whole Welsh division, apparently, and while I find the accents a bit silly (“No!” is not pronounced “Nuuuuuuu!,” people), I will say that if I ever want to be considered attractive on television, all I probably have to do is move to Cardiff.  I mean, the female lead isn’t so bad when her mouth is closed, but jesus, British Isles, you all need to start making dental work a priority for your celebrities.

Now that I think about it, perhaps the X-Files comparison is too gracious.  It’s not that Torchwood is all bad, but the post-millennial special effects are somehow worse than they were for the real Mulder and Scully back in the mid-1990s, and the acting.  Christ on a cross, the acting.  It’s truly manic depressive in that high school summerstock theater way.  The worst offender is Discount Tom Cruise, whose character is named Captain Jack Harkness.  No one but the female lead seems to know that the last time he was a captain was in World War II, when he disappeared from some squadron and became…some undead guy?  Who’s not a vampire?  Who also likes to wear the gayest Bluetooth device ever and still somehow gets laid by lots of people?

Wales, I am confused.  I don’t know what it’s like over there but I intend to find out.  I’m only on episode six of the first season, which means I have a season and a half more to go before (I hope) everything is wrapped up in a nice, cancelled little package.

(Ahem, I’m aware that Torchwood originated in the Dr. Who series, and that there are a handful of references throughout the show.  However, I miss these because I a) am not that big of a dork and b) didn’t grow up with cable so the only Dr. Who I ever saw was produced sometime in the early 80s and was, um, sorry, British people who host this blog, terrible.)

* UPDATE! Mere minutes after posting a Facebook request for a copy of Fear, my friend Kevin texted to say I could pick it up tomorrow!  Stephanie and I will be liveblogging this (er, well, we’ll be livetyping about it and probably posting it to blogs the next day, because although I am brilliant at several things when I’m profoundly drunk, typing is not one of them) on Saturday night!

(Vern is also coming because by this point, she and I will take any excuse to hang out with one another.  Marky Mark stalking the shit out of Reese Witherspoon?  Sounds great.)

(Also Christy.  She and I hang out more often but I still have her humongous bottle of white zin on top of my fridge.  I’m not drinking that garbage.)