What makes summer special? Is it the cleansing power of sunshine? Or is it a TV show about Paula Abdul’s complicated relationship with her stylist? Shame on you for even asking. This is the one time of year when quality entertainment means digging deep into the reject vaults and unloading the most lamentably, pathetically, soul-cornholingly bad ideas onto the American public. So what will be this summer’s Pants-Off Dance-Off?

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The Russian is still out there. He’s never coming back, shivering in the pines, where the sun never shines, probably still planning his vengeance against the mobster whose shoe he ate for dinner that snowy night six years ago. Any other show would have brought back the Russian sooner or later, bringing the revenge story full circle. But not The Sopranos, and the Russian has become just one of the mysteries this show has built its whole mystique around by refusing to solve it for us. Did Adriana really get whacked? Did Ralphie really start the fire? Did Quasimodo predict all this shit? And will Uncle Junior ever get to fuck Angie Dickinson? Our amour fou with The Sopranos is headed for long-term parking, like so many of its most memorable characters. We’ll never see a show like this again.

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Sending Paris Hilton to jail for being the most loathed celeprosy lesion in the history of the species seems like a happening idea at first — forty-five days at Century Regional Detention Center is so the new thirty days at Promises Malibu! But it sets a dangerous precedent to jail celebs just because someone hates them. Without them, who would we hate? Celebrity despicability is a precious thing. So let’s all take a breath and see if we can come up with an Ed Anger-style list of forty things we hate more than Paris. I bet you can. I know I can.

Let’s start with (1) people still saying “the Internets.” Same for (2) “the Interwebs” and (3) “the blogtubes.” But not as much as people saying (4) “Last time I checked” or (5) “You do the math.” I don’t do math, you haven’t checked, and you obviously didn’t get the memo about (6) “You didn’t get the memo.” So get over (7) “Get over it,” especially if you’re (8) Mel Gibson. Old guys not trimming their eyebrows (9) — if Don Imus (10) owned tweezers, he’d still have a job. Cigarettes being illegal in bars but not (11) onion rings, which smell up the place worse. How about (12) Sisqó not being famous anymore? I hate that. Speaking of the bloggernetspheres (13), how much do we hate the first-person plural (14)? Wacky periods, as in: Biggest. Cliché. Ever (15)? Describing anything as “the anti-” something (16)? Saying “at the end of the day” (17)? No deleted scenes on the White Chicks DVD (18)?

What else? (19) Bicycles! Do they go fast? Yes. Do they have any safe way of braking? No. Who invented these things? Why are our streets clogged with ten-speed deathtraps hurtling at pedestrians whose only crime is walking dogs (19) on (20) those leashes that take up the whole sidewalk? The only person on a bike should be the dude from Yummy Taco (21) who’s late with my chicken burrito. All three discs of Yessongs sucked (22-24). But still using (25) the prefix “alt,” (26) the abbreviation “‘tude,” (27) the verb “morph” or (28) the punch line “zing”? I just threw up in my mouth (29)!

[Ironically nonracist noun], please (30)! Quad City DJs not making a record lately (31). That party train isn’t going to ride itself, you know. Saying (32) “ATM machine” when the “m” already stands for “machine,” like (33) “PIN number” or (34) “MLB baseball.” Speaking of which, (35) Roger Clemens and (36) the three Hall of Fame voters who cast their ballot for Dante Bichette. Project Runway bringing back (37) Nina Garcia. Dogs are worth repeating (38). “It is what it is” (39). That brings us to 40, so let’s add (40) Paris joining Nicole for Fox’s Born Innocent ‘07: Incarcerated Scarfaces. Come on, that would be cool.

Ciao, Antonella. This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you. We’ll forget everything else on American Idol this season, but we’ll never forget the toothsome Sagittarian from Point Pleasant, New Jersey, the Italian girl who taught us what “Sowing the Seeds of Love” is all about. Like a Bon Jovi ballad come to life, Antonella Barba was livin’ on a prayer through week after week of tone-deaf awesomeness. But now we’re supposed to believe America just gave up on her? Sorry, but I don’t buy it. This was rigged — they just switched Antonella’s votes with Haley’s. What do we want? Recount! When do we want it? Now!
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Britney: disaster or catastrophe? Discuss! All right, so we could go on all day running down her recent indiscretions, but by the time we’re halfway done, she’ll be knocking over a liquor store. So instead, let’s save time by listing a few big mistakes that Britney has not made lately. OK: She did not cut off her ears while shaving her head, which is cool, because hair grows back but ears don’t. She did not accessorize her new skinhead pate by carving an Iron Cross into her skull, putting on Dr. Martens and making an Oi!-revival album. She did not release a record where she compares herself to Billie Holiday. And she didn’t have a couple of kids with a hobo.

OK, scratch that one. But that half-empty glass looks a little better now, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it look a little bit closer to, say, half-full? Wait — that glass was half-full a second ago! Britney! You are making this difficult, girl. Her not-at-all-drug-fueled idea to scrape her head clean a la Robin Tunney in Empire Records and stand outside her ex’s house bashing car windows has raised questions about her decision-making process. Dashing in and out of rehab like it was the stall near the sink, trading underwear with go-go dancers . . . in the immortal words of Al Bundy, “Gee, I hope that wasn’t a desperate cry for help.”
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