How do I love Maury? Let me count the ways.

Allow me to diverge from my usual remarks on sports to take on a different subject. As readers here know, my summer is technology depraved. I can check the internet once a week, only the upstairs of the house is air-conditioned, and the antenna picks up 9 channels (with various degrees of clarity). Recently I actually instinctively pressed "22" on the remote expecting to see ESPN only to get the white noise.

This means I have more time for activities like reading and working around the house. But it also means another thing:

Maury.

There's nothing to distract me from the beauty that is Maury.

Where would I be without him? How many ways can I express my appreciation for his stance of moral superiority as he exploits promiscuous women trying to find the biological source of their children, or the promiscuous teenage girls and their clearly traumatized mothers? Why, I wonder as I sit transfixed in front of the TV with Maury's show, am I watching? And why, dear God, am I laughing?

Yesterday Maury brought some women on for paternity testing who had been on the show multiple times. The most hilarious part was when they began with a montage of the previous episodes--over and over again, men jump up with joy while the women react in exactly the same way. One women went straight to the ground 4-5 times in a row in the exact same limp position. Every other woman stormed "backstage." All the while, Maury somehow fascilitated this madness with stern judgment, yet kindly understanding.

The other day a bunch of teenage girls came out and acted like they were doing a parody of Cartman's "Whatever! I do what I want!" Maury brings them out dressed like hookers to berate them in front of their crying mothers while the girls talk about how badly they want to have babies and they do what they want. The strange thing is, when they bring the next girl out, the other girls are just sitting there next to their mothers watching dumbly. At the end, instead of boot camp, an ex-prostitute came to lecture them. Apparently, if they keep having sex, they'll be living in boxes.

Would I take any time to watch Maury if I had internet? No. Would I take more than a few minutes to watch Maury if I had cable? No. Should I even be taking any time to watch it now? No. Actually, I'm embarrassed to watch the show with the windows open, lest my new neighbors or the mailman here it and judge me. Yet the richness and color of Maury continues to draw me back.

I don't have classes to teach, I don't have football to watch, so I barely even feel guilty for setting myself down for the glory and wonder that is Maury.