Cookus Interruptus: Amuse-Biatch Looks Back More in Sorrow Than in Anger

Possums, have you ever been on a bad date?

Let's say you go out with someone and they invite you back to their apartment (pardon our use of the third-person plural pronoun, but we're trying to make this universal).

You kiss for a little bit, and the first kiss turns out to be good.

Subsequent kisses, however, turn out to be bland and boring, and you find yourself looking at your watch behind their head as you kiss.

Then the boring kissing is interrupted while they take a "break." And then they come back, and the kissing resumes, and gets a tad better.

And then the kissing stops again, because your date pulls out their photo album and insists you sit on the couch with them and look at their stupid vacation photos and talk about what a great person your date is.

What would you do at this point, possums? Would you stay in the hopes that the kissing would resume and get better once the damned photo album got put away, and, heck, maybe even get to second base? Or would you decide it wasn't worth it, walk out, go home and take matters into your own hands, as it were?

That's exactly how we felt last night watching "Watch What Happens" (though we weren't nearly as angry as New York Magazine restaurant critic Adam Platt, who referred to Raggaydy Andy as "the goofball in the tan suit," which might make a nice companion piece to The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit).

We fail utterly to see the purpose of this reunion special. We're not against reunion specials as a rule; neither do we insist that they turn into drunken free-for-alls. But reunion specials logically take place at the end of the season. This one had a whiff of last-minute scrambling, and not in the Mickey-and-Judy, hey-kids-let's-put-on-a-show way. Our best guess is that something must have happened. Perhaps Bravo simply needed more time to edit some oomph into the remaining episodes, and to prepare for the shooting of the live finale in Aspen, Colorado.

At least that's what we hope. We'd hate to think it was just sheer idiocy on their part (though that cry-for-euthanasia that is Paula Abdul's show certainly begs the question, They shoot horse's asses, don't they?)

Hey, Paula, er, Bravo, watch what happens when you fuck with your audience.