To me, Stephen King is the worst kind of a sensationalist hack, the kind who puts a toddler in front of a 16-wheeler, or has a jilted lover masturbate all over his former girlfriend's bed, and he does it all without style or finesse or even an original turn of phrase or two. He's full of creepy stories, sure, but he's also full of hackneyed phrases and clichés. Sweet doggies turned rabid. Possessed toddlers. Brand new cars that smell almost as good as "pussy." I hate the stuff this guy writes about, the way he writes it, the way he takes his coffee, you name it.

So, let's take a scene from "Kingdom Hospital," just to see if you can understand where I'm coming from. A famous artist leaves his magnificent house to go for a run. As he's leaving, his wife tells him not to run on the road, because it's dangerous. Then she mentions that his latest painting is really weird. The artist leaves without saying goodbye, apparently angry at this comment. Guess what happens next? Instead of staying off the road, which we hear is quite dangerous, the artist runs right for it, and promptly gets mowed down by a guy in a van who's been swerving all over the road for several miles because he's trying to keep his Rottweiler away from a big raw steak which is, for some reason, within reach of the dog. The artist hits the windshield and ends up in a gruesome broken tangle on the ground -- just like a squashed ant, except with lots of blood and wild eyes staring up, helplessly. The guy in the van gets out, tells the bleeding tangled mess that he's really sorry, but he can't stick around because he's got an ounce of some unspecified drug in his dashboard.

Now, if the artist weren't famous, if the wife hadn't warned him about running on the road, if the guy in the van were trying to keep a poodle away from a bag of Cheetos instead of a Rottweiler from a steak, if he had no good excuse for leaving his victim bleeding on the road, aside from a fear of being charged with vehicular manslaughter, maybe I could excuse this scene. But everything here is so fundamentally filthy with Stephen King's grubby fingerprints, I really can't stand to watch. Did I mention that a crow lands on the bleeding guy's chest and threatens to eat his eyes out? A crow, get it? Crows are really creepy! Then, as I sit in amazement at the overly obvious, absurd details King has chosen, I vaguely recall something about his being in some kind of a serious accident a few years ago. A 10-second Google search later, I discover that every "absurd" detail I just listed, except the part about the drugs and the guy leaving the scene of the crime, is taken straight from the true story of King getting hit by a van while taking a walk through the country.

Has there ever been clearer proof of a critic's utter lack of objectivity? I am now willing to admit that I'm in no way qualified to analyze Stephen King's work. Obviously, I've disliked his books and movies for far too long to have anything reasonable to say about him.

America's next chain store sweetheart
I'm similarly biased when it comes to "America's Next Top Model," which, this week, featured the following exchange between art director Jay Manuel and stylist Nolé Marin during a photo shoot in Italy:

Jay: Shandi? She looks like she's in Italian Vogue, period.

Nolé: Hands down, girlfriend!

Jay: I don't know how she came from Walgreen's to this.

Nolé: That's where they all come from! Walgreen's and Dairy Queen.

Smells like teen spirits
This Friday, Fox's "Wonderfalls" premieres, completing the Teen Girl With Mystical Powers trend which this clairvoyant outlined in detail last fall. No one is sure why it's the teen girls, of all people, who get to speak to God and the grim reaper and little plastic tchotchkes with big messages, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that, at the casting call, they were the ones who looked the best in the ass pants. And if spirits from the great beyond are going to spend their time hanging out with some mere mortal, I guess it's understandable that they'd like the mortal to have dewy, baby-soft skin and minty-fresh breath.

I remember thinking that Jaye, the protagonist from "Wonderfalls," was the most believable of all of the mystical teens when I saw the pilot last fall, and that her stories were the most satisfying, but I'll have to check out a few more episodes to be sure. Something about the way she's described, on Fox's Web site, as a "pathological narcissist" who's "over-educated and unemployable" strikes me as a little too cool for school, but maybe I'm just jealous of those remarkable chocolate-brown velvet ass pants she's wearing.

Quitters never win anything but lawsuits
Despite my initial excitement, "Survivor: All-Stars" is starting to remind me of the NBA All-Star game this year: A bunch of smug, spoiled kids standing around doing nothing while acting like they're putting on the greatest show on earth. Rupert aligning with Boston Rob? Lex keeping his fishing skills a secret? Jerry whining about chocolate and peanut butter all over again? Even Rob Cesternino, my favorite Survivor ever, was limp and personality-free up until the moment they kicked his sorry ass off the island.

And now Sue Hawk quits the game, weeping about being sexually molested by Richard Hatch? How much more pathetic could this season be? Sue chose to squeeze past Richard in the Balance Beam challenge instead of taking an unobstructed route, despite the fact that he was naked, he's insane, and he hates her. Richard flapped his genitalia in her direction and now she can't sleep at night, because she's been humiliated and abused and harassed and demeaned and whatever other words she screeched at Jeff Probst. Unhinged outbursts like hers give victims of real abuse a bad name.

I understand waking up in the middle of the night hating Hatch. I once had a boss throw something at me, and I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep because I kept picturing beating his face in. I think it's obvious that Sue truly believes that she was traumatized. It's also obvious that she needs to talk to a licensed professional about the fact that a glancing blow from a gay man's limp penis can transform a trash-talking trucker (who last week urinated while she was on the same raft with three other people) into a jumble of tearful recriminations and enraged outbursts. It makes me wonder if the Survivors are allowed to continue their usual doses of psychotropic drugs while they're in the wilderness.

Now that's a branding opportunity for the next reward challenge. "Want to know what you're playing for?" Probst asks, then unveils ... A month's supply of Zoloft! It's almost too good to be true!

Next week: Find out how the lil' Donald ducklings fare without Assorama around to make them look good! Also: What happens when you tell your boyfriend (who you love sooo much!) that you just had sex with a hot Italian? Stay tuned, my little couch muffins, and find out!

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