My Ongoing War With That Fucking Guy From “The Mentalist”

If you follow me on Twitter you’ve already seen me have bursts of righteous ire any time I catch even a millisecond of The Mentalist. Aside from the fact that it is a typical American procedural with utterly no regard whatsoever for actual police procedure & a penchant to hyperdramatize nonsense, it is a show entirely designed to make twits fall in impossible stupid girl love with a floppy haired blond boy bimbo (who is probably a very nice bloke in real life).

Women, TV thinks you’re stupid. A bunch of executives hopped up on vegan cruelty free triple shot skinny lattes got together in a room one day & said, “What do middle aged women want?” After pitching a show where Gary Sinise & David Caruso strut around shirtless & oiled carrying babies & healing people w/ lupus, they said “Lets have really sensitive Robert Redford solve crimes with sensitivity & feelings.” And all their eyes lit up & they high fived each other & started taking lunches with central casting and every blond blue eyed guy on the planet. Then they came up with simperingly cute That Guy From The Show. I have such disdain for this show I’m not even gonna IMDB that for you. He’s Australian & my middle aged friend is in untempered uberlust with him.

In a fit of unbridled pandering, they devised the following characters: Patrick Jane, a tough broad who will never love him that female viewers can hate, a beefy cop guy, & a token Asian. They made Jane have the ability to read body language & neuro linguistic cues, as far as I can tell, so it seems like he can read women’s minds. Sigh. Then they made him a widower so he’d appear difficult to reach but unencumbered by some bitch exwife & bratty step kids because that is the personal hell of half of middle America.


What set me off today was a horse episode that came on while I was peeling a great deal of Trader Joe’s sweet potatoes exactly the size & shape of the average male penis. I heard horse sounds, & I love horses, so I peeked out of the kitchen to see what was on. Lo, the manufactured dreamboat Patrick Jane leaned forward toward a horse’s face, kissed its muzzle, and whispered to it. Fucking whispered.

For the sake of fuck are you assholes kidding me?! This was the pitch session: “Broads like horses. Tomatoes get fuckin’ wet for guys who are good with horses. Let’s make Jane a good body language expert of fuckin’ horses.” Cos we all learn that in psychology courses, by the way. Fucking horse body language. Then they all high fived each other, banged out an insulting script (where he also saves a young girl SIGH), did an 8 ball, & jerked each other off. I don’t know. I assume. It was probably for sweeps.

They think you are stupid, women. Stop watching this fucking garbage.

I’m a writer, as you might have guessed from the few decent pieces in my foul mouthed rants. When I write a male character, I want him to earn your love. I started a book with the male romantic lead shooting a woman in the face with a shotgun. He is a selfish dick workaholic with a stupid hat. And by the end of this book you will beg him to impregnate you with his mind babies. Is this because I think you harbor fantasies of being hurt? No. It’s because I think you’re smart & you can handle a flawed character who screws up sometimes. Like a real goddamned man.

I hate you, TV. I hate you so hard.