Ah, sitcoms. That little half-hour slice of conflict, comedy and resolution. They're as American as hot dogs and birth control. As a product of Reaganomics, with both parents working, I was more or less raised by TV. And I turned out TV. It was TV that taught me that any situation can be handled with a perfectly timed one-liner and a knowing wink to the audience. TV encouraged me to pursue whatever crazy get rich quick scheme I hatched that particular week. What harm could there be? At the very worst I'd be back where I started from, but richer for having gone through the experience and wacky mishaps.
Life, however, is a cock block of imagination. Like the fat friend that ain't getting any, it likes to interject itself where it doesn't belong. And now, the real world (no Miz) has gone back in time and rubbed its greasy, smelly paws all over our favorite TV shows.
In the first of an ongoing series, I present: Real Versions Of Sitcoms: Perfect Strangers.
