How I met your what?

How, I ask you, is the show How I Met your Mother still on Television?

I can sum up every episode as follows:

Waaaaaaaaaaah, I’m alone and pathetically whining.

I like that girl so I’ll agonize over it and excrete creepy desperation at her.

I’ll decide it isn’t perfect in my disturbing stalker-like fashion and become lamely single again.

Then Neil Patrick Harris shows up for some antics and to dole out sage advice veiled in machismo, sexism, and sarcasm.

Pepper liberally with Alyson Hannigan and the could-I-be-any-more-doofusy muppets dude who are more annoying than overhearing someone else’s cellphone conversation at the airport while sitting beneath the blaring airport CNN.

Those two make the whole thing worse because they promote the main asshat’s über-slimy and über-pathetic teenage crush girl chasing.

Jesus dude, just read her some bad poetry already because any minuscule handsomeness is washed away by your smarmy, weepy, suffocatingly clingy saran-wrappy version of love.

And has Alyson Hannigan ever been told that her breathy, halting version of acting wasn’t even cute or interesting on Buffy?

God, that show sets me off apparently.

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