I write articles out of desperation. I am always desperate to procrastinate on something—whether it be cleaning my apartment, going to the gym, or writing the major projects that, I always believe, will reveal to the world my true and undeniable talent. Yet here I am, writing an article. I know damn well I should be working on developing the television project I hope to see on next fall’s network TV schedule. But I’m procrastinating. Why? I have a fear of success? It’s a vital part of my creative process? I’m a big wuss?

If I were the current presidential administration’s top advisor, I might spin this like so: “Jordan is simply trying to avoid becoming an icon of the entertainment industry because, in her heart of hearts, she knows how soul crushing it will be to be constantly hounded by paparazzi and accosted mercilessly by rabid, adoring fans, when all she wants is merely to enjoy a simple outing with her family just like anybody else.” But isn’t it really that anyone whose objective it is to be an active participant in “the business of show” secretly aspires to relinquish their privacy (and dignity) as all our tabloid idols must bare? And that’s exactly why Dirt, the FX network’s latest Tuesday night seat filler, is very hard to take seriously.

New Rule: Any show about a tabloid look at celebrity MUST have at least one really good comedy writer on staff.

This show—the offspring of real life couple Courtney Cox and David Arquette—is trying so hard to be satirical and ironic that it has lost its sense of humor. Courtney Cox’s character, Lucy, is a jaded, hard-biting, win-at-any-cost magazine head of state, and overcompensates for being a woman in a man’s world … and all that yadda-yadda bull honky. But nobody—I don’t care how powerful their position—moves and shakes 24/7/365. Hey—and, I regret (half-heartedly) subjecting you to the same example, but: look at our president.

What this show needs is a good joke writer. Ian Hart’s astounding acting chops have only received a dreary script so far. Hart’s schizoid paparazzo is huge comic potential in concept alone. Unfortunately, the choice has been made that he can’t snap a shutter and see animated hallucinations at the same time, so we’re now deprived of the one light, tasty tidbit the show once provided. Hart elicits our empathy, and it’s hard to put your attention on anyone else when Conky is onscreen. But it’s not enough to keep afloat the storylines and grim themes on a subject that, quite frankly, is not all that serious.

I’m sure I’m not the first to think this thought. Must I say it? Okay, I will: Hey, Dirt, I know you’re all about dirt, but lighten up already! Let’s see some stories satirizing the Scientologists. What better showbiz fodder do you get handed to you? Okay, Nip/Tuck has been doing that pretty flawlessly already, but, c’mon! There’s more than enough parody gold there for everyone!

I have an idea: How about a show about some gay-looking English actor being caught being straight? Or some hot, matinee idol hunk having clandestine true love liaisons with his grandmother’s best friend? There’s a shocker! Why is it always about outing the obligatory black, gay basketball icon? Or the drug dominated ingénue and her star-crossed marriage? What’s news about that? This is television, dammit! We wanna see something better than real life. We can see real life … well, in real life. Hey, Dirt, if you’re gonna expose a seedy underbelly, in an industry that’s already exposed the seediness and the bloated underbellies of everyone we currently know and love, you gotta do more than try and mirror life, you gotta make it better.

Unfortunately, in our fifteen-minutes-of-fame, YouTube culture right now, we’ve been there/done that—with practically everything already. So how do you pull it off without showing the one about the girl who seduces the pony? Oh, it’s possible, my friend, and it has, been done, and done well. So, Dirt, while you wrack your brains trying to figure out how next to “shock” us, I have three very big little words for ya: Make. Us. Laugh.

Kisskiss.