"a movie that drips so much sleaze on your shoes that you're liable to track it all over the linoleum."

I love camp: Love it! Love It! LOVE IT! There's just something wonderful about art so unintentionally bad, it's good.

And when it comes along, I wallow in it, like a pig in a camp sty. I mean, how can you not?

How can you listen to, say, Neil Diamond, watch one of his concerts on PBS during pledge week and not say, "OH. MY. GOD."? Shimmering shirt, tight polyester-blend pants, over-the-top crooning of treacly rock ballards: It's just so awful. But it doesn't stop at bad; it breaks on through to the other side. Listen to this guy sing, "You don't Send Me Flowers," or watch him work a crowd, and you know that this guy really thinks he rocks. And he does--like he's Tom Jones or something. He's just that good.

And don't get me started on bad television.

So there should be no surprise that I am all over this. I mean, I'm on it like a pixelated thong on Elizabeth Berkley. I've got it covered. You should probably check it out, too.

It's that good. Honestly, it like Christmas in July.

God bless us, everyone!