For the last ten minutes, I have been watching quasi-celebrity commentary on the Williams sisters’ asses. In the last ten minutes I have not begun to learn French, started the next great American novel, or told anyone I loved them. I have not done any sit ups, flossed my teeth, or contemplated my future. Most importantly, I have not reached for the television remote, which is mere inches from my right hand. Projecting this data set to its logical conclusion, it’s probable that I will drown in a puddle of my own drool a few hours from now during an E! documentary on Scarlett Johansen’s lips. Someone pass the Chee-tohs.