Everything old blows!

The bottom line: As a child of the Ritalin era, I need the joke-a-second pace of South Park or Friends. But I'm bored with this point, so let's move on to...

It's so contrived
Let's examine Abbott and Costello's supposedly hilarious "Who's on First?" routine. I looked in the Manhattan White Pages and found not a single guy named Who — though there were a couple of Hoos. Call me crazy, but I didn't bother to look up I Don't Give a Darn. To me, A & C's premise is far too artificial, shticky, and corny — and the intended double entendres singularly grating. Such force-fed comedy abounds: Milton Berle grunting in a caveman outfit, Red Skelton with his clown thing — it's all about as natural as Marv Albert's hair.

The best of today's humor avoids this shrill phoniness in one of two ways: The show is either ultra-real (e.g., The Larry Sanders Show, practically a documentary of backstage Hollywood) or it acknowledges its artifice with a dash of postmodernism (e.g., The Simpsons, with their constant fourth-wall-breaking references to sitcoms).

It's too damn loud
Don't believe me? Watch The Honeymooners. Jackie Gleason & Co., for some annoying reason, feel the need to scream their punchlines as if they're on the tarmac at JFK! (Or should I say Idlewild?) Did no one tell the so-called Great One, "Hey, Jackie, vaudeville's over. We've got these new-fangled things called microphones''? And by the way, threatening your wife with domestic abuse was funnier the first 352 times.

Gleason is hardly the only member of Overactors Anonymous. Phil Silvers, Sid Caesar, Danny Kaye — they're all hammier than a Boar's Head factory. They make Cosmo Kramer look like a study in subtlety. Give me the delivery of a Jon Stewart or Norm Macdonald: natural, laid-back, no Advil required.

It's so freakin' clean
Here's a scientific fact: There's nothing funnier than a well-placed, well-timed, well-earned use of the word "ass." Witness "Assman" on Seinfeld, or "ass-munch" on Beavis and Butthead. Delightful both!

Granted, modern comedy goes to the posterior well just a tad too often, at times substituting scatology for wit (see Ally McBeal's unisex bathroom or Howard Stern's Fartman). Nevertheless, in my opinion, too many butts are better than no butts at all.

Butts, after all, are a part of life. As is sex. And yet before the '60s, thanks to some misguided prissiness, movies and TV virtually ignored the entire comedic goldmine below the belt. Think about it. Did Gracie Allen ever sport a goo-enhanced Cameron Diaz 'do? Did Steamboat Willy ever emit a flaming fart? Sadly, no. I shudder to think of the fate of geniuses like John Waters or Todd Solondz had they been born in the dark days of the Hayes Code.

It's just plain depressing
First off, all the actors are dead. Lucy? Dead. Desi? Dead. That guy who hangs from the clock? Dead. I'm sorry, but I don't want to be reminded of my mortality when I'm trying to get a carefree chuckle. I like my comedic actors living, breathing, and, if possible, having steamy off-screen romances with Brad Pitt.

Speaking of attractive people: Why did primitive humor put such a premium on frumpiness (Alice Kramden, Hazel the maid), gross blackened teeth (Imogene Coca, Red Skelton), and bad haircuts (The Three Stooges)? Ugh. Why should I suffer through Vivian Vance (forced to gain 20 pounds for her Lucy role) when I can watch Dharma & Greg's Jenna Elfman? She's hot!