There are some things I just prefer to assume are inalienable truths, some judgments whose soundness seem eternal. When I tuck myself in bed at night, I can drift off to sleep happily secure that Diet Coke will always love me, that spiders are a special and foul kind of satanic beast, that the eye should be protected from all tomfoolery, that Tara Reid will never have talent... and, in a recent addition, that NBC's latest slate of Tuesday night sitcoms will never rise above the sludge being peddled in their promos.

I hate when people try to disavow me of these notions. There's nothing more irritating than when the security blanket of my preconceived ideas suddenly gets shrunk in the wash and no longer covers my chilly feet.

For weeks, I've seen advertisements for Whoopi Goldberg's eponymous sitcom, premiering tonight on NBC. And for weeks, I've ridiculed them. The mere juxtaposition of "Oscar-winner Whoopi Goldberg" with the image of her prancing around in a caftan, all puffy and petulant and channeling Bea Arthur by way of Missy Elliot, made me squiffy enough. Couple that with clunky punch lines (watching her Iranian pal bumble and fumble an already awkward and unfunny punchline – "It's more dead than Saddam Hussein's first defense minister" – is one of the greatest pains) and the pat raucous laugh track, and suddenly Good Morning, Miami, looks like high art.

Then there's Happy Family, starring Christine Baranski and John Larroquette, who stubbornly persists in ignoring my pleas that he drop off the face of the Earth. Premise: Two happily married parents have problematic sons. One's dating the woman next door and won't move out, one's got a fiancée and a girlfriend. And the rub – and oh, it's a hilarious doozy – is that their only daughter is a clingy spinster played by the incredibly annoying woman from the Glad Bags commercials who squeaks all her lines out like she's a cross between Jennifer Love Hewitt and Megan Mullally, and whose finest televisual moment was in the ad where Kathy Griffin took delivery of the Glad Bags and then slammed the door in this woman's irritating, shrill, perky face. Also, the show looks lousy.

Ergo, I was eagerly awaiting the pissed-off critics' pinched-nose reviews in which one or more wondered what had turned rotten in the state of Peacock.

And then the critics betrayed me. Whoopi hasn't gotten panned yet. Happy Family is getting lauded as original. Even Tom Shales, my favorite acerbic ace, hasn't taken a literary dump all over them. He wasn't effusive about Whoopi, per se, but he called the pair a promising start to the new season and praised Larroquette in particular for being a delight.

It all leaves me vaguely ill inside. Because I was greatly looking forward to the crap crashing and burning, and I'd passed comfortable prejudgment on those shows based on their previews. And the idea that I'm wrong, and that America might be about to squeeze John Larroquette and Whoopi to its pillowy bosom, makes me uncomfortable. I mean, if the country can keep Yes, Dear, on the air for so long when even the critics wondered aloud who barfed on a sound stage and called it a sitcom, then how long might we have to watch La Goldberg strut and growl?

This is all too shocking. I hope it's just elaborate mind control perpetrated by the Danny Gans people, and that the critics will snap out of it. Because I refuse to actually watch the show and risk disproving my glib assumptions. No, no, no.

I didn't think there was anything much funnier than Anna Kournikova quitting her US Open "roving reporter" gig with USA because she didn't feel comfortable talking to the other players.

I was wrong.

The other reason she quit, she claims, is that she was eating too much on the job.

What?!?

She sucks. But I love all the other players for somehow driving her to food.

Also, it's pretty brilliant that the Brits can't abide David Blaine. His latest stunt, which involves being suspended over London in a glass box for 44 days without food, already has the English bored to tears.

So they're throwing food at him. Fish, eggs, whatever. In fact, one guy was quoted as saying that he saw it on television and got so bored by it as to be spurred to go see him, and hurl a few insults or bang a drum to liven things up.

Now, if David Blaine was sitting in a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs and vowing not to let food pass his lips, we might have something. But generally, I agree with the British: I don't give two shits in Heather Graham's shoes whether David Blaine can fast for that long while sitting in a peekaboo prison. Good on you, England! I hope it breaks him.

Wait. Is it wrong that I want to see David Blaine cry?

But seriously, who does he think he is? More importantly, who does he think we think he is – Jesus? Shut up, David Blaine. Go away. Eat, don't eat, whatever. None of it's for my salvation, nor for that of the human race, so forgive me if I'm going to be selfish and bite into a big old sandwich and lick my greedy fingers while laughing at your folly.

Someone got here by searching for: women who are so desperate to piss that they cry Watching: Bravo's The Reality of Reality: How Real is Real? Thinking: That it's pretty flawed and one-sided.