You’ve been downloading Eastbound & Down, right? So you know that it’s one of the funniest fucking shows going outside of Delocated and Tim and Eric on [adult swim].
You’ve been downloading Eastbound & Down, right? So you know that it’s one of the funniest fucking shows going outside of Delocated and Tim and Eric on [adult swim]. Moreover, it might be the only show ever to mainline the borderline psychopathic, egomaniac rage that occurs when a white male is stripped of his questionable accomplishments and reduced to moving back home to the South, specifically back to North Carolina. Eastbound’s checklist of suffocating minutiae is worthy of Harry Crews’s A Feast of Snakes by way of the decade’s Wal-Mart homogeny:
There’s the sinewy, happily married elder sibling always sippin’ a brew and offering condescending, bullshit advice like “Sometimes you just have to see what happens.” There’s the chick from middle school who now shoplifts her stripper-attire from Fashion Bug and fucks dirtbags for a living; the sometime-bartender who was a “roadie for Widespread,” has the coke connect, and wears a drug rug when it’s chilly. Terminal cancer kid dances. Deviled eggs strapped down to a plate like distended alien bellies under Saran Wrap. Bizarre encounters with alphamales who reach for your limp dick in mid-conversation. Ginormous BMW dealerships that are basically evangelical neon churches for upward mobility complete with an ape strumming a sale sign shaped like a banana. Remote lake escapes on a purple, cheetah-printed Jetski that Google’s minions fail to record. Welcome back to the Bible Belt, “ass-blood.”
It’s telling that so many New York-based critics are at a loss for this amazing series, carefully warbling their words just outside of “redneck.” Entertainment Weekly used “lower-middle class” as a vague euphemism, a review in The New Yorker curiously bypassed the setting and cultural themes altogether. Perhaps Jim Goad should add an addendum to his Redneck Manifesto. Then again, 30 Rock allots enough edible squirrel jokes per episode to its token God-fearing, submissive Southern character, Kenneth the Page, to make that motherfucker the new blackface. Kenneth’s M.O. is the equivalent to Tracy Jordan getting a permanent tattoo of a teardrop on his cheek that’s constantly mistaken for a watermelon seed. Or your ex’s role model, Liz Lemon, doing bumps and fucking in a Brooklyn bar’s restroom, blogging the lessons learned and scoring a movie deal with the Weinsteins. Just saying.
So yeah, it’s cool that of all the talented and funny people with roots in the South—Jack McBrayer, Zach Galifianakis, Ed Helms, Stephen Colbert, Amy Sedaris, to name but a few—it was the guys behind the fucknomenal indie The Foot Fist Way that went back there, set up shop, and turned the seething, sunny cultural inanity they know—like so many transplants—inside out, and “waved it around like a cervix.” In conclusion: Peace to Kenny Powers, the funniest, angriest equal-opportunity, All-American champion of hate since Daniel Plainview, Clipse and Alphonse Hercules Bundy.
I don’t know dude. I kind of get freaked out by what a dick he is. Aren’t you supposed to at least sort of sympathize with the protagonist? I could give a shit if this guy lives or dies and that doesn’t make for appointment TV.
PS: Do you work for this show?
Dear Street Carnage,
I categorically do not have a relationship with the show or with anyone involved and would never attempt to plug anything on your site due to longstanding respect/ethics: For shame. I think the guys involved (re: not to be confused with Apatow’s clique) and their brand of comedy are highly relevant, misunderstood and often brilliant. If you need a reference, Mykel Board owes me one for touching my thigh in the middle of the night.
We contacted Mykel Board but, before we could get a reference, he tried to fuck us.