Ugly Sopranos Need Not Apply

In the world of TV sitcoms, schlumpy, beer-gutted dudes marry up with curvaceous, pretty women like they're selling 'em by the dozen at Wal-Mart. It's just a given that if you're built like Kevin James, you're bedding down with this.

But if there's one place where the goofy guy to hot chick ratio is completely off the charts, it's The Lawrence Welk Show.

I got sucked into this musical-variety relic from decades past mostly by accident; my local PBS station runs Welk fests every Sunday afternoon, when I'm typically down and out and too hungover to change the channel. But now I tune in religiously, if for no other reason than to gawk at the premium '70s trim.

Clearly, Lawrence was a man with a plan. If you were a guy and you could sing, it didn't matter if you looked like you were part orangutan or the result of genetic testing gone awry. You were in. If you were female and you could sing, you'd best be bringing some spectacular tits and an enchanting smile to the party. Being eighteen wouldn't hurt, either.

Check any episode and you'll see it in action. Doddering old men, who look like they may have just stepped out of the Neanderthal exhibit at the Smithsonian, dueting with glossy-lipped, raven-haired hotties who barely seem old enough to be driving. It's the template for pretty much every rap video ever made, minus the accordions.

Even worse is the effect the show's been having on me. Being a red-blooded guy and seeing all this hotness on parade -- especially in my alcohol-weakened state -- I typically can't help but have to work one out, most often during a Lennon Sisters number. And I will tell you that carrying the shame of being "the guy who pleasures himself to the Lawrence Welk Show" ain't easy, people.

The point of this post? None, really. But, man, did Lawrence Welk know his shit.