Where Have All The Little Gold Men Gone?

[Photo from Urban Habitat]

Feel that breeze? Unless you forgot to throw on underwear this morning, it’s probably the collective exhale of a million screenwriters and their overworked spouses. As of this Saturday, the writer’s strike may come to an excruciatingly overdue finale. Well, maybe anyway. What this means for you:

The late night heavyweights can stop writing their own tired monologues and get a decent shave. Gossip Girl can regain its rightful place at the top of my Tivo list (and Holly can stop writing her own show scripts).  Broadway can continue sucking. Most importantly, you may still be able to plan your Oscar parties in all their white-wine-estrogen-overloaded glory. With the threat of the Academy Awards becoming another televised train wreck on par with the pitiful Golden Globes , a resolution may be near, and I can stop watching Project Runway reruns. How many times can you hear Tim Gunn say “Get it done” before your eardrums start bleeding. The answer is seventeen. Plus, without the Vanity Fair soiree, the chance of seeing headlines like “Clooney Drops Trou, World Weeps,” should drop dramatically.