Oooh! Fall season! And you know what that means: Tens and tens of badly battered pilots have washed to the shore, orifices barely intact and bleating like freshman pledges who only just survived the hazing process, only to realize that the life of a frat boy is even more of a joke when you're actually in the brotherhood. Welcome to TV Land, bitches!

And while every other TV scribe in town is tripping over himself to preach to the choir what the new Arrested Development is, here in the TV Party Laboratories, I've been scouring the Earth to find for you just the opposite: the shows you should absolutely not watch. Don't even give them a chance. And punch yourself in the face with your house keys if you do.

First up is the pile of shit Fox is offering, just because Fox always goes big with both its successes and its steaming, mealy failures. And the very steamiest and mealiest is The War at Home (Sundays, 8:30 p.m.), mostly because it should be at least decent. Michael Rappaport (good) stars as father of three (lame), and it just descends from there, making Donal Logue's Grounded for Life seem groundbreaking by comparison. Rappaport's doltish patois has been rounded into Middle American vernacular, which does two bad things simultaneously: erases everything that was interesting about him in the first place, and disorients his fans (and I am one) to boot. Plus, the writing is seriously atrocious. (Note the burgeoning '90s-indie-film-star-goes-to-network-TV pattern that The War at Home establishes; there's more where that came from.)

Also on the chopping block: Kitchen Confidential (Mondays, 8:30 p.m.), an adaptation of Anthony Bourdain's illuminating book of the same name that doesn't look right at all. But maybe that's because I'd so badly rather see Bourdain himself in the title role, which I can, in his real-life show No Reservations (Mondays, 10 p.m., Travel Channel).

Meanwhile, over at ABC, it's ducks in a barrel. If you're not down with Hot Properties (Fridays, 9:30 p.m.), the network's decade-late spin on Sex and the City, there's also Freddie (Wednesdays, 8:30 p.m.) which stars Freddie Prinze Jr. as his very own punch line. There's all these Joeys and Tonys and Freddies rolling around in here; since when is watching TV the same as A.D. Amorosi's birthday party? Sheesh.

But Emily's Reasons Why Not (Mondays, 9 p.m.) packs a double whammy: It marks the evil slide into TV hell for Heather Graham (we had such high hopes, Roller Girl!) and if this synopsis doesn't make you roll your eyes and fart simultaneously, then nothing will, my friend: "Based on the best-selling novel of one successful single woman's search for love, this smart and stylish comedy explores life, love and sex in the city from an independent woman's point of view." Riiiight. If this is how it's going to be, the networks should just stop making sitcoms altogether. No, seriously, guys, it's cool. Honest.

Because oh, look, here's the same fucking idea made infuriatingly dickless in another way: Let's take another indie film star of the '90s and make him a… make him a… redneck! And so it comes to pass that NBC mints My Name Is Earl (Tuesdays, 9 p.m.) with none other than Jason Lee. That's right, the hero of Mallrats and object of much, much '90s playground love has been reduced to a day-late-dollar-short, Blue Collar Comedy-gone-meta cloud of nothingness. See? See what you do, TV people? Jesus.

But it gets worse over at NBC. What would you say if I told you there was a TV show that combined the best elements of Trading Spaces, Oprah AND compassionate conservatism? I think you'd probably say that your Three Wishes (Fridays, 9 p.m.) had been granted. And just for a bonus, Amy Grant is the host. Blaahahahaha. You just watched a TV show hosted by Amy Grant.

Oh, and I almost totally forgot that CBS still made TV shows. This brokedick lagwagon of a network still actually makes new episodes of Big Brother; CBS has morphed into that weird old store that is the only place in town where you can get that odd washer to fix your KitchenAid mixer, but in order to get it, you have to be OK with smelling like moth balls when you leave.

Anyway, it looks like Out of Practice (Mondays, 9:30 p.m.) gets the raspberry honors here. A seriously bunk hybrid of a late-period Woody Allen movie (lots of jokes about shrinks and plastic surgery, duhhhh) and the oh-I-just-popped-by-to-drop-this-witty-rejoinder lite comedy of Frasier (with which it shares producers), Out of Practice also boasts the honor of having Henry Winkler and Stockard Channing and Jennifer Tilly. I know! Ridiculous. Aren't you glad you have a DVD player?