When we take a knee to beg folks to watch Friday Night Lights, we always make the case that you don’t need to like or even care about football to appreciate what may go down as the best network television show of this golden age. Rest assured that you’ll never find a member of Team Trunkworthy face-painted, beer-helmeted, or banner-waving on game day, but we looked forward to every new episode of FNL like we had a thousand bucks riding on the outcome. The show was sacred territory for us, never to be dismissed and our love for it never to be mocked.
And then came Amy Schumer.
Well on her way to becoming the Lenny Bruce or Richard Pryor of her generation as she uses her TV show to fearlessly and hysterically light up third-rail issues on a weekly basis, she took on Friday Night Lights in a way that will make even the most devout fans recoil from a mix of laughter, shame and shock. She doesn’t settle for a simple parody of our beloved show, she assumes the chardonnay-soaked role of Tami Taylor and goes straight for the darkest and most dangerous corners of football’s testosterone-fueled culture. We still love our Friday Night Lights, but we may never watch it the same way again. Because, hey, like the coach’s wife says, you can’t bring a wet mule around a hot corn oven.