Where to even begin.
When Netflix said they were producing a season of a Full House reboot, we all quit our jobs to make sure there would be no distractions in our lives when it was released. There has never been, at any time since that crocodile gave birth to the first human baby*, a more exciting announcement than the one that told us that Full House was coming back.
Yes, we all knew it was going to be terrible. Let's just get that out of the way right now. Nobody actually thought this was going to be a good show. We all saw Full House in the 90s. We see it on tv all day, every single day. There is basically a channel devoted to Full House syndication. Every one of us saw at least a flash of one of the show's scenes just today while we flipped back and forth between Love It Or List It and Naked and Afraid. Just how terrible Full House was and is has never drifted far enough into the recesses of our minds to allow nostalgia to fool us into an alternate reality wherein this show wasn't gag-inducing.
So when we heard they were going to revive the spectacle and make a dozen more episodes, none of us were under the impression that a well-written bomb of comedy genius was coming our way. But that totally and completely didn't matter. Because Full House raised us. Not our parents. Full House.
I had four dads growing up: Danny Tanner, Jesse Kastoplinskjlkjsis, Joey Gladstone, AND LIFE LESSONS. So a 12-episode jaunt back into the Tanners' lives was like coming home from college for Thanksgiving after two decades of living in a world where most problems can't be completely resolved with violins, 30 minutes, and a few decorated cliches.
And that's surely how it felt for all of us 30-somethings who sat down over the weekend to the familiar sound of a theme song TO WHICH NOBODY HAS EVER KNOWN ALL OF THE WORDS. ("Whatever happened to budumbudubity. The milk man, the paper boy, theevernenen TV! Minish manold familiar friends, WAITING JUST AROUND THE BEEEEEEEND!")
And no, you may not look up the lyrics on the Internet. Full House was on before the Internet and so you aren't allowed to use technology that proceeded the show to decipher its nonsense. Them's the rules of our generation.
The theme song ended and the show began. And we were back in the only-slightly-remodeled house 29 years later, an amount of time that makes abso-freaking-lutely no sense whatsoever on any level no matter what with liberty and justice for all.
Why are we counting the amount of passed time from the pilot episode? Why not since the time we last saw the Tanners? When the show tells us that the events that are about to occur are taking place "29 years later," are we to assume that nothing after the pilot episode happened? Was it all a dream?
DID MICHELLE NOT REALLY FALL OFF THE HORSE?!
But before you have an opportunity to do math and realize how freaking old you and everyone in this show now are, the forced introductions begin.
DJ is hotter than we expected.
Uncle Jesse has somehow aged in reverse and is a beautiful piece of man and now all of us are gay for having seen him. ALL OF US.
Aunt Beckie is a freaking super model. One who asks Jesse if they can have another baby even though they are, like, 75 now.
Joey's life is still so sad that we forget to notice his appearance.
Danny Tanner looks like your disappointed high school principal who has been promising to retire for 29 years while doing various crass stand-up comedy routines on the weekends.
Stephanie's meth boobs are so big that at least one of them now has its own atmosphere.
And Kimmy Gibbler looks exactly 100% the same as she did 29-enty years ago, BECAUSE THERE IS A GOD AND HE KNOWS WE NEEDED SOME STABILITY HERE.
On a side note, sometime in the last 29 years, Nicky and Alex stopped being identical twins. And, since Blockbuster video stores shut down everywhere a few years ago, I'm concerned that they are probably both unemployed. In real life.
What all of the above leaves us with is a very confusingly-sexualized version of the trademarked innocence that raised us. I swear to you that Stephanie's cleavage was so enormous that Netflix advises that you get a bigger tv so your current one won't explode when she puts on her hooker dress for Danny's going away party in the first episode.
Yes, Danny, and all of the other "grownups" are already getting the hell out of there on the very first episode. Every single one of them got their dream jobs at exactly the same time and so they are all moving away at once. Even though DJ's husband died 12 seconds ago and left her with three terrible child actors kids to raise on her own.
But don't worry. Stephanie and Kimmy decide to move in last minute to inverse Full House and raise the children with her.
This leaves us only to assume that Michelle was probably supposed to be in Kimmy's place when Fuller House was initially imagined by the writers(?). But Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen literally hid from this inevitable calamity. Because say what you will about those ladies: they know what the hell is up. And they were not about to go down on this sinking ship.
Still, one gets the sense watching this mess that we are all being cheated and that Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen owe it to America to wade the disaster with the rest of us. We made Mary Kate and Ashley into the tragedies they became. We almost literally handed them billions of dollars to produce garbage films and whatever doors those opened for at least two full decades. The least they could do is show up to a depressing reunion of the thing that put them on the map in the first place.
But no. Everyone but Michelle came to the party. Even Stephanie and her boobs and her extremely confusing British accent that sounded like an unintentional mix of cockney, the Queen's English, and a Jar Jar Binks impression. EVEN STEPHANIE came back. Because everyone else understood the importance of making this thing happen.
Which brings me to Macy Gray. Yes. Macy Gray is in Fuller House. And she is clearly on every drug that anyone has ever tried. And I'm completely sure that a profoundly inebriated version of herself was the only version that would have ever agreed to be a part of this. With every line she delivers, she seems to be half looking over her shoulder the way one does when they are worried their friends might see them talking to the weird kid.
She even yells a split second before her scene cuts out what I can only imagine was not a scripted line: "why am I doing this?! I have a Grammy!"
I'm not kidding you. That really happened. And apart from Kimmy Gibbler complaining that she lost her deposit on a rental car when she gave birth inside of it, this was the only non-mocking laugh the first three episodes pulled out of me.
I sat on the couch in awe at the schizophrenic family programming reaching desperately to be both wholesome and scandalous simultaneously, but awkwardly failing to do either. I was surrounded by 30-something year-old friends who were having all of the exact same visceral reaction to everything with which we were being assaulted. And then the third episode ended. And we all made the same disgusted sound in unison.
Then I realized something: Yes, Fuller House is terrible. But you know what, folks? I was completely entertained every single second it was on. And with God as my witness, I will watch every episode. Probably twice. And if they make 12 more seasons with 12 episodes each, with or without Macy Gray, I will devour all of those, too. Probably, even, on a Friday night. So I guess those people did something right, by doing a lot of things oh so wrong.
Twice up the barrel, once down the side.
*I received my public education from the state of Utah so I'm completely guessing about how evolution works.
~It Just Gets Stranger