It may be because I spent last fall buying an apartment, but I am slightly addicted to Million Dollar Listing. The show’s in its fourth season, and it’s definitely not one of Bravo’s bigger hits—I hadn’t heard of it before promos started popping up during other shows I was watching, which is unusual. I know I’d heard of more minor shows like Tabatha’s Salon Takeover before I ever saw an episode. Maybe it’s just that the show lives in the shadow of Flipping Out—its an ensemble show with younger real estate pros than Jeff Lewis, so it just may not be as high-profile.

Some of it is just the real estate porn factor, of course. It’s easy to lose a winter afternoon dreaming of infinity pools, and Malibu beachfront views, and freestanding gas powered fireplaces in the middle of sleek, airy rooms. Because the real estate is so completely over the top, I don’t feel any particular jealousy for the people who are buying and selling these properties. In truth, I even feel a little sorry for the people who are putting their homes on the market. They’re universally disappointed by the prices they’re getting, and a lot of them are putting houses on the market they obviously don’t want to sell.

And the realtors themselves are a twitchy, sharky lot. Josh Flagg, who was arrested for but never charged with stealing artwork from a client as the first season went on air, is a flake: he’s very sweet to his Holocaust-survivor grandmother, and leans towards schtick like signing up blonde twins as his interns. Josh Altman is Boston-born and overdressed for the areas where he’s selling, with perpetually hooded eyes and a smile that shows a lot of teeth but no particular warmth (in a very smart little example of integration between shows, one of the husbands of a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills shows up in partnership with Altman periodically). And Madison Hildebrand is perpetually tanned and beach-casual, but he’s anxious—about listings, about how out he wants to be, about his ex-boyfriend, about the perceptions of his competition.

I think there’s an element of schadenfreude in all of this, seeing that the rich are as stressed out about real estate as the middle class, and that the people who are in charge of these ridiculous transactions are as twitchy as they are. Watching them sweat ameliorates a lot of envy.

Ladies and gentlemen, in the contest for movie that is simultaneously grossly, sexistly unfunny, most condescending to the audience, and most bemused with its own low-level naughtiness, we have a new leading contender! Namely, Bad Teacher (trailer is red band, watch with your headphones in if at work, around people with any semblance of taste):

Justin Timberlake is actually funny. Cameron Diaz is actually a wonderful dizzy blonde with one of the sweetest smiles in show business. Phyllis Smith is a coy, sly riot. Jason Segel knows how to imbue patheticness with profound meaning. I say all of this because of how easy it is to forget these things after watching that horrifying two minutes.

Also, not to be super-moralistic, but this is just spectacularly, humorlessly crass. Diaz’s character is a totally hideous person, and not in a way that’s remotely interesting or illuminating. There is not much left to say about a hot woman who doesn’t want to work, and sees breast implants as her best step towards that goal, other than to be disgusted by her. Treating kids like this is not actually entertaining: it’s ugly and callous. Everyone in this movie appears to be a singularly wretched person. We already have an utterly fantastic movie about a wildly irresponsible teacher that was simultaneously funny, sweet, and intelligent. It’s called School of Rock.

My actorly crush on Jimmi Simpson is a matter of public record, so even if he won’t get to rock out to karaoke Erasure, I’m glad to hear he will be hunting vampires with Abraham Lincoln.

As a side note, has anyone actually read Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter? I haven’t read any of the horror-and-classics mashups, and I’m not really sure I have it in me to. I don’t really need more drama getting in Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth’s way, and there’s something that feels a bit queasy to me about going from Confederates to zombies, especially if the substitution is meant to be funny or badass in a Chuck Norris Facts sort of way. Sometimes what we’ve got is fraught enough.