With a look recalling the glories of King of the Hill, but no discernible point of view or comic fuse of its own, Dynamite is a dud.

[A] toothless hourlong teen-com.

It feels the opposite of relevant and fresh.

NYC 22 isn't even trying. It's not too too, it's too little.

If the show were as exciting as it is improbable, Missing could qualify as a guilty pleasure. All it's missing are a few crucial ingredients: originality and intelligence.

The writing telegraphs every trite and derivative twist, whether violent or sexual or some combination of the two to remind us this is pay cable and not some musty rerun.

This spinoff of Jersey Shore has possibly even less substance, as the high-haired DJ from Rhode Island gets a residency gig at a Las Vegas casino, and brings his motley crew of homeboys with him to marvel at their swank new digs.

Men at Work is junk of the most disposable nature, a sex-obsessed comedy set at a phony-even-by-sitcom-standards magazine.

Unfortunately, there are few shows this season worse or more grating than tonight's Malibu Country, where the beachfront corn grows awfully and annoyingly high.

Crystal (previously seen in the Night at the Museum movies, the second Hangover film and a memorable cameo on Community) steals what little show there is here.

There is exactly one interesting storyline.

A trite and drab melodrama about women on the WWII homefront who go to work on the dangerous front lines of a munitions factory, assembling bombs that aren't nearly as lethal as the corny dialogue and the comically stilted performances.

This buddy sitcom feels contrived, derivative (instead of Megan Mullally, we get a stereotyped sassy and buxom Latina secretary) and sadly lacking in essential chemistry.

Chicago Fire isn't half bad when the fires and other crises take over as the star of the show. It's after the smoke clears and the stories kick back in that you begin to realize the only way to salvage these sorry stereotypes in uniform is to burn them the only way we know how.

You've heard of open-and-shut cases. Motive is more like open and yawn.

This shrill parable of redemption, being burned off in back-to-back episodes, is like a spiritual Enlightened for the tone deaf.

Huff is stubbornly inert, going all over the place tonally while going nowhere emotionally.

A far cry from Boston Legal or even The Practice, this is so clumsy in its mix of the procedural and the personal that it should barely be legal.

It wants to be shockingly frank but is mostly dour and phony.

Worth watching? First you’d have to stay awake.

To say these guys are stereotypes does insult to the clichés they clumsily represent.

The season's silliest new action-fantasy-adventure.

Which "Sex and the City" knockoff is worse, ABC's "Cashmere Mafia" or NBC's Lipstick Jungle (based on Sex author Candace Bushnell's best-seller)? It really depends which one you're watching at the time. Both are simply dreadful, failing miserably at making their glamorously high-powered heroines sympathetic, credible or remotely interesting.

Nearly everything feels stale in this sitcom.

Painfully derivative.

An embarrassing dud that's both trashy and self-pitying.

An especially silly descent into incoherence.

This exercise in tedium is better suited for its original home on the Internet, where it should have stayed.

The culture-clash premise drowns in a sewer of offensive caricatures and lame jokes.

It's pretty much impossible to care, since we've heard it all before, and it was funnier and fresher the first time around.

The smarmy and incessant innuendo is more deafening than the laugh track, and yet no matter how low it stoops, it still lacks the zing and bite of Handler's cable antics.

The writing is so trite that when the teens balk in an upcoming episode at the idea of a Family Night (to which the ever-present ex-husbands are invited), we share their despair.

Sandra Brown's Ricochet is simply dreadful.

I'm pretty sure there aren't drugs strong enough to get me to the bittersweet end of this series.

An embarrassingly slapdash time-waster.

Run, don't walk, from this depressingly generic retro-sitcom about--guess what--guys with kids.

A laughable medical thriller that does irreparable harm to one's belief in such storytelling staples as logic and credibility.

An average episode of The Vampire Diaries offers more wit, surprise and true horror than this derivative amateur night of mannered, feigned fright.

It's just more of the same martial artlessness. I kept expecting to see Batman-style OOF! BAM! graphics on screen.

An unsatisfying and predictable jumble.

This new version violates the primary commandment of epic filmmaking, biblical or otherwise: Thou shalt not bore.

Big Day should be retitled "The Longest Day," as it spends an entire season showing us how many dreadfully unfunny complications can spoil a single wedding day.

[A] shapeless, pointlessly annoying comedy.

Dreadful. Worse even than those awful Olympics promos.

Yes, I saved the worst for last. NBC’s mawkish new nurse melodrama Mercy has no mercy.

My goose bumps fell asleep waiting to be roused.

It's kind of like Dad says: "If it looks like manure and smells like manure, it's either Wolf Blitzer or it's manure." $#*! My Dad Says is no Wolf Blitzer.

David E. Kelley hits rock bottom in the derivative courtroom cartoon Harry's Law, which makes last fall's defunct and equally ridiculous Outlaw look as noble as The West Wing.

It's hard to imagine a worse idea than The Paul Reiser Show, creating a new void to replace the void that was Perfect Couples.

It's not just a lazy idea, it's atrociously executed, pathetically acted and cynically conceived.

Not buying it. Not watching it. Feel free to hate H8R, and should they come knocking, don't let them in. No one needs to be on TV this badly.

BFF is about as fun as a multiple hernia operation.

With its deafening laugh track and its banal barrage of gamy insult humor, it intrudes on FX's otherwise distinctive comedy lineup like an obnoxious drunk uncle who's not as funny as he thinks he is.

If there's any justice, Brand X With Russell Brand will be as quickly forgotten as his blink-and-you-missed-it union with Katy Perry.

The original Beast was a beauty. This one's a bust.

An aggressively preposterous mash-up of medical and mob clichés that results in the sort of hack-work melodrama that would defeat even the most brilliant script doctor.

Neighbors settles for charmless performances, stupid jokes and sight gags that might be funny once, such as naming all of the aliens after famous sports figures (like Larry Bird and Jackie Joyner-Kersee), but with repetition grows fretfully stale.

Watching this inane New York story of four neurotically babbling sisters, each trying to outcute the other, is like swallowing vanilla lip gloss while someone's screaming in your ear.

The woeful sub-Dawson's Creek dialogue caused me actual pain.

This crudely mean-spirited cringe of a show isn't even medium well-done, and here's this customer's tip: Avoid at all costs.

ABC's atrocious Work It fails miserably.

Rob feels as if it were written by people who aren't on a first-name basis with comedy.

Think a less charming Ally McBeal in scrubs, acting out with all the maturity of the dancing baby, and that still can't approximate the annoying aftertaste of this cringe-inducing misfire.

An epic of stunningly cynical and pathetic miscasting, a TV-movie so laughably inept it doesn't deserve to be on a first-name basis with anything resembling humanity.

Even in a year that has given us clunkers like The Mob Doctor, Emily Owens, M.D. and Animal Practice, it's tempting to declare Zero Hour the worst or at least silliest show of this or any other recent season.