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As the writers’ strike continues, Creative Loafing has assigned itself the unenviable task of watching the dreck the networks are pumping out. We will do this until it hurts. Then we will do it more.

American Gladiators (8 p.m., NBC) and Dance War: Bruno Vs. Carrie Ann (8 p.m., ABC)

Damn is Hulk Hogan tan — and basted. As I sat in front of the television last night, switching back and forth between “first-run, non-scripted” network offerings American Gladiators and Dance War: Bruno vs. Carrie Ann, I couldn’t help but curse those damned striking writers. So THIS is what it’s come to, thanks to your greedy little campaign for Internet and DVD residuals — subjecting my already teetering sanity to the chortlings of the Hulkster, a guy nicknamed “Big Country” who likened a physical challenge to “hog wrestling at the fair” and a couple of wannabe American Idol judges?

“You are the baddest of the bad! You made it down, you didn’t slow down, you didn’t mess around,” the erstwhile Terry Bollea praised winner Sienna — that is, when he wasn’t calling her “sister,” or a male competitor by the name of Adonis “brother,” or throwing the action to fellow reality TV whore and co-host Laila Ali (of Dancing With the Stars fame). Believe it or not, the original American Gladiators premiered almost 20 years ago in all the glory of its comic-book costumery, arena-style videogame action, and repressed homoeroticism. And now, amped up as if having popped one too many Flintstone vitamins, the good ol’ boys and girls were back, “heck”-ing and “darn”-ing their way through family-friendly, heartland-groomed challenges like The Gauntlet, The Earthquake, and ultimate obstacle course The Eliminator, as a color commentator looked on, observing, “Oh, this is painful.”

You ain’t shittin’. Over in spin-off land, Dancing With The Stars judges Carrie Ann and Bruno, pulling double duty while leaving that old guy judge to twist in his tap shoes, donned their worst Paula and Simon impressions in an utterly flaccid, Disney-fied audition episode that should’ve been called American Idle™. (Snap!) Granted, Carrie Ann doesn’t clap like a baby seal on Oxycontin, and Bruno refrained from the questionable v-neck shirts, but somewhere between the Seacrest-lite stylings of Drew Lachey and a jubilant semi-finalist exclaiming, “I made it to LA, dawg!”, I felt a little piece of my soul die. Without even the slightest bit of bite, just hugs and “sorry you suck” smiles for even the lamest of contestants, the two-hour (!) festival of pain degenerated to a Kids Incorporated-meets-Fame high-stepping finale that made me pine for the Shakespearean-by-comparison prose of What About Jim?

Are we the jabronis here? Sure does feel like it, what with “prime time” television reduced to a mishmash of aging stand-up comedians (Howie Mandel on Deal or No Deal, Bob Saget on 1 vs. 100) and D-list stars jumping from reality show to reality show with the frequency of a cheap ham radio. The cameras swirled, the ADHD jump cuts verged on seizure-inducing, and Gladiator and Dance War hosts and contestants alike unleashed a sensory-overloaded, mind-numbing assault that made me feel like I’d been Tasered, bro. Ali may have scored as a footloose celebrity/daughter/“star,” and Hogan may have known best in his televised household, but in their unholy union, “fueled on and powered by Subway,” viewers are reminded ever so classily, I was anything but entertained.

“I’m agile like a mongoose!” Adonis boasted to his rival (I can’t recall whether it was Militia or Wolfman, as I was sucking my thumb in the fetal position at the time). “It’s over! It’s over!” Unfortunately for me, it’s not. Tune in tomorrow for another round of craptastic television ranting.

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