My complaint about children's entertainment these days is... well, I have several: it's overly didactic, it's unimaginative, everything has the appearance of clearing several screening commitees that make sure there's nothing potentially offensive or interesting, the music is terrible, I could go on.
But I think my chief complaint is the unrelenting glee. There's no let-up to the mood, nothing a little melancholy or subdued, it's just happy happy joy joy until an adult could be forgiven for feeling the temptation to steal a child's favorite toy. Not that I would do that.
One of the worst offenders here is Elmo's World. Elmo, for the uninitiated, is (IIRC) Grover's nephew, who, "All About Eve"-like, worked his way out from his uncle's tutelage to usurp him in the Sesame Street spotlight. He's a giggly little punk with nothing interesting to say, ever, and he's a one-note symphony: everything's inexplicably funny to him, and he loves everyone and everything (why did it get through committee, this anthropomorphizing of inanimate objects like drawers and televisions, I don't know).
The worst part? Kids love the little red bastard. I mean L-U-V love. So, you know, we parents surrender to such amour. Maybe this is practice for the day my daughter brings home some snotty Eddie Haskell type for me to glare at through dinner as he tells my wife what a lovely dress she's wearing.
Fortunately, I've found an antidote I can turn to after a day of Elmo loving his goldfish, his crayons too.
Behold, the antidote.