The Michael Jackson Saga has now reigned o'er the land for precisely 40 days and 40 nights. But it's already pretty clear that its freshness date has, alas, just about expired (according to my unofficial Tabloidy Overkill Buzz-O-Meter). And nothing can take its place.

Don Mischer must be some kind of an evil genius.

Oh sure, plenty of people have proven proficient at inspiring anger in the TV industry rank-and-file, what with the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences’ long and colorful history of Emmy alienation.

But no one has been able to piss everyone off with such inclusive vigor and blinding rage as has this year’s Emmy executive producer. Had he set out to sabotage the ceremony on purpose, Mischer really could not have succeeded more resoundingly.

The ongoing speculation over where Paula Abdul will manage to land in her post-“American Idol” life has little to do with the recent introduction at Wienerschnitzel of a (drum roll, please) Chili Cheese Fries Burrito. But bear with me for a few hundred words, and I promise to tie them together in a quasi-profound way.

Let’s start with Abdul, who inspires a fanatic level of dedication and loyalty that feels entirely baffling. Perhaps this is because I lack the “Idol” gene, which automatically labels me a sad outcast.

So it’s started to occur to me that I’m spending way too much time on Facebook, and that there appears to be a correlation between my present workload and the propensity to justify the hours spent in the throes of Status Update Fixation and Commentary Mania.

It becomes a sort of social network-as-syringe, addiction through monitor-driven camaraderie.