WIPE THE CRUMBS OFF YOUR FLAK JACKETS, GUYS

My issue with DEA (11 p.m. on Spike), a reality show tracking the
clandestine activities of elite agents from the U.S. Drug Enforcement
Administration, is that despite foreboding promises by the show's
portentous narrator, nothing actually happens.

"It's one of the most dangerous jobs in the world," booms the
disembodied overseer as the camera pans over flak-jacketed drug
crusaders fiddling boyishly with high-tech pistols.

"From the poppy fields of the Middle East and jungles of Columbia to
our city streets, agents of the DEA battle cold-blooded criminals who
will do anything to protect their global drug empires!"

This battle, as far as I can tell, involves a lot of sitting around
in unmarked vans, eavesdropping on cellphone calls and -- probably
more representative -- joshing convivially about snack foods.

"Give me one of your crackers!" Rick (Woody) Gatewood tells a fellow
agent as they kill time between busts. "Let me have a sip of your
water . . . make sure there's nothing floating in it this time!"

Har, har. This is what the American public is paying for in a
35-year-old war on drugs that, frankly, seems in no danger of being
won anytime soon.

No matter. There's a sanctimonious sense of purpose as these burly,
bearded he-men muse indulgently about the selfless sacrifices
required to put things right in the land of freedom and opportunity,
although nothing on screen suggests any such thing, even when the
narrator announces, "Next on DEA: an undercover meeting is suddenly
compromised and agents' lives are on the line!"

Wow, I thought, lives are on the line? This sounds intense -- an
unexpected glitch that could lead to tragedy. And their cover was
blown? Except for the fact their honking big minivan looks like an
Apollo moon rocket in the neighbourhood alley they're using as a
hiding place, I don't see how this could happen.

So it was with some amusement that I watched a suspicious bystander
approach the team's van like a teacher confronting unruly teenagers
making armpit farts, demanding to know what the heck they were doing.

"We're from Channel 7 doing a thing on dilapidated buildings and
cleaning up the alleys," stammers Gatewood, sounding like the biggest
liar since Pinocchio.

The man looks unconvinced. "You got a business card?"

Gatewood avoids eye contact. "No."

Good cover, guys. Way to deflect attention. I'm sure he doesn't
suspect a thing.

And then -- wait for it -- the police radio crackles to life.

"You know I got my nine and my hustle!" crows a two-bit pusher,
unaware she's been bugged. "And I'm good at it -- and just keep it real!"

I have no idea what she's saying, but the cops monitoring her
conversation evidently take this as a signal to put their snacks
away, wipe the crumbs off their flak jackets and prepare "to risk
their lives to take down an armed dope dealer."

That may be, but all we actually see is a bunch of guys with guns
banging in the front door and -- after a swift cut to handcuffed
suspects face down on the lawn -- recounting their incredible feats of heroism.

"It was a tense situation," insists John Greer. "But she decided to
drop her gun and nobody was hurt."

You know what's gonna be a tense situation? Asking U.S. Congress to
cough up more dough for drug enforcement after this farcical attempt
at propaganda gives all cops a bad name.