Unpopular Opinion: People Who 'Skip Intro' Are Lazy And Unappreciative

Plus: Jane's Crush Shows Up!

Hello fellow freaks/lovelies/fill in your preferred descriptor here and I will join you in it,

I foresee getting called out (for the 1000th time) for acting like a teenager at my old age for this. But listen to me, girls (and that is the universal girls, not based upon gender, but based on all of the characteristics, attitudes, philosophies and Sassiness that earn you that worthiest of titles):

Someone I have been dying to meet for years now just became a paid subscriber to AJPT today! Not with the cheapo, commitment-phobic, one-foot-in-one-foot-out monthly subscription (though no judgment, seriously, to others like me who tend to do it that way), but with the generous of spirit, open hearted, caution to the wind, zero trust issued, healthily boundaried, highly adult ANNUAL subscription – and did I say it’s a long-term commitment?! So now I'm nervous. And I'm asking you, please, if you notice me acting differently here because my crush is in the room, call me out on it. Because how embarrassing!

Okay, while I try to remember who I am here, one other thing I've been wanting to catch you up on: The Unpopular Opinion and It Happened To Me submissions I’ve been getting from you these last couple of weeks have been soooo good, and of course I want more more more. So please send me your stories for either of those categories, or send me any other stories you want me to showcase here, to jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com. I would love to pay you for your brilliant work and love to publish it for others to admire and enjoy.

Thank you all for reading and subscribing (especially certain people - just kidding). You are the whole reason I do this, so please now don't let me look like an ass.

Let's move on to the glorious post today, which was sent to me at that very email address (once again: jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com.).…

-Jane

By: Paula McNerney

Once upon a time, TV theme songs weren’t just catchy—they were gospel. Tiny musical sermons that told you what time it was, what mood to be in, and why algebra could wait. They weren’t just intros. They were emotional warm-ups, pre-show rituals that marinated your brain in joy.

Now? They’re roadkill on the autoplay highway. Steamrolled by the clinical convenience of the “Skip Intro” button—a button that might as well say, “Delight? Never heard of her.”

Think I’m being dramatic? I am. And I’m also devastatingly correct.

The Theme Song As Ritual

I wasn’t just watching TV. I was entering a portal.

Little House on the Prairie didn’t start—it unfolded. Violins swelled. The hills rolled on forever. Then came the bonnet crew, flinging themselves into tall grass like they’d never heard of allergies or liability waivers.

A dog darted through the frame. The fiddle kicked in. Suddenly, you were emotionally primed for 60 minutes of quietly devastating frontier problems and long, meaningful stares across a dinner table made of logs.

Then there was The Love Boat.

I was ten. Fresh out of a bath, towel turban tight, high on bubblegum shampoo fumes. The shag carpet was tragic. My transformation? Immaculate. For two glorious minutes, I was on the Lido Deck. Cheese crackers in one hand, an imaginary cocktail in the other. Dripping in Bain de Soleil–level glamour, fully committed to the fantasy.

Slip? Yes. But in my mind, it was Prell-level hair down to there. You understand.

The lights dimmed in my imagination. The music swelled. And then—Charo. Twirling into frame like a glitter-drenched oracle in heels that violated maritime law.

Romance bloomed on international waters. Scandalous tennis instructors made moves below deck.

And I? I basked in the cinematic sun of my own delusion, right where I belonged.

And The Jeffersons? Please. That wasn’t a theme song. That was a flex.

The first note of “Movin’ on Up” hit like a status upgrade. You weren’t eating generic ice cream anymore. You were Häagen-Dazs rich. You were deluxe apartment–in–the–sky unstoppable.

(For the record, I still don’t have that apartment. If George Jefferson’s ghost can pass along real estate advice, I’m all ears.)

How We Entered Into The “Skip Intro” Era

“Skip Intro” is the guillotine of joy.

It’s the TV equivalent of slapping a sandwich out of someone’s hand mid-bite.

I was guilty at first. I clicked it with the misguided zeal of someone who believed they were hacking life. Smug. Efficient. “Who’s got time for fluff?” I’d mutter, my cold brew sweating in one hand and my legally questionable heart rate pounding in the other.

But here’s the thing: Skipping the theme might save a little bit of time, but it fully kills the mood.

Channeling equal parts jet-set and witness protection. And I stand by it.

There’s no emotional transition. No atmosphere. Just plot, dropped on your lap like lukewarm leftovers.

It’s as jarring as answering a “u up?” text, leaping into action, and skipping straight to regret.

Theme songs were the scented candles of TV. They set the tone. The mood. The magic. Skipping them is like showing up late to your own dream and wondering why everything feels disjointed.

But this isn’t just my problem. It’s all of ours.

We’ve become so allergic to pause we treat delight like a glitch. “Skip Intro” isn’t efficiency. It’s collective amnesia. It’s binge culture’s final form—right next to microwaved pasta, forgotten cliffhangers, and autoplay countdowns that feel more like threats than features.

The Death Of The Opening Credits

The button slithered onto screens around 2017, tucked in the corner like a UX gremlin. At first, we welcomed it. A life hack! A sleeker, smarter TV experience.

But in hindsight, that button was a Trojan horse. It wasn’t saving time. It was editing out the magic—quietly, efficiently, without leaving a paper trail.

Every time you hit that button, you weren’t just fast-forwarding a song. You were ghosting a ritual. The violins swelling, the popcorn crunching, the world tilting slightly as anticipation hummed in the air.

Instead, you dismissed the show with a quick, “Actually, I’m just here to numb out for seven episodes and then Google if coconut milk expires, even though you know damn well it already has.”

Skipping the song reduced TV to fast food. It’s filling enough but leaves no mark. Forgettable as the plot of a dream the second you open your eyes.

So Much Has Been Lost!

Before streaming, TV wasn’t this passive, half-baked experience. It demanded you show up.

Fridays were an event.They meant cafeteria pizza that came with a complimentary roof-of-the-mouth burn, your mom’s phone cord practically clotheslining you as she paced the kitchen, and the faint warble of the TV pulling everyone toward the same story.

That theme song wasn’t filler. It told you, “This matters. You’re here.”

Tan courtesy of zero SPF. Nails courtesy of 300 Skee-Ball tickets. Attitude courtesy of being ready for international waters.

Now? TV just kind of happens. Quietly. Alone.

It’s the background hum to you endlessly scrolling Zillow, wearing the same sweatpants as Tuesday, clicking through a black hole of tabs, and realizing even the fixer-uppers are out of your budget.

Imagine A Skip-Free World

Close your eyes.

Picture this instead of your usual late-night plot binge: You’re ten. Towel turban tight. Neon cheese crackers in one hand, invisible cocktail in the other.

The Love Boat theme starts. The carpet turns to deck. The lighting shifts. The walls blur. For 87 seconds, you’re not in your living room. You're starring in your own ‘80s guest-star fever dream. Charo twirls into frame. You believe in glamour. In narrative preamble. In magic. Now cut to present-day you: Grown. Jaded. Skipping intros like they’re junk mail.

Across that imaginary Lido Deck, ten-year-old you is watching. Fancy drink in hand. Silent. Judging. She believed in ritual. She believed in sequins. And tragically—she believed in you.

And honestly? She’s disappointed. But it’s not too late to make it right.

“Are you still watching?” Me: You made me this way.

Next time that button flickers? Let it go.

Let the violins swell. Let the sequins sparkle. Let Charo twirl. What theme song hijacked your childhood brain and never gave it back? Was it horny-sax Moonlighting?
Was it Unsolved Mysteries, making you scared of fog forever? Did Reading Rainbow convince you books were psychedelic portals?

Confess below. I’ll be over here, trying to win back my 10-year-old self’s approval.