"Kelley's Heroes" -- Girl Trouble - a monthly column by Rex Breathes
Labor Day belched and gave birth to the bloody placenta of new fall TV. After enduring the summer re-runs--so heavy and aging--rex returns meaner and leaner to his labor of love: humiliating the Bride of Frankenstein--Calista Flockhart's Ally McBeal--created by that CIA-mole-propa- ers are too busy saving the tuna and weaving macrame to waddle into Kelley's world. Of course, all Asians and Blacks are whiter than white, except Barry White; he's allowed to be himself so some white geek can rip off Barry's soul in the mirror.

Aside from a pact with the devil, exactly

 lain lawn deer into the hallowed headlights of mass man and say absolutely nothing that's remotely interesting, off color, off kilter, offending or challenging to the status quo or anyone with more than an eighth grade education. At least venerable British stage and film actress, Helen Mirren (who
"This is the dream: get thin, get (to be) a lawyer, get (a)head, go to bed."
FEED YOUR PENIS - David posing for photographers after the Emmys.gandist-for-the-ruling-elite, David E. Kelley. Kidding. I'm sure Kelley is a wonderful guy. But let's face it: DK's back to back Emmys last month for best TV drama and comedy (the faked orgasms of the 3 hour milquetoast-o-rama), translate into millions of so-called liberal, free-thinking adults regurgitating Kelley's minty mouthwash as hip white gospel. Tell me the fix wasn't in.

In Kelley's world, all actresses have personal trainers and a body fat percentage too low to ovulate; hence, bearing children becomes a messy, dieted-away thing of the past for all female characters--the aggressive new producer/consumers. Then there's the token fat chick who must have the heart of a middle linebacker and the head of Genghis Khan. Apparently, all Earth moth-

 how did Kelley become so hugely powerful and successful so fast that he can lower his mega-star wife, Michelle Pfeiffer, in front of a billion Emmy viewers, saying, "All you need to be successful is write a script and have Calista Flockhart say the words." Yeah, more like screech the words with that ever lurking frog in her throat about to leap out. Hydrochloric acid. It's a bitch, baby. And I empathize. Because the whole she-bang of Kelly-Flockhart-McBeal-McPractice-the greatest is too much bad acid to swallow and keep down.

There can be only one Ally the greatest and it's spelled Ali! Kelley punches out an anorexic dream of no children, no fat and no bloated Bill of Rights by demonizing the internet, porn, search and seizure laws, free speech, family, commitment and any activity outside of work and consumption as painful bother. The real deal, Ali the greatest, played rope-a-dope with the powers that be-bopped on his face. And won! Ali, of course, refused participation in the Vietnam era draft. As a convicted felon, Ali threw away five years in his prime rather than fight or co-sign the establishment's war, saying, "I ain't got no fight with them Viet Cong; far as I can see, they the same as me."

Today, our heroes and heroines are perfect Aryan specimens, like Flockhart and Kelley. Bred through obsessive dieting, exercise and surgery, they stare like porce-

 carries more poise, grace, beauty, talent and intelligence in her little finger than Flockhart could ever swallow) tweaked the Emmy audience with sardonic wit, calling co-star Peter Fonda her second husband.

Yes. It's a brave new Kelley world. We work. We work out. We fuck our fellow workers. And then we go back to work--where we play at caring about anyone or anything beyond our narcissistic needs. All life is work. And all work is a mirror proclaiming, "I feel pretty, oh so pretty!"

Speaking of pretty boys gone bad, the boss wanted me to write about Warren Beatty for President. Hell, right now, Beatty couldn't carry Kelley's cappuccino. Beatty, in Bullworth, McCabe and Mrs. Miller and even Ishtar, has projected the Buddha-like idea, "This is a dream you'll have to wake up from. " Far too real for any American raised on TV. In Kelley's world, this is the dream: get thin, get (to be) a lawyer, get (a)head, go to bed. And don't wake up. Except to do it all over again. And that's a dream the lazy, ugly American will buy at the Emmys, the mall or the polls.

Forget that Lennon, King or Ali had a dream. Or that life ever meant more than produce, consume and copulate. Just remember your date with The Practice of Ally . . . Smaller clothes, bigger cars and shorter relationships . . . It's the only way to go running off the cliff into the new millennium.