As part of Film Comment’s guilty pleasures series, scriptwriter David Newman confessed, "I’m ASHAMED of [these films]. I KNOW they stink. And still I love them. Do you know what it takes to admit that in public? Guts don’t come cheap in the cinématheque, pal." Guts are not inexpensive in the télétheque, either. And yet, when In Media Res called for confessions of guilty television pleasures I knew I had to step forward and say, "I watch America's Funniest Home Videos and I laugh until tears roll down my cheeks." Oh, sure, one could make claims for the cultural significance of AFV: an obvious harbinger of both reality television and YouTube. Yes, there's no doubt of AFV's cultural significance, but there's also no doubt of the egregiousness of AFV's original host, Bob Saget—the Full House actor whose attempts to reinvent himself, through The Aristocrats, as a comic who works blue have just confirmed his egregiousness. And no one could dispute that AFV trades in the currency of low comedy. The multitudinous videos of men and boys having their testicles assailed provide ample evidence of that. I didn't discover the pleasures of AFV until I began watching it with the sound off. Working at a radio station that kept a TV in the control room for the purposes of monitoring weather radar, I would sometimes channel surf as I spun CDs. Freed from the tyranny of Sagetisms, I could take pleasure in the Buster Keatonesque moves of toddlers upended by toboggans, their little legs making perfect V's in the air. I could enjoy the travails of knuckleheads botching home repairs that cause walls to tumble around them. (Again, the Keaton comparisons were inevitable; but see also the Lumières' Démolition d'un mur.) And the clip montages—collecting dozens of piñata catastrophes, for example—would have made Eisenstein proud. Viewing AFV as silent cinema, I found pleasure amid the guilt. Later, I discovered AFV's audio pleasures—as in the giggling quadruplets in this $100,000 prize winner. Recently, AFV has begun presenting its videos online in their raw form, without narration, music or sound effects. One suspects they might soon be viewed without any guilt whatsoever.