Sometimes at night after the kid goes to bed I collapse onto the couch and into the idiocy of “Below Deck Mediterranean.” There’s a comforting aspect to its wretchedness. The put-upon staff welcoming aboard a clan of holidaying ugly Americans, the men paunchy in pink shirts, white pants; the women sun-damaged and lip-augmented; everyone a little rude and impatient to get soused. The staff are hungover themselves, recovering from a shore-leave escapade when someone hit on someone, someone was offended, someone puked and someone fell into the bay. I watch this for exactly six minutes and I’ve had my fill.