WE TV, in its infinite wisdom, has put the movie Waiting to Exhale in heavy rotation (along with Scent of a Woman) for April.

I had never actually gotten around to seeing this movie in the theaters or on DVD before this weekend. But I knew that it was a chick movie starring Whitney Houston, so I was ready for crazy.

I thought it was supposed to be uplifting or something, where you root for the ensemble cast to find their true loves and high-paying jobs. I’m cool with that.

But holy crap, these people were appalling. “Stop having sex with other people’s spouses,” I shrieked at the screen. “You blew up his car? That’s like nineteen kinds of illegal!”

Was I supposed to feel bad for Angela Bassett’s character, whose husband left her for another woman, when she slept with a man whose wife was dying of cancer? God knows I don’t want to break out the nun costume (wimples really do nothing for a girl), but how did this thing become a blockbuster?

I’ve decided that the only thing that makes sense is that Whitney Houston made a pact with the devil (The Bodyguard, Waiting to Exhale), a pact that went badly wrong (Being Bobby Brown, cocaine).