Primetime Television
I am not embarrassed to admit my addiction to primetime television. Neither do I think I am too good for reality shows, or for that matter, better than people on reality TV. It's all about the entertainment, right, and at the end of the day I will, just like you, go to bed, not quite content with the magnificence of my day, besides presumably I should have read a book instead (because reading is sophisticated and refined), but hey, it's good enough for me. Now, I'm not the one to ramble, and so this whole prelude was for me say how
Beauty and the Geek is the best show ever:
Host: So your next question is, What is the capital of Iraq?
Girl: Can you spell Iraq?
Host (puzzled): I-R-A-Q
Girl: Afghanistan?
nomenclature
Odds are, you’ve already seen my brief apology. I
am trying to make a statement with the name of this blog, but not a statement as strong as it probably sounds. For everyone else, this is my objection to skim milk.
Now, I feel like I should finally make this clear. I don’t like skim milk much, but I can tolerate it better than peanut butter for example, so if this was the point, this blog would have been called peanutbuttersux. Rather, this is my statement against the blatant disrespect we show for the real things in life. A statement against you, who spray fat-free butter on your toast every morning; against those who have little idea what milk tastes like before its interaction with Chemistry and Plastic; it is also a statement against all of us who have never swam naked in the sea. I protest against us being like the old whore, whose existence is centered on the art of pretending that the pleasure is real, while her senses have been dulled long ago by brutal over-abuse. Of course, this is a weak statement. It is coming from a person who is addicted to Snood, cherry-flavored gummi bears and Glamour. But I hope you get my point: if you are going to stick to skim milk, at least go find a cow and stare at it. For once. As Karbowsky put it, we are the modern world. We inject cholesterol into our veins, we cannot wake up without our lead compounds, we love our plastic things. I drink to this. Dazzling blue Powerade.
On the road to somewhere
Where I come from, we like to leave things to the imagination. Or something.
The signs we get are never unambiguous: A fact of life. This sign: unnecessary. I'd rather enjoy the view from the car window.
