|
November 17th, 1999
The Dementia of Daytime TV
Daytime as well as night. Can you believe that Ally McBeal?
What the heck are they doing on there? Georgia and Billy, Ally and that hunky carwash manager.... (Okay,
I can forgive that one).... Nell and the Biscuit? All of them. Insane. What are they doing to
my favorite show!!! Can they be so lax on creativity that they have to resort to cheating and adultery? I'm sobbing
in to my fanclub pillow even as I type And, um.....Billy? What the heck is up with that awful hair! As
a woman I always reserve the right to change every physical thing about me in accordance to which way the wind
is blowing any given day BUT if my husband were to so much as snip a chin hair without my consent, I'd kill him.
<waving> Hi, honey! Love you!
But relationships are a difficult road to travel. Lord
knows there's many a day I want to pack mine and his beer stein collection up and send him home to mom in his broken
down Ford. I can't bring myself to do it, though. Who would take out the trash? So, I keep him.
I blame it on television. There is no such thing as a perfect
family anymore. The closest people I can relate to are the Simpsons but I'll have to pass on that blue hairdo Marge
sports about. If I piled my hair that high I'd never get into my Minivan. The Minivan is a great place to
be. We're taking over the world, you know. It's a carefully guarded secret but just pay some extra
attention next time you're on the road and you'll see it. The secret handshakes, the conspirital head nods. And
here all you single folks just thought that was nervous ticking brought on by exhaustion. Jokes on you.
And now, an homage to the day time talk show, relationships
and the glory of true love....Maji
Every afternoon, I stop in to visit my parents. I am now once
again convinced they are life forms visiting from another planet. Any one that can follow the story line of an
afternoon talkshow with all of those "bleeps" in it must be picking up telegraphic remotes from somewhere
outside of our universe. I am sure someone is sitting up there at the opposite end of a telescope holding a flipper
over their mouth and laughing. If nothing else, we must be vastly amusing.
I really can not understand what propels the average person
to load up their heads with such bologna and drivel. I can only imagine it's because it makes them feel somewhat
better about being themselves. It's nice to know that someone's life sucks just a little bit more than yours by
comparison.
HOST: "Welcome to the "Women who love men who have
mass murdered women!" portion of our show! I'd like to introduce you to Bobby Jean. Bobby Jean, welcome to
our pathetic little show!"
"Thanks for having me."
"Now, just to update our audience, can you tell us who
you are married to?"
"Sure. I am the proud wife of Harry Jo Perkins."
Half of the audience audibly gasps while the other half whoops
like attacking Indians and one hula-tented fat woman in the front shouts out "I love you, Elvis!"
"That would be the Harry Jo Perkins currently serving 3,000
life sentences back to back for beating an entire nunnery to death with a salami and a cheese stick?"
"He couldn't help himself. He had Kosher issues. I've chosen
to look past that because I truly love him."
I call this the Florence Nightengale Syndrome.
"Aw! Poor wounded birdie! I'll just scrape him off the
front of this here Mack truck and bandage him up! There. Good as new. Hey, look at all this gauze I have left over!
Well, I think I can bandage up one more adulterer, an embezzler, and that second guy on the grassy knoll!"
Woman like this have a homing unit in their uterus devised to
attract the most emotionally crippled man in the room no matter where they go.
In all fairness, though, a good man is hard to find. I can attest
to that. Men will stop at nothing to impress you. I, however, was lucky. My husband, yes, the very one who has
a blackbelt in Karate, was responsible for the peace keeping issues in Rwanda, was the stand in for Stallone in
all the Rambo movies as well as the technical adviser for "Alien" due to his many abductions, and is
now writing his twentieth novel under the nondeplume Tom Clancy, never tried to fill me with false information
to get my affections. But we can't all be as fortunate as I am.
.
|
