I feel compelled in this, the final column of my ninth year in this spot, to focus on some cultural calamities that have been annoying me fiercely and forcing my attentions away from areas where they could more profitably be employed (i.e., contemplation of my physical beauty, my abiding love, my continuing, torturous search for my abducted modesty). If I don’t do it, who will? The air itself demands to be cleared of these contemptible idiocies, and with the understanding that it takes one to know one, I am clearly the most qualified idiot to take on the task.
I’ve noticed subtly compelling, underlying themes of regeneration and propagation of the species within much of our local morning news programs. The percentage of female on-air “talent” who have lately become successfully impregnated continues to balloon in every sense of the word. I fear a village of babies all born in 2011 will have been spawned for a purpose: displaying an unnatural talent to read cue cards and teleprompters, they are to diabolically assimilate their legions among us and eventually control the world. They will complete the evil master plan of their mothers while revealing themselves to be nearly twice as despicable and shameless. Similar things have happened before, as the classic 1960 documentary Village of the Damned unflinchingly demonstrated. Actually 1960 was a pretty fun and neato year (its summer movie lineup has yet to be surpassed), so there may be a bright side in this somewhere.
I’ll admit I smiled almost as many times as my jaw dropped on Tuesday morning, August 16. Woke up to a real incredible vision in glorious color on the TV: one of our most popular weathergirl/models was doing her repetitive readings, attired in what had to be a black, diaphanous Frederick’s of Hollywood-type “baby doll” sleepwear ensemble, with clearly visible black bikini bottoms serving as a sort of alluring base for the overinflated human medicine ball it supported. I quickly called my father, who could verify that this wasn’t another of my hallucinations. He did so readily, having been observing this broadcast himself — and in High Definition as well. (“That big globe could use a shave,” he vouchsafed, memorably.) Disregarding all the subliminals and megalomania, I do hope that the mysterious being within that globe will one day appreciate its mother’s display of courage, her crusading spirit, her unique sense of fashion on this important morning. And yes, I’ll admit that the wonder of human pregnancy carries with it a very real, natural ability to be sexy.
Until it knowingly tries to be. The air that morning quickly turned morbid, muggy, and abundantly smug, thrilled to be ingesting its own moisture. If this particular gestation continues through the next sweeps period, there’s an obvious way this station can slaughter all competition: have a week-long (or two?) contest with a really super grand prize. The winner will receive the actual umbilical cord, encased in the finest Italian amber crystal, and sure to increase in value, guaranteed to last for generations. Heck, keep all those babes frisky and the contest could become a beloved seasonal tradition.
Like it, fellas? Thought so. Let’s talk.
Why will no one muster up the courage to explain to Michelle Bachman that events she experiences in the Bizarro world are not the same realities as those that occur on this planet? I have no trouble with her dual citizenship or even the incredible haste with which it was pushed through and granted. But her understandable confusion has been rubbing off on far too many people who mistakenly identify it as some sort of inspired, righteously rabid patriotism. They’re unaware of the gruesome hunger this confusion creates and will remain unaware as long as Ms. Bachman retains that “pretty do-able” style and unlimited cash reserves and keeps those feedings on schedule. With no one strong enough to launch a surgical military assault on the cobwebs that are squatting (as if entitled) in her foreclosed brain pan, perhaps someone among us with a remaining shred of conscience will demand that the State Department revoke her citizenship here and offer her a trip back to whichever other planet they decide was her most likely place of birth. And offer trips to all of her followers who want to stick with her as well. It’ll be expensive, but down the line we’ll save billions in health care/hospital/institution costs. And we’ll be just that tiny bit closer to only having to deal with reality itself, which is unquestionably burdensome enough.
If I’ve upset anyone today I must respectfully decline the blame. I’m not that much different than you. This would-be writer/singer/messiah with the persecution complex is honest enough to admit his mistakes and will do so if he ever somehow makes one. The culprit, my friends, is the popular media — primarily the greedy narcissists who control us through it, whose intent is to lower our intelligence until we reach the state where we’ll be fawning over either an overused box of cat litter or the wedding of some slutty rich bimbo, whichever they throw our way first.
The primary vocalist of our age was primarily molded by this new god Media. Unexpectedly, Britney Spears chose to forsake a divaship with the La Scala and La Conservatoire Française in order to more directly reach and guide our youth. The result? A generation whose every member’s overriding vocational ambition is to be the hottest, richest, most talked about and envied being on two nasty, hairless legs. Forget about becoming Florence Nightingale or Helen Keller or whoever that blonde was in the 1800s who’s as unforgettable today as she’ll be 50 years hence. Now they all just want to be hot, at the very least hotter than you. Britney needs a good spanking, if you ask me, as do all those little trollops and I’d drop everything in one blink to deliver it, righteously. Verily, I am come to serve the nation, and if others would join me, just lemme at them first, since it was my idea to begin with.
Shame! While nearly obsolete, it is a sensation with which I share a deep intimacy; I am strongly and continuously ashamed of all those who should be ashamed of themselves but aren’t. So, in my own way I’m keeping a needed, vanishing concept alive. Clearly, my wayward love biscuits, we need shame again if for no other reason than without it, nothing will ever again be kinky. I rest my case.
Oh! On a happier note: thanks go out sincerely to the trusting ladies who responded to my plea last issue for photographic verification of our abiding unity. My private armada is in awe of your exquisite head sails, your immaculate poop decks, your inspired poise. May your waters be as calm and rich as my gratitude to you. Land ho!
