Hello Fodder

RIP the kings of pop...John Pemberton and Caleb Bradham

What does it say about me when I am too lazy to blog?

Maybe it's just that things have settled down to a dull whisper in my life, and comedy fodder is rare. Comedy mudder also, but that's another story. I always thought Milton Berle was both the fodder and mudder of comedy. Perhaps I'm confused and really mean Henny Youngman, which would certainly confuse anyone.

Take my blog, please. I know I'm a little late to the party on this one, but what's with all the damned reality programming? I can't turn to any channel without seeing someone trying to survive in some out of the way place, or airing their dirty laundry in front of God and Jerry Springer, or OJ Simpsoning down the freeway with the National Guard in hot pursuit.

I don't care. I realize this kind of show is cheap to produce, and saves the networks tons of money, but enough already. I want fictional death and destruction and smarmy goings-on. I don't want to watch real people implode, literally or figuratively. I have enough drama of my own. The average episode of Survivor: Where The Hell Am I? is not any different from my average workday, except no cameraman.

What happened to people leading lives of quiet desperation? Now they have to suffer in front of everyone and take us all down the tubes with them. I don't want to see misery and suffering and indescribable horror. That's why I won't watch So You Think You Can Dance?

I see where this is headed: soon, there will be no programming at all; we will all simply mount TV cameras in our homes and tape 24/7, beaming out our innards to a worldwide audience of voyeur vultures. There is hope: my need for visual stimulation may still be salvageable if I can find one of my old favorite childhood toys.....batteries not included.







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