My anti-corporate commercial busting schtick is taking a bit of a pounding these days, as I endlessly and needlessly lounge before the altar of day time television. I say needlessly because I should really be up and about, washing the dishes, mowing the lawn, ruling the children with an iron fist. It's my shoulderblade that's broken, not my leg or my spine or even said fist of iron. And what do I use my shoulder blade for? Fuck all, that's what. Sure, it's consistently and nauseatingly painful, but harden the fuck up, right? Wrong. I am a total pain pussy and thus shall continue to lie mewling upon the sunroom sofa bed, calling for Common Law to unwrap my Dime Bar sweeties.
But what the fuck has this to do with my contra The Man stance? It's the ads. you see, the commercials. I am supposed to despise them with all my faux-Hicksian heart, representing as they do the very nadir of our oh so bottomed-out civilization. But I fucking love them. I love them for the hope that they hold, the hope of something better. Advertisements are the Obama of television, though like Hussein, they will always let you down. Day time television, television in general in fact, is so heart-heartbreakingly shit that I have spent the first few days of my self-imposed confinement flicking like a zombie fly fisherman from channel to channel. And so to ease the digital pain I now rest at the ad breaks, waiting to see what's on next. Sure, I'd like to force feed the fat, sausage stealing anti-obesity PSA guy to death. Naturally I wish to take the shards of a smashed LCD tv and jam them into Craig Doyle's UPC eyes. And of course I want to take the Barry's Tea Bangkok bitch on a tour of the darker side of the Thai capital so that she can take some tasteful pictures to send back to Mammy. But mostly I sit through the break in hopeless hope, convinced that all this is merely a precursor to an old episode of Sapphire and Steel or Battle of the Planets, or Darwin help me, a showing of Inherit the Wind. It never is, of course, but thankfully another ad break is never more than a flick or two away.
I suppose I could get Common Law to pick me up an RTE guide, but I somehow doubt that's going to help with the onrushing depression.