The local ten o'clock news
Of course you have. You work in an office.
(note: I just spilled a juicy chunk of pineapple on my pants, which bounced off and hit my shoes for added effect before picking up half the lint on the floor)
Now don’t get me wrong, sure it could be worse. You could be a starving kid in a third world country, you could have cancer, a doberman could have bit your nuts off. Your keyboard could have arbitrarily decided to write over any corrections you make to a pointless rant instead of inserting them, making you have to type every sentence again. It doesn’t matter that you know how to fix it, because your computer has decided that it’s smarter than you today and will not let you. Your email that you just copied and pasted from an unformatted text document decided to triple space everything, put it in wingdings font, and turn it blue for the hell of it.
But hey, unlike this computer that thinks it’s a human in a pretentious abstract art school, we actually are human, and we’ve been granted the greatest gift of all: the gift of incessant bitching.
In the spirit of this incessant bitching, I’m picking an arbitrary rant out of the thousand things that have mildly bugged me in the last 24 hours: the local news.
Last night at about 7:00, a man with caps on his teeth and hair that looks like it should be stuck to the top of a Lego man informed me that it may or may not snow, and he’ll give me the answer at 10:00. This pixelated man looks me straight in the eyes from MY OWN TELEVISION that I paid for WITH MY OWN MONEY, this guy who’s salary I pay for by being exposed to Beyonce telling me to switch to cable (which I’m already on), and those horrible Jared commercials, the J.G. Wentworth guy, the seemingly innocent Money Tree caterpillars that are demons from the foulest pits of hell, charging 742% interest in states they can get away with it in (no exaggeration), and those awful credit score commercials. "I’m thinking of a number. Do you know what it is?"
Yes. I do know what it is. It’s 53,289, and it happens to be how many times it feels like you’ve inflicted your androgynous presence on this house.
But I digress. This hair helmet newscaster looks me right in the eyes and lies. He’s not going to tell me whether it’s going to snow at 10:00. Oh, no. That would be far too easy. He’s going to tell me at 10:00 what kind of pumpkin harvest farmer Joe had a month ago, and then he’s going to delve into some heavily biased politics, and then he’s going to tell me that he’ll reveal this magical snow secret after the commercial break.
Beyonce tells me to switch to cable again, having not heeded my prior notifications. J.G. Wentworth Guy asks me if my hope is starting to fade. Viagra people tell me that I’m a geriatric and can’t get a boner. I can only imagine what they tell women. Credit Score Guy asks me about number 53,290.
And then the news comes back on.
Bush, Iraq, pretty white girl hasn’t called parents in over six hours, "Snow may be on the way – we’ll tell you how much to expect! After the commercial break."
Curse your scaly hide Beyonce! Fuck YOU, Credit Score Guy! (53,291) No, I do NOT need an artificially inflated piece of compressed carbon that is built on the blood of Africans and is controlled by a monopoly. Beyonce? AGAIN? TWICE? IN ONE BREAK? I finally understand that personality is genuinely more attractive than looks, because she has somehow transformed from this gorgeous vixen to a blood sucking chupucabra in a mere week. Is it really necessary to have four topless guys dancing in perfect synchronicity with her while she yet again stares me in the eyes and tries to sell me cable? And why does everyone have to stare me in the eyes when they’re trying to sell something? I pay about a hundred bucks a month for this lousy cable, and this is what they do with the profits?
It would appear that part of Dante’s Inferno was lost with time. He claimed that there are only nine circles of hell, relating to pagans, lust, gluttons, material good obsessions, sloth, heretics, the violent, fraudulent, and betrayers. Maybe it was due to an early translation, but what was missing is the lowest level of hell, reserved as a special place for those that appear twice in one commercial break.
The news comes back on. Clinton, Obama, Giuliani. Which one sucks the most? We’ll tell you tomorrow at ten.
And finally, at 10:55, sweet release: "It looks like it might snow tonight or tomorrow. Somewhere between zero and infinity inches." Apparently they've hired Captain Obvious to do the weather forecasting. "Thanks for watching your ten o’clock news, we’ll see you tomorrow night."
Oh no. No, you will not see me tomorrow night. You will not see me ever again, ten o’clock news. We’re officially broken up. Now pack your crap and get the hell out of here, and if you come within a hundred yards of me I’m calling the police. I’ve stolen everything that’s important to you and will incinerate it all tomorrow at 9:45. I’ll tell you where you can pick up the ashes at ten. Your signed poster of Tony Danza is yours to keep.
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