Tag: television

Batsignal

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I think we need to talk about the Batsignal again, Gordon.
There’s the issue with what merits a Batsignal.
Two Face threatening to blow up a building is a Yes.
Goons robbing a bank is a No. You have SWAT for that, right?
Your crazy daughter Barbara wanting me to read a bedtime story is a Hell No.
And I can’t see it during the day. The Joker and Penguin have changed their capering schedules.
Can’t you just SMS my BatPhone, dude?
Now nod your head like you understand what I said or I’m throwing you off the fucking roof.

The Music Man

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Don Music was a puppet on a children’s show who’d get so frustrated trying to compose a song, he’d bash his head against the piano keys and give up.
Sadly, some children got the crazy idea that the proper response to frustration is to bash your head repeatedly against it.
These kids would bash their heads against their desks, balefully moaning “I CAN’T DO IT!”
One was the son of a florist, and after school he’d help out in the shop.
No matter what he tried, he never could keep a cactus alive, so he-
On second thought, don’t ask.

The Good Place

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After days in the library and on the Internet, Bobby turned in his paper.
Time and time again, rich people have treated poor people like crap with the promise of eternity in a good place if they put up with that crap.
The threat of eternity in a bad place prevents the poor people from treating the rich people like crap.
Priests are paid by rich people to come up with a lot of crap about the good place and the bad place, then shovel it at the poor.
Miss Krabapel sighed, lit another cigarette, and gave it an A.

Festivus

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My friend told me about this Festivus Holiday.
It’s based on a Seinfeld episode. The characters made it up to protest Christmas commercialization.
He’s explaining this as he’s propping up an aluminum pole in the middle of the living room.
“Now air out your grievances,” he said.
“What?”
“Air out your grievances,” he says again. “It’s a part of the holiday.”
I can’t think of any.
So, at that point, he shouts “Feats of Strength!” and challenges me to wrestle him.
I don’t think I like Festivus.
He leaps from the sofa, screaming with madness.
I run for the door.

The Pie Man – For Soupy Sales

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I never got the humor in someone getting hit in the face with a pie, but the old man on television got hit constantly with pies and people loved him for it.
Every show he was on, you knew from the moment he appeared on camera, he wasn’t going to leave without pie in his face.
Even at his funeral, it was an open casket ceremony, and he was smacked in the face by half a dozen mourners.
Two or three pies get smacked against his headstone every night.
Me, I’m stuck washing them off.
Still nothing funny about it.

Pocket watch

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For his three hundredth birthday, Papa Smurf wanted a pocket watch.
So, the Smurfs stole Gargamel’s pocket watch and brought it to him.
“Not only will this not fit in my pocket, but it still has the inscription from Gargamel’s mother in it,” he grumbled.
As smart as Brainy Smurf was, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around the delicate engineering necessary to make a pocket watch, and he went mad from the attempt.
The potion needed to cure him required five tongues of humans.
The tiny blue creatures armed themselves with scimitars and bags, and headed to the village.

The Chicken Channel

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The cable is out.
Ever since the conversion to digital signals, the cable has been rock-solid. And…
It’s back? That was pretty quick.
Usually, it takes hours. That was just a few seconds.
For a moment, I swear I saw…
A chicken?
We have a digital recorder, so I rewind the tape… Hah, all these anachronistic terms.
Anyway, I go back and…
A chicken. Staring out from the screen.
It is a powerful, bold chicken. It is a majestic, God-like chicken. I am ready to do as it commands.
And I am filled with the overwhelming urge to eat… BEEF!

Shaving

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Every time I shave, I miss a few hairs.
It doesn’t matter how many blades my razor has or what kind of shaving cream I use.
Hairs appear in the mirror, or I run my fingers across my face and they spring back out of my skin.
It’s frustrating.
I used a cream that a friend suggested that women use to remove the hair from their legs, but that didn’t work, either.
There was this pad advertised on television. Tiny crystals that lift and exfoliate.
After one use, my face was smooth.
Then, slick. With blood.
My skin was gone.

His Number Came Up

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He was not a number, but his number did finally come up.
The old actor died last night.
His greatest performance was over forty years ago. He had full control over the production, and he put everything into it.
I’m watching it now, episode after episode of The Prisoner, and despite so many things changing since then socially and technologically, the themes of paranoia, distrust, and the human spirit of individuality still shine through.
There’s a remake of the series in the works, but I won’t watch it.
There’s no improving on perfection, I say, and I hit Play again.

McKinney

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McKinney. Leader of the pack.
I grew up watching him on late night specials, learning his voice, his gestures, his jokes.
The unknotted bowtie hangs around my neck just like his.
Martini glass in hand, one olive on a glass spear.
I do his routine at retirement homes, people old enough to remember, too old to put up with the new stuff out there.
Keep it familiar.
McKinney’s fame was wider than I’d thought.
Broadcasts, deep in space.
That audience came for him.
They found me.
Now I’m touring the galaxy. Rich as hell.
But no olives to be found.