Well, a lot of strange stuff can happen when your TV decides to commit
suicide. Some people would probably hop into the family bimbo box and
skedaddle down to the nearest electronic schlock-block store. [Please note:
Attention all corporate assassins for the very big car transnationals;
please do not misconstrue this diatribe as a slight against the seething
cesspool of an urban sprawl that your industry has created. There just can't
be enough road or parking lots in the world. Please redirect your attacks
toward one former Canadian by the name of Joni Mitchell. She has been
creating subversive antiprogress melodies that...scratch that. Her music is
so bad it probably would turn someone into a tree cutting, gas guzzling,
door to door telemarketing veal salesman. Hey, someone has turned up the
ventilation in this room. The air is ducting into my usually high
temperature, low oxygen, ultra-stuffy room. Damn it - some parts of my brain
are back to working again. I must do something to kill these brain cells
ASAP otherwise I will tarnish the fine apolitical edge that makes PULP the
premiere bit-rag of the Netiverse. Yeech...I can't believe I just wrote like
that. Ah, here's the rub...a birthday candle nose injection...there
we...ahhh...nice an deep into the frontal lobes...]
So, my TV was doing okay, but then as I sat watching Pulp Fiction, during
the scene where the guy from Thirtysomething is trying to resuscitate Uma
Thurman with a big honker of a syringe...kapow. The whole screen turns red
as if Vinny Barbarino and Uma and some Arquette-person have suddenly decided
to develop pictures. Being raised in the Western Science tradition, I ran
over to the TV screaming and cussing about its relationship to its mother,
deity, and excrement. Obviously, scaring inanimate objects has a limited
success record for repair, so I moved rapidly into mode two and sucker
punched the critter when it was looking at the former sweat-hog and Uma talking in front of her fancy house.
Nothing happened.
Then I slapped the mutant repeatedly while screaming at it...and toink! The
colours go back to normal but the picture shrinks by one third. Everyone had
giant heads and tiny legs. Fortunately, I do not suffer from Ash's paranoia
regarding midgets, so I got a bizarre pleasure from seeing all of the
beautiful people reduced to misshapen freaks. But my plight did not end
there, for the picture shrank and shrank and then went back to imitating a
red light bulb. I was TV-less in Gaza.
No one in my family was interested in buying a new TV set. After a week of
desperation I was finally delivered a state of the art fresh-from-the-trash
colour TV circa 1973.
It works well enough except for the shadow of my skeleton that has appeared
on the wall behind me and the electron diffraction pattern on the screen,
but at least it has colour.
Has anyone yet done a study to show the net positive benefit of cathode
rays?
Anyhow, with my TV replaced I can now I bring you a quality review. The
movie was called BAIT. It had people doing stuff in it. Talking and
shooting. People around me were laughing now and then so I know it was
funny. It was like Enemy of the State, but without Gene Hackman or that guy
from MIB...actually it was the same film, except in this version Gene
Hackman's character pretended to be John Malkovich on a bad hair day.
The part I didn't get was why the bad guy didn't just hack into the US
treasury and make their computers transfer a billion dollars into his
Swiss-Cayman bank accounts. I guess the movie was called Bait because it
smelled like one-week-old fish heads.
Does anyone have a hammer? My brain hurts!
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