I know my way around a television set. I know that you put it on a table or a dresser or hang it up in your bathroom, and then you plug it in. I am aware that cable comes from heavens above, and that through a special tube when inserted in the back of the tv itself binds you to a contractual agreement with Satan and his minions who shall remain nameless (but rhymes with “Shmogers`). I hate the way they sell their juice, the life blood, and they know they have you by the short and curlies when you are too old to understand that how to put your laptop on top of your tv and magically stream in a world of entertainment far beyond your imagination. Young people seem to know how to do this and they are so entertained by the mind-numbing stream of reality shows including Shark Week, Bachelors, Snake Charmers, Tree Men, Hoarders, Shut-Ins, Makeovers, and Real Estate Transactions (don’t get me started on this one). I am slightly bitter that I pay for cable especially considering the fact that I watch the same tv over and over and over again.
I put in DVD’s of my 2 favourite shows and I watch them in order and in a rotation like a round of antibiotics.
“What’s up, Peterson?” Neighbour might ask, nonchalantly, on the front lawn of our homes.
“Oh, not much, just kind of wondering about that notice the city sent out that we have to redirect the downspouts from the eavethroughs so that our roof water doesn’t end up in the sewer?” Real life details like this totally stress me out and make me want to run inside and TURN ON THE TELLY and watch Dick Van Dyke! And eat crackers while I watch my mother iron tea towels.
So yeah, now I am old and tv is my teat. And I have two favourite tv shows that I over and over again in rotation: “Gilmore Girls”and “Sex and the City.” I get it, Freud. Don`t judge me.
But I have discovered a third nipple from the TV Tit and it`s Murdoch Mysteries. It is an awesome show and established so I can get the DVD`s and include them in my round. It`s kind of like CSI: Turn-of-the-Last -Century Toronto. There`s murder, mystery, intrigue, sexual tension galore. The men all have crazy handlebar moustaches and toast-wedge size sideburns which probably made them the douchebags of their tyme. However, in order to give us a modern-day panty-creamer, Murdoch himself is clean- shaven and impossibly handsome. He has palpable chemistry with the woman doctor from the morgue which is so fantastic because it is CHASTE. And let`s not kid ourselves, the sex in your head is always better than the sex in your bed, but the sex under a bunch of petticoats is probably mind-blowing. Just saying. Take that, Shark Week. Sigh.