Airplane Diary: Television

2 Jan


And now I’m on a plane watching The New Girl.  Tonight’s guest star is Justin Long.

This episode of The New Girl that JetBlue is playing over and over and over again in a synergistic partnership with News Corp. Inc. is as amusing as watching all of my loved ones burned alive while a holocaust documentary plays on an Imax screen.  I am laughing as much as I would at a baby bird being ground into the dirt with Hitler’s boot while a narrator intones the names of every victim killed in the Sandy Hook shooting.  Justin Long loves Zooey Deschanel, but she doesn’t love him back.  Some other guy whom I believe to be heterosexual as much as I believe in the chupacabra loves Zooey Deschanel’s friend and/ or roommate, but she doesn’t love him back.  The men express their love guilelessly and the women blushingly accept it because it would be too awkward to tell them fuck off.  That’s the joke.  Justin Long bought Zooey Deschanel way too nice a Christmas present; this means he loves her.  It would be too awkward for her to say she doesn’t love him, so she will hold it in until the end of the episode where they’re forced to have it out due to some contrivance.  And he can’t figure it out on his own because he is a person on television; he is required to be an idiot for the story.  Someone so poor at reading people in real life would be at about “ultraviolet” on the Autism Spectrum and claw your eyes out when you moved his oscillating fan.

Who fucking watches these shows.  Who god damn motherfucking watches these motherfucking shows.  It has to be old people, who grew up when men still courted and expressed nice sweet sentiments of unrequited love and got married and never told anyone they were gay their whole life and no one ever guessed.  To judge by its marketing, The New Girl is oriented toward young people.  But that’s the dirty little secret of network TV.  The median audience age of CW shows is something like forty fucking five, and they market exclusively to high school and college girls.  Network TV audiences are old.  That’s why CBS is such a ratings juggernaut.  It’s openly courting  senior citizens with shows where a gray haired man and his underlings who look up to him heroically solve a crime every week, just like Matlock.  The elderly are the only people who still watch TV.  Which is not to say that, you know, old folks don’t deserve to be entertained, but– they have figured out what they like in toothpaste.  They are set in their ways of buying Studebakers and Chesterfields and calling Brazil nuts “nigger toes,” and they’re not going to change due to advertising.  The money’s going to dry up, and TV is gonna die.  And rightly so. TV fucking sucks.

TV is too fucking old for me, even though I am now too old to count in TV ratings.  Or at least, MTV and CW won’t count me. Their cutoff is 34.  I am now in the demographic quadrant that movie studios market shit like Best Exotic Marigold Hotel to.  My facebook ads promise to introduce me to single women over fifty.  I have white nostril hairs and my scrotum resembles Gandalf’s face.  Sometimes it is difficult for me to get and sustain an erection.  Still, all of television makes me think: Jesus Christ, the whole god damn world is a geriatric wing just waiting to die.

Literally every single ad is about curing some some malady, staving off decrepitude for just one more day.  Talk to your doctor about Prolevex®.  Ask your doctor if Rimvator is right for you.  Some people trying Luuvvinex report feelings of nausea, temporary blindness, kidney malfunctions, and confusion, significantly more than patients given a placebo.  Do not take  Hyprexia® if your doctor has determined you to be at high genetic risk for pancreatic inflammation, cystic acne, or gout.  Women who are or may become pregnant should not use Propafor® or handle broken tablets due to a risk of serious birth defects; in fact they should not even look at Propafor®; you should not even be listening to this ad hearing the word “Propafor®–“consult your doctor about running around the room screaming gibberish with your hands clapped over your ears to get the word out of your head.  If you have given birth to a three headed flipper baby mutilated by Propafor®, ask your doctor if Scromulaxx is right for you.

“Low T,” aka low testosterone, was the new ad trend this year, usurping Diabeedus and if the government won’t pay for the scooter that takes you five feet across the garage to paint a birdhouse with your grandson, it’s free. I saw the same ad for a newly concentrated testosterone gel at least fifty god damn motherfucking times.  Having a hard time getting out of bed?  Don’t feel like socializing with people?  Not feeling… up to romance?  it says, and you see a shadow of a dude in a business setting, and at a touch football game, and with his wife at a restaurant.  He is a shadow because of his flagging testosterone.  His “Low T.”  His desiccated balls have literally unmanned him in middle age, which, frankly, is probably what is supposed to happen.  But not now.  Instead, a squad of his manly square-jawed coevals have assembled the giant logo of this newly powerful testosterone gel using badass jackhammers and cranes and suddenly he reappears, again corporeal, his rigid pulsating erection crushing his foes as he impregnates a multiethnic gaggle of young corporate secretaries just with eye contact that tells them he is sitting on twin fifty five gallon drums of jizz teeming with sperm of exceptional number and motility.  He has rubbed this gel on the small of his back and is again the conqueror of money, pussy and sport.  None for me, thanks.  When my filthy nuts finally stop forcing me into joint crushing agony in the gym and making me beat off ten times a god damn day like a chimpanzee it will be a fucking relief.  What is the opposite of this gel.  There is no amount of times I can jerk off that won’t make me look at some underage piece of ass on the street like a housefly looks at a hot piece of dog shit.  When will it end.  How are people paying to stay in this debased hell.

Anyway.  Watch TV for a couple hours and it becomes clear it’s gonna die.  What will replace it, the internet?  Pornography and cat pictures?  At least that has stuff you can beat off to.

7 Responses to “Airplane Diary: Television”

  1. TFU January 2, 2013 at 10:22 pm #

    I want to take Celebrex and just get all of the side effects. says it could lead to chest pain, weakness, shortness of breath, tarry stools, coughing up blood or vomit that looks like coffee grounds, rapid weight gain, skin pain followed by a red or purple skin rash that spreads and causes blistering and peeling among other side effects. Then go to the doctor, hit him with all of this, and then refuse to admit that I know anything about Celebrex or have ever taken it. “Really, no medications?” “No doctor, just went to bed with a runny nose and woke up like this.” Maybe this is how they write House.

  2. turnerbarr January 2, 2013 at 10:50 pm #

    I like this. And I like tv. But I think we can still get along. Maybe. If not, there is always cat pictures.

  3. Bronan the Barbarian! January 3, 2013 at 11:18 am #

    Does your airline hate you with the fury of a thousand Hitlers? Forced to sit through another in-flight episode of The New Girl while crammed in between two sweaty Rosanne Barr lookalikes? Ask your doctor if Vodka® is right for you!

    Clinical trials have shown Vodka®™ to increase tolerance of the horrors of airline travel by roughly 22%, allowing passengers to relax and possibly even enter a state of peaceful blackout during the hell that is American air travel.

    Side effects may include:
    – Nausea
    – Vomiting
    – Increased risk of banging a fat bitch
    – Screaming incoherently in Russian

    Don’t suffer through four more hours of network television reruns again. Talk to your doctor about Vodka®®™®√®®™ today!

  4. vsoze January 4, 2013 at 8:51 am #

    “a squad of his manly square-jawed coevals have assembled
    the giant logo of this newly powerful testosterone
    gel using badass jackhammers and cranes
    and suddenly he reappears, again corporeal, his rigid pulsating erection
    crushing his foes as he impregnates a multiethnic gaggle of young corporate secretaries just with eye contact that tells them he is sitting
    on twin fifty five gallon drums of jizz
    teeming with sperm of exceptional number and motility.”

    Pure tits poetry, my friend. Fucking golden.

  5. denialist January 13, 2013 at 2:45 am #

    god fucking damnit man, write a book. I would read it.

  6. Anonymous April 5, 2013 at 7:57 pm #

    #chickencooper #spice #sugar #coffee #coffer #coffin #cinnamon #heroine #hitlermoustache #toothbrush #floss #slippers #bump #plusone #cauhenga #roughtrade


  1. Ask Your Doctor If Vodka® Is Right For You! | Bronan The Barbarian - January 4, 2013

    […] explores the current woeful state of airline television and pharmaceutical advertisements in his latest scholarly paper. Building upon Dr. DT’s findings, I’ve discovered a product that will help alleviate […]

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