This post about TV is really just an excuse to publish a picture of cake. Coconut cake.
The older I get, the lower the altitude at which are flying the fucks I give about pop culture. It’s true! I don’t listen to The Shins. I haven’t seen “Borat,” and have made no plans to do so. In fact, my dog Bert chewed up my most recent Netflix selection (“The Life Aquatic”) before I could watch it, and now I’m in Dutch with the Netflixians, so I’ll probably never see a movie again.
Oh, some quaint vestiges of my old culture-vulture days cling. For instance, in June, when it finally comes out, you will have to strap me down and put me in a coma to keep me from getting my hands on one of those iPhone things. And, unlike all the pious readers of this blog, I own a television. I don’t use it to watch “24,” though, so that puts 87% of all pop culture references beyond my grasp. But last night I used it to sort of watch “The Sarah Silverman Program.”
I should remark at this juncture that, although comedy is conceptually a swell idea, there can be no doubt that some hitherto undiscovered law governing the physical universe makes exceedingly remote the contingency that a professional comedian can be funny. It has to do with a neutrino-ish particle that somehow transmits to those who would be amused the crushing weight of Cosmic Indifference. Someday, when I get back from ice-fishing for revenge in Hell, I’m gonna look into it.
But until then: funny comedians : oxymoron :: unfunny comedians : moron
I say I ‘sort of’ watched “The Sarah Silverman Program” because I actually missed most of it. After the initial round of fart jokes, there was a commercial. I have developed such an aversion to those in-yer-face dude-centric commercials that whenever they come on, which is always, I can either flip to an ad-free station or start cutting myself with razor blades. Of course I end up getting sucked in to whatever they’re showing on the other channel, even when, like last night, it’s Lee Marvin and Burt Lancaster shooting the crap out of Mexican banditos in Death Valley.
“You should be careful, ameego. These parts are dangerous for greengos. There are many bandeetos,” says the Head Mexican Bandito.
Burt Lancaster and Lee Marvin and their posse immediately shoot all the Mexican banditos.
“Shoot the horses, too,” says Burt Lancaster.
Lee Marvin hesitates. They are standing in a pile of dead Mexican banditos.
I forget all about Sarah Silverman’s Program because I have to know if Lee Marvin shoots the horses. When I remember to tune back in, sure enough, some guy is on the crapper looking at gay porn.
I’m not saying a guy on the crapper looking at gay porn can’t be funny. I’m just saying it isn’t funny. But, O, I wanted to love “The Sarah Silverman Program.” Like all spinster aunts, I yearn for a chickly TV show that isn’t about cleavage or outfits, or the wacky lengths Miss Thing will go to to get a boyfriend; such a show has not aired since Mary Tyler Moore. But I was in trouble before “The Sarah Silverman Program” even started, because of the self-consciously anti-funny title. And then it was just disappointing poop jokes, a disappointing exploration of the psychedelic properties of cough syrup, and disappointing guys telling each other “I’m so gay for you.”
I am informed by the commentariat at Pandagon that Silverman is ‘meta’, but if that’s the case, I guess I just can’t tell the difference between ‘meta’ and ‘pandering to low-brow late-nite 18-34 year-old white dudes who say ‘dude’ alot.’ Just like I can’t tell the difference between Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen Twins.