Remember regular, old TV? Where you’d turn on the television and just flick through the channels at a leisurely pace and… watch whatever was on…?
It truly is unbelievable to think that just a few years ago, people would sit there, in their homes and just watch whatever the TV told them to, just because the schedule ‘demanded’ it.
Well guess what, tele? Now we tell you what to do! If I want to watch four seasons of House of Cards in one weekend, on demand… You’ll fucking play four seasons of House of Cards in one weekend, on demand.
But then you’ll go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like…‘Are you still watching House of Cards?’
And whilst that cold, black screen might provide me with an unfortunate glimpse at my withered and ghostly reflection, prompting me temporarily to wash… or eat… or to meet a real person, perhaps – It certainly won’t stop me from streaming all four seasons of House of Cards in one weekend, on demand – because I am the dominant party here and you, television, you are my submissive.
Sometimes though, it can be said that too much of the same thing can lead to frustration, boredom even. And so, every so often, like meeting a filthy, barefoot hooker at a motorway Travelodge, I secretly explore these forgotten urges. Sometimes I even go as far as to buy a ‘TV Guide’ to really add a further layer of spice to this already seedy and deviant role play, which I like to call ‘Roy’s time’ – Which has nothing to do with Claire changing the Netflix password after a heated debate with one another about monogamy and her leaving to stay with her mother.
Lately, I’ve been having on and off meetings with regularly scheduled programming for a few months and… I’ve met someone. His name is Guy Fieri… Or Fee-eddy, depending on which day of the week you might catch this indeterminate, flame haired bellend.
In short, Guy Fieri is a monster; A product peddling, sugar suckling moron from the seventh circle of hell. Watching Guy’s programme ‘Diners, Drive-ins & Dives’, you have to wonder… It’s as though Dr. Frankenstein had a George Foreman grill collecting meat-drippings for a ten year period. Or that maybe Jabba the Hutt fucked Steve from Smash Mouth except afterwards, instead of cutesy pillow-talk, the spawn immediately burst free and started a multi-million dollar business empire.
OK, so maybe I was a little harsh before. A few weeks have passed since I wrote this, and I’ve had a bit more time to think, and actually my diet of ten ounce servings of cheese topped hamburgers and deep fried spaghetti were a real hit, and made me realise that I’m fine on my own and more than capable of fending for myself. In fact, I’ve actually been quite creative in the kitchen, even despite my frequent chest pains. Plus, tears are a great alternative to kosher salt and at half the calories!
Come back, Claire. Please. This is getting ridiculous.