Mood:
spaceyI just woke up from a good long nap and the first thing I see on the TV is a preview of next week's Paradise Hotel, which is apparently a reality show featuring lab rats (i.e., 20-something sluts of both genders) performing for cameras (infrared in the bedrooms, of course) and idly poking at the little levers for some tasty pellets. What fucking garbage. I want a reality show where I take these kids and the soulless pimps who vetted and hired them and stick them in a darkened chamber where I can lecture them before I release the Zyklon B gas.
"This reality show should only have taken a few minutes," I intone over the PA system, "but I've padded it out to sitcom-length so that the cud-chewers watching at home will have something to [think] about.
"I am murdering all of you on film and taking plenty of close-ups so that your tortured expressions will keep me warm at night.
"The children are right to applaud me, Ralph. But this disgusting nonsense ends here and now."
It's impossible for normal people to appreciate the narcissism and sociopathy of those involved in these televised splayings of the emotional labia of the witting retarded, but it keeps the beer-drinking public feeling better about itself, so look away when you pull even with the wreck and pray that Toutatis strikes.
Toutatis, strike.