I’ve spent quite a bit of time over the weekend watching TV, and if I had to sum up my impressions in just a few words, I’d say that the television has been completely flooded by one glaring oxymoron, which is reality TV.

The sole purpose of the media is to manipulate and obfuscate, to present a skewed version of the truth that is designed to sway the viewer’s opinion one way or the other. Hence, the term reality TV is about as far away from reality as Hugh Heffner’s supposed playboy lifestyle is.

This begs one question though, what comes after reality TV? What is the next step that the TV producers will take to bring “realism” to your average couch potato viewer? I was thinking of participation of some sort. I’m thinking of Roman spectators in the Coliseum pointing their thumbs upwards or downwards, which would mean the difference between life and death for some poor Syrian schmuck down there about to get his chest hacked open by a Gladius.

Still, that’s only really a partial progression.

Here’s how this works. Think of something despicable that you think could never wind up on TV, and that’s likely the next step after reality TV. That’s kind of like a sexual fetish – the best thrills come from the type of fetish that’d make you want to look away the first time you saw it. But then it starts to slowly creep under your skin and you just know that the next time you see it, your mind will get a big kick out of it. Until an even more bizarre one is presented to you.

A hotel junkie hanged himself in a hotel room. People say that was the most ironic death ever, though some would disagree. But look, he was a hotel room junkie, he couldn’t live in anything *but* hotel rooms, so why in the hells did he end his life in a hotel room? I mean, I could understand why he would hang himself in an apartment, but he was where he wanted to be. Then again, he never got a chance to even see an apartment as he was really only in hotel rooms all his life. Wait, so, if he never saw an apartment how did he know he preferred hotel rooms? Did he really like the complimentary miniature shampoos and bathrobes with hotel insignia that much? Turns out he hanged himself because he always wanted to live in an apartment and he never really liked hotel rooms, or complimentary miniature shampoos (they didn’t tackle dandruff well). Hence the irony I think.

I’m back!

My first year here and I felt just…wow. What a surreal three days it’s been, full of tears, laughter, avarice and heart wrenching anxiety…

Well, time for everything to get back to normal now. I must say though, I’m a little saddened by it all. All those hours spent dawdling away in the cozy function room, blurting out our evangelistic speeches of fire and doom and overly-dramatized lines. It was jolly good fun. I really do wish it could’ve lasted just a little bit longer. And I’m still a little sore that I didn’t qualify for any medals. Obviously feminism and dreadfully boring lotuses are placed much higher on the judging pedestal than jiggling boobies and erect penises. What a horribly twisted world we live in, eh?

Oh, yeah. Congratulations to that flash git Matt for getting the Silver in Extemporaneous Speaking, he’s certainly the best of us all, no doubt about that. And congratulations to all the other KDU people who’ve worked so diligently. Great job, mates!

Happy Valentine’s Day, folks. What I want to know on this Valentine’s Day is how a fucking blood pump became a symbol for love? Probably has something to do with getting the blood to the penis for a sustained erection. And that’s why women can’t love like men, quite literally.

You can tell I’m all about romance today, can’t you?

Speaking of comedy, comedy is so fucking tied with tragedy, you can hardly set the two apart. In every great tragedy, there is tons of comedy, and every comedy when looked from a certain perspective is tragic. Often, the funniest works found their inspiration in some deep-seated anger towards something the author despised with all his/her heart, and yet found within himself/herself the strength to laugh at it (if merely in desperation). That’s the beauty of comedy, it’s a tragedy, and looking at the bigger picture, these intertwined notions create the ultimate form of irony.

And everyone loves irony. If they don’t, they should be fucking shot.

As Valentine’s Day draws ever closer, we think of all the creative ways we could show our loved one(s) how much we care. But if you really want to show that you care, and that she cares, propose that you both simultaneously slit your wrists in a tub filled with rose petals and scented oils. If she says ‘no’, attack her with a knife as soon as possible, as you’ll need a new victim loved one before Feb. 14th.

And now, drum roll please… The Cheerful Song!

“Somewhere over the rainbow,

the end of the rainbow lies,

for what starts must always end,

and even a rainbow dies.”

Pure poetry genius, that’s what I am.

Funerals.

I think there was something I wanted to say about them… ah yes, the air smells so sweet and fresh at graveyards. It’s so serene and quiet, like you’re in a beautiful English wood.

Of course, that’s not to say that I’d enjoy spending very much time there. No, the imbedded and almost inherent presence of the occult in my being would never allow it. With the right frame of mind, though, graveyards can really be quite soothing. If it wasn’t for the notion that you were surrounded by dead people of course; all their thoughts, pains and wishes dying with them as that wooden casket hits the dirt in the ditch and soil is cast over it.

That’s your life’s play ending, there.

A brilliant thought entered my mind this morning, but it’s lost now. I wonder where it went. Where do brilliant thoughts go? And if they’re so brilliant how in the hells do they get lost in the first place anyway? I wish there was a device for catching brilliant thoughts. The main problem with brilliant thoughts is not that they aren’t brilliant enough, no. It’s that you don’t know they’re brilliant at the time they’re formed. So if we could build a machine that would spot a brilliant thought when it’s formed and alarm your brain of its birth, I’m sure we’d solve the problem of world hunger or even help Madonna look young again. Or help Guy Ritchie make a decent movie while still being married to Madonna. The poor guy.

Weekends fly by like a sunny spring day. Vibrant colors of the flowers and the clear blue skies mingle in the gentle breeze as you lay on the grass in a beautiful park. Seduced by its smell and soft texture, jerking off to a hobo hag pissing on a swan in the pond. Wish there were more days like that.

What?