I have sinned

I have confession to make. I have a dark, dirty secret that I tell no one in my private life. This habit is so heinous and so disturbing that I have become disgusted with myself for propagating a social plague, I have become overwhelmed with guilt due to my support of the writer’s union (tentative deal, yay!), and most importantly it has caused me to doubt my taste in popular culture.

I watch American Gladiators.

At 7PM on Mondays, I have finally came back from campus and have finished all my errands. So I relax in front of my television. And there on NBC (the media company that brought Battlestar Galactica, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Medium, 30 Rock, Conan O’Brian, and the first four seasons of Friends into my life) I find people volunteering to be publicly beaten unconscious.

I typically am appalled at “reality” programming, especially since the studio decided to not pay their writers for one of the main mediums (and soon to be the medium) of distributing their product. I don’t idolize American Idol. MTV makes me want to vomit. And Bruno vs. Mary Anne: Dance War sounds like a horseman of the apocalypse. But broadcasted violence is compelling television to me, for some reason. For example:

In the first challenge, contestants sprint through a narrow pathway while four bodybuilders repeatedly punch them in the face. After this the contestants endure many other challenges, such as the pyramid. In the pyramid, the contestants try to climb a forty-foot pyramid made of exercise mats as fast as possible. This in itself wouldn’t be entertaining. But when you factor in the Gladiators throwing the contestants down forty feet, having the contestants recover and climb the pyramid for the second time only to have the Gladiators throw them down again and again; it becomes interesting.

Why do the contestants push themselves farther and farther into the Gladiators’ fists? So that they may have a head start against the other contestant in the eliminator. In the eliminator, the contestants climb a ten foot wall, swim under several concussing bars of face-scaring OPEN FLAMES, climb a thirty foot wall, disorient themselves by rolling down a human-sized sewing spool, exhaust every muscle in their arms by propelling themselves with bicycle pedals, climb the forty foot pyramid again, zip line into the ground next to the finishing point, and then WHEN NO MUSCLE SYSTEM IN THEIR BODY WILL FUCKING WORK FOR A MONTH they have to climb an elevated treadmill that is going the wrong way.

I admit the main draw for me is the violence. But the show is much more than that. Half of the contestants say that their motivation for going on to international television (consequently everyone they will ever meet will remember them as the guy who was thrown into a wall thirty times) is to make money for their family. The go on this show for their kids and for their moms. I love that they don’t consider engaging in a career path that would earn them more money than an exploitive television show ever would. Instead, they planned to be pummeled for money.

(Note: the average life-time earnings for those with a High School diploma is $1.2 million, a Bachelor’s Degree gives an average $2.1 million, Master’s typically gives $2.5 million, Doctorate’s give an average of $3.4 million, and Professional Degrees give average life-time earnings of $4.4 million. American Gladiators gives an average of $12,500.)

Beyond the contestants’ desperation and lack of logic, the Gladiators have the queerest stage personas I have seen since I watched professional wrestling (I was 8, don’t judge me). At any point the contestants have no idea whether the gladiators intend to kill them or rape them. I also enjoy the contestants that honestly just had a lot of time on their hands and thought the show would be fun. They smile and remain perky when they win while the other contestants go on and on about how they have failed and now can no longer support their addiction to meth.

…

Inevitably, at the 7:15 commercial break I flip through channels while listening to jazz on my MP3 player to remind myself that I am human. And it is then that I notice that I could have been watching How I Met Your Mother. The guilt sets in and I cry a little as the five witty urbanites chastise me for not watching the opening act of their comic plots. I tell them that I’m sorry, but Allison Hannigan and Neil Patrick Harris won’t listen. So I turn to NBC, watch poor people be beaten, concussed, ridiculed, and dismembered for the joy of the masses. I then repress the memories of HIMYM so that I may function for another week.

THE REAL Scooby-Doo

Upon graduating high school, a group of local burnouts engage in a road trip in one’s hippie van while experimenting with recreational drug use. One’s use of marijuana causes an overabundance of the munchies, but his high metabolism rate plus his increased forgetfulness prevents weight gain. After ingesting several “Scooby-Snacks” the teenagers hallucinate that their dog has the ability to speak.

The teenagers become a disturbance to the peace in Middle America when they have delusions of the local museum’s suit of armor abducting community leaders. The gang, determined to solve the mystery, break into the museum after business hours and terrorize the night staff. During a bad trip, one female appears to have the ability to sprint while carrying three others and the dog.

A member of the night staff calls the police, which exacerbates the situation for a few more hours. The gang only settles down after a local officer praises the teenagers for their bravery and pretends to take a man into custody. The elderly night staff admonishes “those meddling kids” as the gang returns to their vehicle.

The teenagers circle their hometown and the surrounding countryside in the hippie van, repetitively finding “monsters” and “mysteries” every time they take a hit of acid. The cycle continues until the gang hallucinates Don Knotts pathetically performing several roles in order to remain on broadcast television.

Shocked out of their bohemian lifestyle, the foursome settles down. Daphne marries Fred, markets their stories as a children’s television series, and they now live together with their two kids in the country club. Velma teaches gender studies at a regional university. Shaggy continues to tour the countryside with the dog.

Both experience flashbacks of their days as a part of Mystery Inc…

Detox Journal

With a five-day weekend for thanksgiving, I decided it would be an opportune time to get over my addiction to caffeine. I stopped being a binge drinking idiot earlier this year, so I figure getting over caffeine will be relatively painless. So from here on out it will be pure H2O, no coffee, soda, or tea. And this journal will mark my progress towards a better, shiny, stimulant-free life.


Day 1- It has been twenty-four hours since I last ingested a caffeinated beverage. I don’t feel that different… and that is a complete lie. I am perpetually tired and it takes three times as long to carry out any routine activity. However, I am worried most about my appearance to others.

Recently I recognized that if I go to class without my morning caffeine, two things will inevitably occur. First, I will not comprehend any bit of the lecture or any item said to me (such as “Good Morning, Justin”). Second, if I temporarily believe that I do comprehend, I am still unable to communicate back. Typically I add extra nouns and misplace verbs. For example, once a classmate said hello and I responded with, “Morning Lion caffeine am.” Despite the fact that this appears to be a recent condition, I have a feeling that this has gone on every morning for several years, because the lack of caffeine induces temporary amnesia.

While I was editing the last two paragraphs, I noticed one mistake for every sentence. That’s not too bad. I can live like this. And I’m just going to get better tomorrow!


Day 2- Ugh, today left great big hurtness. Life like morning ever. Tired, tired, everything. Why did I do this to me? No, everywhere. I’m afraid to read what is typing. Need my favorite stimulant. Life sucks without caffeine. I want to sleep. Need.

Moreover, Monty Python has suddenly become hilarious. God help me.


Day 3- When I woke up, my eyes looked like firetrucks, even though I have been getting at least twelve hours of sleep a night to compensate for the lack of caffeine. So I doused my eyes in visine and headed out to the world.

But when I went downstairs I found my brother and my sister-in-law knocking on my door. Apparently, they had called me a few minutes earlier and that is why I was awake. After they explained to me why they came over, I asked them why they came over.

Yes, you read that sentence correctly.

While my lips were forming the words, I knew that it was a mistake; however I did not have enough control over my body to close my mouth in time. My brother and sister-in-law looked at me with the expression of pity/amusement that people give to the mentally deficient. Then they jumped up and down with their starbucks and their energy and their smiles. Bastards. They then took something and left. I was afraid to ask what they were taking, since they explained it to me at least twice.

Also, my tongue, deprived of its favorite taste, has begun to hallucinate. Cereal, soup, bread, and beef all taste like coffee. Am I going insane? I think so.

For leaving me this holiday, my parents gave me some guilt cash. Intending to spread the money out for as long as possible, I decided to go to McDonald’s. For some reason, I drove myself to the one on Green River (30 minutes away) instead of the one on University Drive (only ten minutes away). Sitting in the parking lot, again wondering what the hell was going on, I decided to roll with it and eat wherever I was. But when I inspected my wallet, I found it to be empty. I had left all the cash on my kitchen counter. So I made an hour-long trip for no reason whatsoever.

Screw this. I can’t take it anymore. It’s time to put my coffee maker to work.

And thus ended my non-caffeinated life.

CBS Cares... Sorta

Actual Slogan:
If you’re on drugs or have taken a lot of alcohol, you can’t protect yourself from Aids.


Unused Slogans from the Brainstorming Session:

If you’re on drugs or have taken a lot of alcohol, then you’re probably gay.
If you’re on drugs or haven taken a lot of alcohol, don’t dial your ex. They will only have rebound sex with you while they are on drugs.
If you’re on drugs or have taken a lot of alcohol, you can’t protect yourself from your HIV positive coke addict sex buddy.
If you’re on drugs or have taken a lot of alcohol, don’t give your designated driver a few hundred dollars for gas. Trust us; gas prices didn’t get as high as you did.
If you’re on drugs or have taken a lot of alcohol, you can’t fully protect yourself from crazy drugged-out transsexuals with machetes.
If you snort more than one line of cocaine, take a sick day from work. It will be our little secret.
If you’re on drugs or have taken a lot of alcohol, you can’t protect yourself from creepy, paternalistic, abstinence-only television professionals who don’t know how to live a little.
If you’re on drugs or have taken a lot of alcohol, we are better than you.