Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned From TV

1. When I enter a crime scene, make sure I touch shit with my fingers.
2. Whenever I need to find something, it’s bound to be in the first drawer I check.
3. I will never need to ask addresses, I’ll just magically appear at the right location. Beam me up, Scottie.
4. My makeup will work the right way every time.
5. Relationships can rock when you get to edit them for running length.
6. Government agencies always have the nicest offices (ie Alias, 24).
7. To be successful, one must be beautiful.
8. Never trust an anchor person who looks better on location.
9. If things ever get too Bad, Crazy, or Wrong, I can exile myself to Canada. Oh. Wait a sec. That might finally be a downside to being Canadian. I can't exile here. Fuck.
10. Moments of great tragedy in life will be immediately preceded by a swelling orchestra emoting my experience to come. Cue violins.
11. You can always judge a person by their pantry. Orderly: Perfect, or a serial killer with a deep, abiding psychosis.
12. Kellogg’s Corn Pops are a good source of nutrition.
13. A woman’s place, apparently, is still in the kitchen. (Kitchen, eh? Well, the floor’s not that comfortable, but if I must…)

Well, it seems odd leaving the list there, but I can’t think of anything else right now. I wouldn’t say my synapses were firing… sparking, perhaps. Now they’ve all but sputtered right out.

I have a great many beefs with television, but it’s like my brother; he gets on my fucking nerves and can be really, really common sometimes, but, still, I’m hooked. ('Sides, there's some good shit if you're intelligent about what to watch. That's what those silly people write those "review" things for: To save you some fucking time.)

So, anyhow, I’ll try to come up with more of these at some point. Could be amusing. Who knows.

In the meantime, I’m a big fan of the show the Shield, since they just don’t do enough anti-hero roles anymore. In one episode (eight?) in the first season, one role is credited as “Two-Bit Whore.” Not a prostitue, not a hooker, not even a whore. She’s not even cut-rate – she’s worth a quarter. And trust me, quarters don’t buy what they usedta could.

Imagine it, though:

“Well, what’s my motivation?”

“Uh, you’re a whore? No, scratch that. Yer a two-bit whore, honey. Undo that top button there, wouldja?”