PriorBlog

I guess it turns out that I am not as busy as I had been over the past few days, so, that leaves some time for the old Commodore64. Today we’re playing SuperBowl Sunday, some game I downloaded online a few years ago. The 1985 New Orleans Saints versus the 1983 Los Angeles Raiders. There is a weird glitch in the game that makes Jim Plunkett throw tons of interceptions. I am the Saints.

I watched some teevee last night. We watched the end of this show called My Name is Earl. I liked the fact that the main guy kept stealing stuff. I didn’t watch too close to be honest. It was about a peeping Tom and getting chased by a one legged woman. A fair amount of time was spent in a trailer park. Is there anything funnier than people who live in trailer homes? Maybe refugee camps, but for some reason, nobody has thought of that angle yet. Makes you wonder.  

Then we watched The Office. My buddy Clark had previously loaned me the first four episodes of this show, which I thought were hilarious, but last night’s show was only kind of funny. I like how some people make a point of saying the English version of the show is better. I only saw one episode of that, and it was funny, but we all know the truth about people who like English stuff better than American stuff: if the Revolutionary War were held today, they would be Tories.

I saw some ad for the American version of the BBC, and their obnoxious tagline was something like “The best station in America!” Excuse me, but last time I checked, ESPN2 was the best station in America. You have to hand it to the Brits though, having the audacity to champion their culture when they live next store to the French.  That’s like me standing next to Jared Dudley and bragging about how I scored 22 points in a junior high basketball game in 1987 (true). There is absolutely no comparison in greatness, since to compare greatness, both sides need to have a small degree of it. You would think, that if England were so rich in cultural capital, that writers and artists would flock to it. It’s interesting to note that some of the greatest writers in the English language, headed not to England, but to France (Beckett, Stein, Hemingway [I’m not really crazy about him, but since he supports my argument…]), whereas when a French writer like Zola is forcibly exiled to England, he promptly dies, like a flower cut down by the frost, the frost of little or no imagination.

Oh, I’m sorry, England. But maybe if your commercials weren’t so imperially obnoxious, I’d be nice.