There are certain things that appear on the radio, television or CDs (formerly known as â€œrecordsâ€) that I find to be such an assault on my senses that I get panicky and flail at the remote, or volume knob, or on-off switch to make them go away. I want to be clear. These things are not just a minor annoyance. They make me temporarily crazy until I can abate the sensory insult. Here is a partial list. I say â€œpartial,â€ because I suspect that this may become a regular Department around here.
Wheel of Fortune. Just hearing the audience say in unison, at the beginning of the show, â€œWheelâ€¦.ofâ€¦Fortuneâ€ causes my blood pressure to spike. Pat Whatâ€™s-his-name and Vanna â€“ Buy a farookinâ€™ vowel and k_ss my _ss!
Rap â€œMusicâ€. Can anything be worse? No need to spend years learning how to play an instrument â€“ No need to be able to carry a tune. You can become an â€œartistâ€ by dressing in clothes that donâ€™t fit and shouting juvenile rhyming couplets into a camera. Pure ca-ca. Shut that shit off, immediately!
Award Programs. Oscars, Grammys, Peopleâ€™s Choice, Tonyâ€™s, Countryâ€¦etc. Itâ€™s all the same crap. Idiots being interviewed by idiots; Idiots reading from cue cards idiotic lines written by idiots. Then there are other idiots commenting on it all. Gag City. Turn it OFF!
Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey and their Imitators. These people, many of whom I suspect can actually sing, always manage to turn a nice tune into a screech fest as they dazzle their tin-eared audience by vocally slipping and sliding all around the correct note before getting around to hitting it. Yo, ladies. Only the bats can hear that shit. This hurts my hair down to the roots.
Montell, Jerry, Maury, Sally Jesse, and the Like. What a clever concept. Drag human refuse before the cameras to talk about having sex with their best friendâ€™s brother/sister/wife/husband/cat. Even better â€“ have the host take a microphone into the audience so that one of the mutants in the audience can â€œtell offâ€ the mutants on the stage. My hair is doomed. Weâ€™re doomed.
Irish Music for More than Ten Minutes. I can handle ten minutes worth. There are even some good tunes, but they can be done in about ten minutes. But from eleven minutes on, enough already. Apologies to my grandfather from County Sligo. The foregoing does not apply on St. Patrickâ€™s Day, provided I am well oiled by minute 10.
Television Judge Judy, or Television Judge Whomever. This is a slick variation on the Montell, Maury, Sally Jesse theme. Some of the same mutants that appear on those shows appear as litigants before these TV judges. Bonus treat â€“ after the â€œtrial,â€ the losing litigant is interviewed in the hallway by the jurisprudential equivalent of a â€œcolor guy.â€ My hair actually wretches. Your real-live municipal court provides a better show, and there are no commercials.
â€œRealityâ€ Shows. Survivor, Big Brother, Bachelors, Bachelorettes, Joe the Construction/Millionaire, People eating worms â€“ Whose reality is this? If it were possible, my hair would vomit. Turn that shit off!
Sports Talk Radio. My God. Itâ€™s 4 a.m. and Joe from Brooklyn calls in to talk about a â€œDream Trade.â€ The only reason these people listen and call in is because they are not quite pathetic enough to qualify as guests on Judge Judy, Montell et al. This gives my hair a rash.
Hillary Clinton. The mere sound of her voice makes my hair stand on end, but when she is in â€œspeech mode,â€ I damned near have a seizure. Turn that horrible woman off before my hair and I need the emergency squad!!!
Itâ€™s been a rough week. I feel better now, thank you.