Vile, Disgusting and Gory - and That’s Just Dinner

I have written before of my magical ability to make all sorts of pieces of bodies and operations happen on television simply by having dinner in front of it.  It might be six o’clock, it might be ten o’clock - no matter when, there will be gore on the telly.

I have had a dish on the roof for quite a while and haven’t watched broadcast tv.  We recently canceled the dish service so now it’s internet streaming and the absolute dregs: over-the-air tv.  I didn’t watch much tv before and now I watch even less, with good reason.

One thing that surprised me was some of what television writers get away with, specifically on Two and a Half Men.   With the good comes the bad and at no time was this ever brought home to me like tonight.  I’m what you’d technically call a weenie: I don’t like blood, gore, operations, autopsies, or even obviously fake body parts.  Naturally it was Body Part Season starting this evening.

It was a rare evening: the two of us were, for some reason, vertical and awake at the same time.  We ate dinner and got to sit together for a while.

On the telly was some sort of black ops serial featuring the extremely deep-voiced fellow from the Allstate insurance commercials.  To celebrate Together Time, someone got shot `in the field’ (what was supposed to be Afghanistan) and our hero was on the scene, assessing the medical situation and providing first aid.

“OWWWWW,” said the shot ops guy.

Deep Voice told him he was sorry but he had to locate the femoral artery.  To punctuate his statement, they showed Deep with one hand on a radio and another in his buddy’s leg.

It was at precisely this point that I turned my head.  This usually works against the inevitable visual gore.

Deep Voice one-upped me though.  That’s probably why he’s the group leader. He proceeded to tell his shot buddy to I.V. himself while he described his progress locating and holding the femoral artery.

It was so disgusting that I might as well have been looking at it.  I was squirming on the couch, which always seems to confuse my nurse of a wife, who thinks this stuff is great!

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To be honest, I had finished eating a few minutes earlier but they got me good.

Not to be outdone, whatever show was next on the hit parade featured a woman being forced to help another woman give birth.  I managed to miss all of the visuals, while trying to ignore the audio.  When I finally figured it was safe, I looked up (just in time for a High Def shot of the one lady trying to deal with the umbilical cord, hacking away like an axe-murderer).

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That was more than enough tv for one night.

As I type this, my wife is in bed and things are relatively quiet, except for the cat growling. Don’t ask me, I just live here.

For some reason one of my workmates sent me a text message with an encouraging sports theme.  I fear this will only get worse, as the local group of millionaires with bats and gloves is apparently doing really well.  Yet another reason to hope they fail. Last week this nonsense interrupted House.  Absolutely intolerable.

“Go Phils,” they say.

I agree.  I think they should go too.  To somewhere like Florida.  Or South America.