I'll take the polar bears, please
In a recent email conversation, I recommended the shows Modern Marvels: The Mackinac Bridge, Modern Marvels: Batteries (for the electric cars in it, not for the vibrators, you sick fuckers...although if you know of a vibrator battery that can go 200 miles before it has to be recharged, you let me know), and Sin Cities of the West: Deadwood, all of which happen to be showing on the History Channel.
After I read back what I'd written over several emails, I concluded that I must be of a "certain age" because I suddenly know a little too much about the History Channel. But then again, I countered, at least it wasn't Lifetime Network, home of the tragic bitches.
Then I started imagining my worst old-age nightmare: What if, someday, my body gives out after all the abuse I've dealt it, but my mind stays sharp? What if I was totally aware of everything around me but couldn't cause my body to respond to mental commands at all? With my luck, and with all the bad karma I'm busy accumulating, I'll get shipped off to some bargain-basement Ice Flo Retirement Home, one step lower than being fed to polar bears. And because they assume I have no idea what's going on, they'll put me in with an insomniac roommate who keeps the TV blaring 24 hours a day and watches a steady diet of Fox News, Lifetime Network, and NASCAR. There I'll be, this physical blob with an alert mind, never leaving my bed except when they need me as a backstop for cafeteria softball, never able to register my protest out loud, but inside my head keeping a constant monologue of "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!" as I hear nothing but the TV:
"...and we have it on the best of authority that Bill Clinton's corpse was repeatedly fellated by..."
"I thought you loved me! How could you turn me into a...a...street whore? And my daughter!"
"Oh, what's gonna happen next? LEFT TURN! What's gonna happen next? LEFT TURN!"
I'd better hone my telekinetic powers now, so if that time ever comes, I can speed up the morphine drip every time I regain consciousness.
After I read back what I'd written over several emails, I concluded that I must be of a "certain age" because I suddenly know a little too much about the History Channel. But then again, I countered, at least it wasn't Lifetime Network, home of the tragic bitches.
Then I started imagining my worst old-age nightmare: What if, someday, my body gives out after all the abuse I've dealt it, but my mind stays sharp? What if I was totally aware of everything around me but couldn't cause my body to respond to mental commands at all? With my luck, and with all the bad karma I'm busy accumulating, I'll get shipped off to some bargain-basement Ice Flo Retirement Home, one step lower than being fed to polar bears. And because they assume I have no idea what's going on, they'll put me in with an insomniac roommate who keeps the TV blaring 24 hours a day and watches a steady diet of Fox News, Lifetime Network, and NASCAR. There I'll be, this physical blob with an alert mind, never leaving my bed except when they need me as a backstop for cafeteria softball, never able to register my protest out loud, but inside my head keeping a constant monologue of "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!" as I hear nothing but the TV:
"...and we have it on the best of authority that Bill Clinton's corpse was repeatedly fellated by..."
"I thought you loved me! How could you turn me into a...a...street whore? And my daughter!"
"Oh, what's gonna happen next? LEFT TURN! What's gonna happen next? LEFT TURN!"
I'd better hone my telekinetic powers now, so if that time ever comes, I can speed up the morphine drip every time I regain consciousness.
Katy Barzedor proclaimed this to be so at 12:20 PM
10 of you felt the overwhelming need to say somethin':
Dirty Jobs recently had an episode where Mike Rowe was painting the Mackinac Bridge or something...
I haven't seen the Emporer Penguin documentary on Discovery in a while, but we just watched one on Praying (Mantises Mantisi? Mantisese?) bugs.
Lifetime - it ain't just for tragic bitches. Oh wait. Yes it is.
(clearly, I need more caffiene)
Hee hee. You summed those stations one concise sentence each. See, your mind is sharp. Oh, wait, it's your body you're worried about. Never mind.
Use your telekinetic powers to blow up the roomie's TV. You'll save the brains of everyone within earshot. :-)
Or you can room with me. Do you like the Discovery Channel? I can do History, too, but the war programs just don't do it for me, though they are better than Lifetime. *shudder*
Great. Thanks, Bucky. Now I have to take better care of my body, too! (I don't want your roommate, either!) What am I gonna do with all these chocolate chip cupcakes?
But if your viewing habits change with age, maybe you'll dig that stuff when you're an old(er) geezer.
*ducks*
Cupcakes? Hello?
They're plenty left, CK. Come on over. Bucky made me decide it would be better to save them for after dinner. :-(
(Hurry, though. Dinner in five minutes. Cupcakes will be all gone very shortly after. :-)
What a living hell, Bucky! But wait! Perhaps by the time your body gives out medical science will have reached the point where a brain can be inserted into a new, functional body. Whose would you select?
Bucky, I think Nick's question, in your very capable hands, would make a damn fine blog post. :-)
This has been my greatest fear my entire life!
And this last year, as my body has done nothing but betray me, and suddenly, for the first time ever, I'm on all kinds of meds which are supposed to be permanent (more on the way this week) -- I've been feeling as though it's already beginning.
Not that it would have made a lick of difference, probably, but I had no idea that the way I thrashed myself all those years was doing FUTURE damage, I thought if it felt fine then, it WAS fine.
But then I never intended to live into my 50's, either.
I intend to get myself on the ice floe before my body goes.
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