After a short surgery performed by silent, shadowy, grim government men in black suits, my daughter can now instantly recall the date and time of day she saw a commercial for Baby Poops-A-Lot. We now know the name of the wonderful song currently being ruined by a company who sells cars and/or fast food. It flashes in front of our orbs in the air not unlike the floating, colorful balls one sees after looking at a flash bulb. It used to remind us of the birth of our first child. Now the image of luxury car is stamped forever upon our memory banks...
But seriously, I've not watched more than a few hours of TV in two years.
With that being said, I'm probably not the most reliable source for opinions on the state of TV programs of the here and right now. I get all my info from my co-workers (they love watching obese folks lose weight) and from listening to fragments of conversation (many about "that piece-of-shit-rich-bitch-whore" Bristol Palin's dancing techniques) while waiting for the barista to whip up my heavily-caffeine-infused chocolate drink thing at the coffeehouse.
Despite my ignorance, I'm going to make a statement and let it loose here so it can run all over the internets:
There are no longer TV moments like this anymore.
Dig the composer here
Bootlegs of the complete Thriller TV series (recorded from when it aired on the Mystery Cable Channel) have been floating about the Internet for some time now, but the good folks at Image Entertainment have finally brought it out on DVD all official and spruced up for the modern TV viewer.
Three Hundred Channels of vibrating-yowsa-wowsa-bling-blang-hooey to choose from on your boob tube still can't compare to having unlimited access to the wondrous mug and warm lisp of Boris Karloff.
It's just my uninformed opinion.
"Warm lisp..." Beautiful.
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