Too sexy for my poo

Thought I would share with you my evening revelations, which are, to me, astonishing- or more effectively put, they have once again promoted the feeling of self loathing for my own dumb curiosity.

I just wasted an hour of my life watching what we all know as Television.  For many years I have not had the misfortune that cable brings, nor what some might consider the blessing of “TiVo”.  I have pretty much stuck to movies since Jr High, and never liked talk shows or sit-coms.  Recently, on a whim, my husband plugged in the cable cord, giving us five channels of THE most worthless crap you could ever set before you eyes.

To briefly summarize, here’s what I discovered:
A show of four grown women continuously having sex with yet, another random guy- “Sex in the city”- or better yet “Whores who have my pity.”

Old ass, has-been British rock stars trying desperately to sing and move like they used to in puberty.  Well, they have a squeak, but it isn’t coming from they’re voice.

All your latest lies on the stars themselves, and how you too can be an air-brushed pothead but still be cool and make millions.  I’ll keep my low income, shiny, unpopular, sober face thank you very much.

He’s looking for a serious relationship girls; that’s right!  Manhattan’s Mr. April Firefighter of the month, with the body of a God wants a woman who’s curvy and can cook!  (provided she doesn’t mind being seen with a guy who could probably fill her bra out better than she can.) He seriously had to be a size D peeps.

Or my personal favorite- The ‘used-to-be’ Australian chip’n’dale dancer who is now famous for “Gardening” who states, “I’m too busy playing around in cow manure to care if I’m sexy any more.”  Ha, that you are. 

Song comes to mind . . . “I’m too sexy for my dirt, too sexy for my poo . .  .”

I feel as though the matter also known as my brain has been depleted micro-waved and dried out.  I curse the thumb and curiosity that led me to such stupidity and nonsense. 

Tye