It's my blog
It never slogs
It makes me want to snog a hog
Read it up; it's like brain nog
Okay, so today's tagline becomes even more disturbing, if you can imagine such a thing, when I tell you that it's based on the 'Mail Song' from Blue's Clues. And if you knew that already, congratulations. You're nearly as bad off as I am. Another couple of blows to the head should just about do it.
But what the hell -- as long as I'm on the subject: have you guys seen this show? I haven't watched it in a few months, but it always used to send me into giggling fits. Well, parts of it, anyway. Obviously, you have to ignore all the parts where they're trying to actually teach kids about shapes, or numbers, or laughing and pointing at people who are 'different'. Just fast-forward through that, or go get yourself a nice snack, or some creamy hot cereal.
(It's an important part of a balanced breakfast, you know.)
"I bet she gets jiggy all over the spice rack. Mustard seeds, tarragon, you name it. Bitch probably does the nasty with celery salt."
What you don't want to miss out on is when the actual human in the show, whose character's name is 'Steve' (and whose real name is, um, Steve; look, they don't get all that creative for the pre-school crowd, okay?), is running around or musing or talking to the fake 'laugh track' of two-year-old slobbering goobers that poses for the 'audience'. Because that shit is hi-larious. Pure comedy gold.
Look at it this way. Here's Steve. He's equal parts Mister Rogers and Tobey Maguire.
(And looks exactly like this guy from my softball team a couple of years ago. Whose name was... Steve. Purely coincidence? Um, yeah, almost certainly. Oh, well.)
So, if you've never seen the show, just try to imagine our striped sleuth traipsing around chasing after a blue dog and other creatures that are all made of paper and cardboard and move around as though they're Barbie dolls being piloted by four-year-old girls. In other words, unsteadily, stiffly, and jerkily. Sort of like your first time in the back of a Pontiac Grand Am back in high school. Or the Barbie doll thing, you pick. Are you in the mood for 'G' or 'PG-13' rated analogies? It's up to you; I'm all about choices here.
So, just the fact that they've got this guy in his faux Charlie Brown togs frolicking around among household objects come to life is amusing enough. At least, to me. If you can't tell from reading this blog, it doesn't take much to tickle my humerus. Apparently. Anyway, then you start to think about the implications of this house that 'Steve' (who is really Steve; don't get confused) is living in.
First, there's Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper. Shakers with arms. Charming, no? But what I wonder is this: when Steve's out of salt, or needs to fill up on pepper, wouldn't he have to unscrew their frickin' heads to get more in there? And wouldn't that hurt, just a bit? Come to think of it, could Steve even use salt and pepper in that house? He'd be flipping them upside down and shaking out their insides, after all. Seems a little like being strung up by your ankles and having your pancreas jostled out through your nose. Or your lungs. Ew. No, thanks.
While we're at it, let's look at this unholy thing. This is baby Paprika. She's apparently the bizarre spawn of the spicy couple above. Which begs the question, just how exactly did these two 'get it on'? I mean, where the hell are their uglies, and how in God's name did they bump them? That's to say nothing of the fact that pepper plus salt gets you... well, I don't know. Salty pepper, I guess. But not paprika. I'm no expert on foodstuff genetics, but I'd have to guess that Mrs. Pepper's been getting some lovin' from the mailman, if you know what I mean. I bet she gets jiggy all over the spice rack. Mustard seeds, tarragon, you name it. Bitch probably does the nasty with celery salt. Whore.
Then, there's shovel and pail. Now, they've gotta be pissed. For one thing, everybody else on this damned show's got a name. The dog's got a name, the clock's got a name, even the damned condiments have names. And what are the shovel and pail called? 'Shovel and pail'. Bitches.
(Of course, Steve's got the same beef, I guess. Where's the love?)
But of the two, shovel's obviously got it worse. Sure, pail gets loaded up with all manner of sand and rocks and crap and gets carried around by his ears. It's no picnic being pail; don't get me wrong. But did you look closely at the picture of shovel? It's a little hard to see, but his face is on the scoop part of the shovel. So every time he gets dipped into sand, or dirt, or a big juicy pile of Blue shit, he's getting it all in his mouth and nose and eyes and everywhere. He just gets grabbed by the legs and dunked in Heaven-knows-what, like one big nasty swirly after another. What the hell kind of life is that?! What are we teaching kids, anyway?
I'm not even going to talk about Magenta, who appears to be Blue's personal bitch.
(No, really, she's a bitch. Literally. It's okay. Breathe.)
All's I know is that if she spends more than thirty seconds on that show and there's not some serious ass-sniffing and face-licking and dominant humping and territorial pissing happening, then it's just not realistic. I've got a dog. I know what goes down out there on the streets.
So, still with me? My, we are sick and twisted, aren't we?
(Or desperate for a blog to read. Either way, I'll keep going. You really shouldn't encourage me like this...)
It gets better. For the show -- please, please tell me it's just for the show -- the producers have given Steve a partial lobotomy, which I presume is to allow three- and four-year-olds the chance to catch up every now and then. But it's ever so much fun to watch our green-clad goon stumble and bumble around like an addled wino, 'trying' to figure out what to do next. It usually goes something like this:
Steve: Dum-de-dum. Well, that was fun. I wonder what'll happen next. Maybe I'll go into Mr. John and take a big nasty --
Audience: Steve! Steve! A clue!
Steve: Hmmm? What's that?
Audience: It's a clue! A clue! Look behind you!
Steve: A shoe? Well, yeah, I've got two shoes. They're called Mr. Lefticle and Tighty Righty. You want to talk to them?
Audience: No, not a shoe. A clue!
Steve: A what? I'm gonna spew? No, no, I'm good. My hangover's finally gone. But thanks for asking.
Audience: No, no. Steve -- a clue! A Blue's clue!
Steve: Huh? Elisabeth Shue? No way, dudes! She's fuckin' hot! I'll slip her some paprika! Where is she? Where?
Audience: No, Steve, look behind you! It's a cah-looo.
Steve: Wha? Oh, a clue. A clue! Hey, a clue! Well, liquor me up and wrap me in leather. It is a clue. You're so smart!
Well, something like that, anyway. I took out as much of the foul language as I could. This is a family blog, after all. But it's pretty entertaining, even if you haven't had a couple of six-packs before it comes on at nine in the morning. (Though it's oh so much funnier if you have. I highly recommend it, if you haven't tried it yourself.)
And, then, just to top it all off, if you actually start to get bored with the show, just remind yourself of the reality of it all. The responses and paper cutouts and backdrops and all are added later. At the time this poor sod is actually delivering his lines and drooling on himself and dancing around like a crackhead maniac, it's just him. He gyrates in front of a green screen, and talks to air, and reaches out and plays with nothing. To him, the actor, it's an elaborate charade that he probably has to get all hopped up on gin and pills to recreate every day. How else could he maintain that manic wackiness and nonstop innocent oblivion? I mean, I suppose he could bang his head in the car door a few times before he walks into the studio, but I think the pills and booze are the way to go. That's just me. In my book, self-medication trumps self-mutilation every time. But that's just me, now. Your mileage may vary.
So, that's that. I've spent an hour or more waxing poetic about a television show for four-year-olds. This is either the very pinnacle of my blogging career, or the lowest point that I can possibly reach. Eh, fuck it. Either way, I can crack open a beer later and think about what I've done. Hey, maybe TiVo's taped an episode or two for me, too. That would be sweet! Goodness knows I told it to tape just about every other animated piece of garbage on TV. So we'll see.
In the meantime, just in case you think I'm bluffing about the whole thing, I have a small confession to make. I don't remember how I got it, or if I personally bought it, but I own this. Or something horrifying similar. The one I have has little magnets on all the feet, and is clinging precariously to my refrigerator as we speak. Er, type. And read. And whatever else you might be doing right now. Anyway, it's on the fridge. It makes me smile. It would make me smile more if it were anatomically correct, of course, because then I could harass my real dog with it. But it's not, so I can't. You can't have everything, I suppose.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to my, erm, 'thinking chair'. If you've seen Blue's Clues, then you'll know the type of thing I'm talking about. Except mine's a little different. It doesn't have the big armrests, and it's not all that well padded, either. And instead of a Notebook, it comes supplied with a Handy-Dandy Roll of Paper. And the only mystery I'm likely to ponder while sitting is what the hell I could have had for lunch yesterday. I just hope it didn't have paprika in it, whatever it was. Woof!
(Or, for those of you outside the U.S.: 'the programme! Horrours!' I aims to please.)
So, the new guy is named Joe on the show. I don't know his real name, but I have a sneaking suspicion what it might be.
(And no, it's not 'Fred'. Though it might be. Who's to say?)
Anyway, I feel like this is the end of an era. I can't imagine anyone being as good as Steve on this show. Who else could be so kind and happy-go-lucky, and yet so utterly clueless and confused? Jenny McCarthy, maybe? Dan Quayle? I don't know. But I don't think it's this 'Joe' character. This is horrible. I'm goin' back to bed. G'night.