So you may or may not have noticed my recent cyclical invectives with regards to the incessant arse fountain of hot gurgling turd surging forth from the monument to Onan that is your television set.
If you haven’t, then ‘ave a goose ya slaaaag. I suppose it doesn’t matter really; what is of more profound consequence right now is that the time has arrived for our final trawl through the ordure.
Have you seen Embarrassing Bodies? Yeah I bet you have. At fuckin’ dinner time right? Give me strength.
I have stood at the threshold of the abyss and peered into the heart of darkness, I couldn’t look. We live in callous times. In an indifferent world. Ours is an era of television programming in which ethical rock bottom is the soaring zenith, the holy fucking grail, the ultimate endgame. Channel 4’s Embarrassing Bodies is the winning touchdown. A depravity so wild, so uninhibited, that each of us here, as men, must hang our heads in perfect disgrace. How could we have been so careless? We are all associates in its creation. Each one of us contributes to a global consciousness. One that permits the continuing existence of a regular public broadcast of flickering images of diseased genitalia flashing before our eyes whilst we spoon mounds of irradiated gelatine from plastic packets into our mouths. That is our reality. Our legacy. This is the scene at which we have arrived. Our species has existed for two hundred thousand years and these are the fruits of our endeavour. Macaroni Dick Cheese. What have we done?
I doubt there are many who aren’t aware of this show but if you’re not then the format is insipidly basic. Four or five fidgeting fatties appear each week to be prodded by one of our irksomely named trio of practitioners: Christian, Dawn or Pixie. All of the fatties will have some sort of orificial disorder ranging in severity from the irritating to the volcanic. As with any visit to the doctor, a quick chat precedes an unabashed revelation of the infernal gateway to hell. Dr. Twat expertly pokes the infection, takes a photograph, sniffs his fingers, and then crams the cavity full of Canesten. The End. If it weren’t so sickeningly candid it would be inane. I suppose the need for context has waned since rampant gratuity has supplanted entertainment as the integral feature of a successful television show. Still, it’s all the fuckin’ same in the end.
Allegedly the show aims to help those too mortified, too rigid with choking shame, to have someone gaze into their noxious openings, regardless of the insufferable torment that the infestation may bring. So, people who are embarrassed right? YEAH. Everyone I know would be embarrassed if their bumhole was contagious. That is normal. What wouldn’t be normal would be if they were to exhibit the aforementioned discharging bumhole in all its greasy and inflamed glory on a national primetime television show. Like Antiques Roadshow for the emotionally unwell.
“Yeah alright Michael Aspel I’ve brought my trembling haemorrhoids. Scratch ‘n’ sniff mate, knock yerself out.”