I had occasion to watch television for extended periods of time this weekend, and it certainly didn’t do much to dissuade me from my belief that ours is a paranoid and fearful culture in decline. Here are two examples. The first is a promo for a show called Doomsday Preppers on the National Geographic Channel. The second is an ad for a show on the Discovery Channel, called Doomsday Bunkers. I got to watch episodes of both, and I’m now more confident than ever in my decision to fill my pockets with rocks, walk into the Huron River, and just sink down peacefully to the bottom, when the cannibal holocaust is upon us. Simply put, if these are the people who are going to inherit the earth, then I don’t want any part of it. (At least the guys in Mad Max had some fashion sense.)
In related news, I’m thinking of starting a new multi-author blog called America is Doomed, where friends and I can just rant about about this kind of stuff. I need somewhere, other than this site, to vent about the likes of the Jersey Shore and Celebrity Rehab. (When I write about that kind of stuff here, I feel as though it contaminates everything else.)
Speaking of how bad American culture has gotten, when the family and I were in Toronto a few weekends ago, I threw out my back, leaping for the remote control in our hotel room, when I heard Barbara Walters, from across the room, ask Joan Rivers if she’d had her vagina surgically tightened. Thankfully, I don’t think that Clementine could hear anything over my bloodcurdling scream…
As for this new crop of doomsday shows, I guess it was just a matter of time. The subject matter is admitted compelling, as mental illness often is, the content is pretty much free, as the people featured are likely stupid enough to welcome cameras into their homes without compensation, and it’s hard to imagine subject matter better suited for companies advertising canned goods, batteries and liquor. (The episode I watched featured a family that spends over $200 a week on alcohol, which they’re convinced will be the currency of the future. The father of the family, who doesn’t drink, by the way, explained the bottles could also be lit on fire and hurled at people, burning them alive.)
Actually, on second thought, maybe I won’t just lay down and die when the end times come, like Guy Mcpherson. Maybe, instead, I’ll just find one of these terrified reality television families, who were nice enough to show me where they keep their stockpiles, and tell me how they intend to defend them, and then somehow trick them into giving me all of their aluminum foil, hams and whisky… Maybe I could trade them for magic seeds!