The Watchtower of Destruction: The Ferrett's Journal - May 30th, 2006

May 30th, 2006

May 30th, 2006
11:06 am


No Greater Love
The only thing that stops Deadwood from becoming my favorite show is that there's so damn little of it. It's a Western, which I normally don't care for, but it's a rich Western with writers who know how to convey complexity, and actors who can take lines with obvious meanings and spin them in subtle ways that reflect true character. It's about the making of America, and it satisfies both of the sides that I want to hear; it contains real, grubbing, murderous bastards who became very rich, and genuine heroes who did their best to keep both the peace and their integrity, and how those two teamed up to create a stability where both of them could get by.

But it's too small. There are only twelve episodes per season, and though I've only watched the first season it trickled away in an instant. I'm watching it through again for the third time, and it's so rich and beautifully-plotted I'm still finding things I missed. But it's not like a TV series; it's like a novel, and I keep forgetting there's more.

But then Season Two came out. We were poor and couldn't watch it right away, but CostCo had the cheapest price around.

It's on the shelf right now, encased in a beautifully black cardboard shell, and I could crack it open and extract the sweet contents of the DVDs therein. But Gini and I are getting through all four seasons of Babylon 5 together, and though it's fun to watch her react, there's that sameness that comes from me having seen it. I don't go "Holy shit!" and sit bolt upright in my chair; instead, I watch her do it, and then talk to her about what happened, and try not to reveal the rest of the series.

There's a lot coming. But she can't know it yet.

Gini's given me rein to watch Deadwood, Season Two, and it surely is tempting; I need a show to run to for exercise, and Deadwood would hold me for half a month. But I won't. I love my wife, and there are some things that I want to do with her, not by her.

So we'll get through B5. That needs to be done. Then we'll watch Deadwood. And this time,I'll be jumping with her, and talking about possibilities of what might happen in the next show, and this time I truly will not know for sure.

(31 shouts of denial | Tell me I'm full of it)

10:48 pm


The Latest Spam
"Your Sperm Will Be Grateful To You If You Order Sp3rm@m@x!"

No, I really don't think they would. Because probably this "increased sperm firework" you keep promising me is actually an increase in semen, the milky fluid that carries the little buggers - something my sperm don't care about much. To my sperm, the semen's just the bus they take to Tunatown.

But if it did somehow increase the volume of my sperm, I suspect my sperm would be cursing me like a fucking sailor.

See, from my perspective, the ejaculation is just happy fun times. But for my beleaguered sperm, the ejaculation is the starting gun to a Running Man-style marathon to the death, where only one can triumph... If any. It's such a gruelling marathon that most of the poor bastards die on this Bataan Death March down to the ovum; for me, it's a surge of joy and a Kleenex, but for them it's a life or death work.

Now. You're a sperm. And the guy who's in charge of this spawning stream says, "Guess what? I just took a pill that triples your competition! You thought that 50-million-to-one odds were bad enough? Try 150 million!"

My sperm would probably not be thanking me. They'd probably be plotting ways to surge out of my penis in a flow of sheer hatred and strangle me with a solid ring of milky white hand-holding.

...Or perhaps I'm just overthinking this.

(59 shouts of denial | Tell me I'm full of it)

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