America holds the following truth to be self-evident: Nobody loves TV like Wm.™ Steven Hump-me. However! I am beginning to find that my love for television is being overshadowed by the grim specter of the ugliest of all emotions: JEALOUSY.
I try to remind myself that the purpose of television is to live vicariously through the lives of others; I don't have to get my hands all dusty stabbing vampires, because Buffy will do it for me. I don't have to worry about the bad jokes I occasionally make in this column, because the cast of Ally McBeal is far, far worse than I could ever be. And I never have to concern myself with sticking my ding-dong in Jessica Alba from Dark Angel, because her blond dork co-star will receive that grand honor.
But see--here's the problem. Instead of thanking these characters for making my mistakes and sticking their ding-dongs in the wrong rattletraps, I find myself increasingly jealous because they have something I don't: the "season finale." Recently, we've been subjected to a crushing array of season-ending cliffhangers. If they're not killing off characters with malicious glee (as in West Wing, Charmed, and Roswell), they're getting knocked up (as in King of Queens, Malcolm in the Middle, and Friends). And after the shocking turn of events is revealed, the main characters stand around, mouths agape like clubbed trout, and say, "Holy Mother of Crap. NOW what are we gonna do?"
Hmmm. Let's think about that for a second. What are they gonna do? Well, I'll tell you. THEY ARE GONNA HAVE AT LEAST FOUR OR FIVE MONTHS TO COME UP WITH AN ANSWER TO THEIR DILEMMA, WHILE THE REST OF US PICK OUR STINKY BUMS AND WATCH STOOPID BORING RERUNS!! THAT'S WHAT THEY'RE GONNA DO!!! I mean, why aren't WE afforded the luxury of a "season finale"? Let's say, for a subtle and classy example, you and a coworker are porking in a supply closet. You are quickly approaching the climax of your illicit coup d'état, when what's this? THE BOSS WALKS IN! Now, if you were on TV, you and your commingled office mate would say, "Ka-BOING!" and the studio audience would say, "Ooooooooooooooh!" and a title card would pop up with the words "To Be Continued"! Then you'd have five months to come up with the explanation that you were simply reaching for a box of pens when you slipped, and your genitals accidentally fell into your partner's mouth.
But noooooooooo! Since this is real life, your boss refuses to accept your excuse of "Duhhhhhh," and next thing you know, you're sucking empty ketchup packets found in the garbage can at the unemployment office.
Well, I've had enough of it! I deserve a season finale, just as much as those dicks on E.R., and by GOD, I'm gonna get one! And that's why you may never hear from me AGAIN, because I'm going to pork a coworker in the back of my car driven by a mass murderer, which will careen off a cliff and burst into flames! And by the way I'M PREGNANT! Ka-BOING!
TO BE FAWKING CONTINUED!