Ritual 5.05

by D. Reed

“Kill your TV!”

Half the time I agree with the overly decaying bumper sticker. But what if you want to watch your favorite movie? By executing your television does it mean you don’t care for films and TV programming or do you just go to the theater when you're jonesin’ for a dose of the ole’ ultraviolence? Except, then you would put cash in the pockets of the same corporate deity that owns the TV stations. What to do?

Don’t eat meat, but wear leather shoes. Don’t smoke, but go on and choke out exhaust from our vehicle. To kill the TV or not to kill the TV? I don’t know. Jerry Springer’s closing comments are pretty damn good, sometimes inspiring... it’s a strange world. How to exterminate the TV is a better question. Blow it up with an M80? Hire a hitman? Smash it with your three iron? No one’s ever said “Kill your stereo system!” except a few irritated volume-barraged neighbors, but it’s not their fault. They just keep different hours than the party clan.

Prince keeps different hours... be sure of that. D.M.S.R. Dance, music, sex, romance. The purple music master has got the key. He’s had it for a couple of decades now.

DANCE. Despite the efforts of the Macarena crowd to militarize our bodies' creativity, dance lives on. From the deeply religious roots of worship to grindin’ the night away for a few free drinks, dancing is a hypnotic weapon that can destroy a bad day in five minutes. It also allows us all a chance to get a preview of our potential future partners' “natural motion.”

MUSIC. No dance without tunes. Groove is the spice behind every club, every great film, every bad porno, every life. What else can pull 15,000 people into the Rose Garden to jam? Sports, of course, but it’s too difficult to play hoops in the car. But slide in a CD, a cassette... life’s good. You may want to leave the radio alone. But if you don’t mind the constant head rot in between the grooves, go on with your bad self. However, clinical tests prove tampon commercials kill more brain cells than Mexican ditch weed.

SEX. Let’s face it, every human being is a product of two people swapping bodily fluids. And with the ever growing movement toward storing refrigerated semen, the two humans don’t even have to be in the same room. Ellen and Anne Hesch are very grateful. Maybe we’re all boiling down to three equal groups. Gay, straight, and bi. Complete balance. The sacred triad. Jokes always come in three’s. The Three Muskateers, Three Stooges, three signs of the cross. One big half ape/half alien future, complete with all the toys a body could want. Whatever the case, we must be grateful for human flesh, skin. It feels good. Too good. Empires crumble over elicit affairs. Of course there are some days where kingdoms are fashioned from a decent roll in the hay.

ROMANCE. Not fucking, making love, got it? Anyone will tell you great sex involves a bit of both, but I’ve gone on enough tangents here. Romance is the dream, what we all desire in our deepest aching heart, what we crave, and so often don't achieve. Through our own faults usually... thinking the grass may be greener, or answers can be found in the arms of another. Hopes and regrets. Let it all go and find the love of the romantic. It’s in us all. Find it. Keep it. Then go sweat it on the floor, listen to some killer music, have crazy sex, and fall in love again. Welcome to the planet of doom, the planet of beauty. Complete with a zillion dollar soundtrack for our pleasure and pain. But let’s spare the poor TV’s. It’s not their fault. Man created them with a few flaws... what a surprise.

Until then... take care of yourself, your pets, your expensive drug paraphernalia... and each other.

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