The other night I found myself watching a telethon on PBS. Yes, it was a low point in my life, but this wasn't just any telethon. These misfits were raising money to keep "quality" programming like Dr. Who on the air.
It's obvious that no advertiser would ever jeapordize their brand by running ads during this show, so it has been exiled to eternal obscurity on the Public Broadcast System along with the Teletubbies and Mr. Rogers.
I've seen Dr. Who once or twice, and it's safe to say that it sucks for reasons not limited to the following:
It's British. They can't seem to get the tv-show thing down right. On that same note, there probably isn't anything more annoying and un-funny than British comedy. Really. Nobody laughs. Give up, already.
Dr. Who operates on an annual budget of $32.17. That's just enough to pay for a couple fake boulders and the hero's trenchcoat.
Like any telethon, the people answering the phones felt deeply about their cause. If you want to raise money for Leukemia, man the phones with cancer survivors. Birth defects? Round up some kids with flippers for hands. How they'll pick up the phones, I'm not sure, but the pledges will come flying in.
Anyway, these were hardcore British sci-fi fans who wouldn't rest until they pillaged enough old people's wallets to keep their favorite show on the air.
The Jerry Lewis of this telethon was some scraggly, bearded old man. He was half troll-that-lives-under-a-bridge / half homeless guy. Stooped over his cane, he was pleading with the television audience to give a small contribution to PBS. The people answering the phones were morbidly obese, balding and toothless. And those were just the women.
There were a couple of Trekkies taking calls, too. I guess I should call them Trekkers, just so I don't offend any of them. You know what tempers they have. Hopefully they don't know where I live.
One was decked out in full Klingon garb and make-up. I'm not going to say the same old cliche, "why doesn't this guy get a life?" Come on! It's a totally positive expression of his lifestyle! He's breaking free of painful childhood memories that consist of being chained to a post in the back yard and being fed raw meat once a week.
And of course his Klingon drag sessions have nothing to do with his personality. He's most likely a successful CEO who drives a BMW and picks up 19-year-old honeys at dance clubs. It's so obvious!
But seriously, we all know the truth. Yes, he's in his mid-thirties and works part time at the comic book shop. Yes, he still stands outside the video arcade and wishes it had never closed down. And yes, he wears faded black t-shirts and is going bald, so he makes up for it with a ponytail.
The moral of this story is: Go ahead and judge a book by its cover. Go against the old saying, which, by the way, is the lamest catch-phrase ever.
Why shouldn't we judge books by their covers? If I pick up a Playboy with a buxom blonde on the front, I'm going to expect some naked chicks inside. Or how about those romance novels? If a woman looks at the cover and sees a painting of shirtless Fabio bent over some lass in the stable, chances are there's gonna be some romantic drivel on the inside.
As expected, the phones never rang much during the telethon. It's pretty hard to get someone out of their recliner to give money to a program no one watches. I felt so bad I almost wanted to call and pledge a couple bucks just to give them some confidence in their otherwise dreary existences.
Yeah, I like to poke fun at the Dr. Who fans. Yet I wonder what's more pathetic? That they care so deeply about a crappy British TV show, or that I sat there and watched a full 43 minutes of the telethon? I'll just pretend I never asked myself that question.
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It's obvious that no advertiser would ever jeapordize their brand by running ads during this show, so it has been exiled to eternal obscurity on the Public Broadcast System along with the Teletubbies and Mr. Rogers.
I've seen Dr. Who once or twice, and it's safe to say that it sucks for reasons not limited to the following:
- It's British. They can't seem to get the tv-show thing down right. On that same note, there probably isn't anything more annoying and un-funny than British comedy. Really. Nobody laughs. Give up, already.
- Dr. Who operates on an annual budget of $32.17. That's just enough to pay for a couple fake boulders and the hero's trenchcoat.
Like any telethon, the people answering the phones felt deeply about their cause. If you want to raise money for Leukemia, man the phones with cancer survivors. Birth defects? Round up some kids with flippers for hands. How they'll pick up the phones, I'm not sure, but the pledges will come flying in.Anyway, these were hardcore British sci-fi fans who wouldn't rest until they pillaged enough old people's wallets to keep their favorite show on the air.
The Jerry Lewis of this telethon was some scraggly, bearded old man. He was half troll-that-lives-under-a-bridge / half homeless guy. Stooped over his cane, he was pleading with the television audience to give a small contribution to PBS. The people answering the phones were morbidly obese, balding and toothless. And those were just the women.
There were a couple of Trekkies taking calls, too. I guess I should call them Trekkers, just so I don't offend any of them. You know what tempers they have. Hopefully they don't know where I live.
One was decked out in full Klingon garb and make-up. I'm not going to say the same old cliche, "why doesn't this guy get a life?" Come on! It's a totally positive expression of his lifestyle! He's breaking free of painful childhood memories that consist of being chained to a post in the back yard and being fed raw meat once a week.
And of course his Klingon drag sessions have nothing to do with his personality. He's most likely a successful CEO who drives a BMW and picks up 19-year-old honeys at dance clubs. It's so obvious!
But seriously, we all know the truth. Yes, he's in his mid-thirties and works part time at the comic book shop. Yes, he still stands outside the video arcade and wishes it had never closed down. And yes, he wears faded black t-shirts and is going bald, so he makes up for it with a ponytail.
The moral of this story is: Go ahead and judge a book by its cover. Go against the old saying, which, by the way, is the lamest catch-phrase ever.
Why shouldn't we judge books by their covers? If I pick up a Playboy with a buxom blonde on the front, I'm going to expect some naked chicks inside. Or how about those romance novels? If a woman looks at the cover and sees a painting of shirtless Fabio bent over some lass in the stable, chances are there's gonna be some romantic drivel on the inside.
As expected, the phones never rang much during the telethon. It's pretty hard to get someone out of their recliner to give money to a program no one watches. I felt so bad I almost wanted to call and pledge a couple bucks just to give them some confidence in their otherwise dreary existences.
Yeah, I like to poke fun at the Dr. Who fans. Yet I wonder what's more pathetic? That they care so deeply about a crappy British TV show, or that I sat there and watched a full 43 minutes of the telethon? I'll just pretend I never asked myself that question.