A Challenge
Popular media
changes language. I was trying to find an alternative to 'chenges'
that have negative implications, but failed. 'Distorts' kept popping
back into my mind. I don't even know this for sure, but I think the
'challenge' in ice-bucket challenge comes from those reality / jungle
/ celeb / game-show things.
No secrets:
I think television
is a horrible, evil thing. I think it is used by the powers we should
all be fighting to misinform, control, and keep us plebs in line. I
think television saps, wastes and destroys more man-hours (I've seen
'person-hours' used, but there's only so much HSE literature you can
absorb until some sort of natural rebelliousness rises up) than
cancer, road traffic accidents, strokes, heart attacks and all the
rest combined.
Naturally, in terms
of having some iced water doshed over your head, I'm scratching my
head about that 'challenge'. Is that like the 'opening the fridge
door to get the chilli pickle out challenge' or the 'catching the
tube going in the right direction' challenge', or the 'remembering to
load the toothbrush with toothpaste and not rancid fly-infested dogs
turd challenge'.
I'm taking it to be
wholly ironic usage. Challenge, meaning no challenge at all,
unchallenging.
To steal and
misquote lines from a recent Arseblog post, it would be a challenge,
and one worth watching, were the ice-bucket actually a cauldron
filled with acid and dragon-phlegm, burning oil and e-bola.
Particularly if the victim were a celeb of choice.
However, in the
interest of clarity and good order, I would like to expressly state
that:
A cauldron of
acid, dragon-phlegm, burning oil and e-bola is way too lenient for
the likes of Cowell, Clarkson, Ant, Dec, and the like.
A rat
I should've smelled
a rat. I should've smelled a giant smelly rat who had run out of
armpit spray a number of weeks ago. BLISS and DLL eat in their room
with the telly, and I eat in the kitchen / diner, at the table. When
they said: “shall we eat at the table”, that's when I should've
smelled a giant, smelly rat.
They sabotaged my
chickpea curry.
It already had six
small, hot, green chillies in it, added at the right time, early in
the cooking process, so that they give up their heat to the dish as a
whole.
The giggling
should've been a giveaway.
They'd added a
further six chillies (either all at once (the intercontinental
ballistic alternative) or in easy stages (the death by a thousand
chillies principle)) to my dinner. But they were added after the
liquid (lemon juice and coconut milk) went in, so they didn't give up
their heat to the dish as a whole, but remained within it like little
depth-charges of superheated chilli blasts.
I should've smelled
another rat when they went a bit quiet and even, possibly, guilty,
when I slathered my plate in chilli pickle, ramping up the heat
further still. Or was I mistaking smirking, nudges and sly looks for
guilt?
Apparently, watching
an old fat bloke sweat, redden, and cry while eating his dinner is
amusing beyond belief.
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