I hate being bored with a burning passion. To tell the truth, when people are bored we all like to tell other people we are bored in hopes that they would give a fuck enough to do something about it. We are all a member of the audience, desperately searching for someone to entertain us. Instead of taking that specific route I decide to do something about it. What do most Americans love to do more than anything else in the world? We love to watch television. We will sit on our fat gelatinous asses all day and night watching the same damn crap that we’ve seen before and we love every moment of it. How many reality TV shows have we seen? How many blonde bitches with bulging breasts will get a show on MTV, VH1 or E? It’s not like their lives are extravagant because we all know very well we wouldn’t watch the show if their gigantic twins weren’t peeking out the window looking for a friend to play with. All the girls want to be her and all the guys want to be in her. That is how it goes. Isn’t America spectacular?I sit down on my white leather couch and sink into the cushion. I then proceed to turn on my flat screen plasma with the grey clicker. I look at the clock; twelve noon. This means daytime television. It is the worst of the worst. This is when you find shows like morning news, shitty cartoons, soap-operas, low budget cooking segments, infomercials, court drama and the ever so wonderful talk shows. It was on channel eleven; a daytime talk show. On the bottom right corner of the screen it says The Braxton Show. On the bottom left corner it reads, “Jamal doesn’t pay child-support because he spends his money on crack.” Jesus Christ, I’m already hooked. Aren’t you? I know what you’re thinking: Why does it have to be a black guy? Fortunately for us American viewers, he’s not black and that’s what makes this so damn appealing.
The neatly dressed Caucasian male sitting in a big leather chair looks at the camera. This clean cut Caucasian says, “Hello and welcome back to The Braxton Show! I am your host, Clifford Braxton.” Talk show hosts always have weird and unusual names. “Now that we have heard Aisha’s part of the story we would like to bring out Jamal from backstage. Jamal, please come out here!”
Out comes Jamal. A short and feeble looking ginger wearing a wife beater, a chain, baggy pants and lace-less Nike Airs comes out of the backstage curtain to a symphony of jeers from the peanut gallery. He holds his nut sack tightly as if someone would steal it from him if they weren’t attended to. With the other hand he sticks the middle finger to the audience. Jamal wastes no time in pissing off the audience even more than he originally had by screaming out in his thick country accent. “Yeah, dats right. Fuck y’all. Fuck y’all. You don’t know me.” The staff security swing into action holding back angry audience members from beating his scrawny ass to a pulp.
Clean cut Clifford then sits Jamal down.
“You don’t know me,” Jamal repeats. The crowd continues to have their say.
“So Jamal, you don’t pay child support just so you can buy crack?”
“Hell yeah! Bitch don’t need mah money.”
“Jamal, are you aware of the fact you have a four year old daughter?”
“Dat little bitch ain’t mah daughter.” This is why people love talk shows. You get to watch all the odd people we never get to see in our neighborhoods. The audience gasps then unleashes yet another onslaught of shouts. Even Aisha, who is crying hysterically, joins the verbal fray.
“Jamal, that is your daughter you can’t speak about her like that.”
“She ain’t mine. All I know is I love me some crack.”
This is the reason we watch this. These are the events we never thought we’d see. These are the people we never thought existed. Time goes by and yet Jamal doesn’t concede defeat. Of course he won’t. After all, people that ignorant never learn their lesson. The crowd seems upset but we all know they enjoy yelling at this man. As human beings, the lot of us are self conscious and there seldom are exceptions to this. We all know that, at times, we hate ourselves and feel less than human. The people love watching and attending these events because it makes us feel better about ourselves. Why not like something that boosts your confidence? People all say, “Well Jesus, I’m not that crazy?” We, as human beings, always feel the need to assert our status over someone else. We love to make ourselves seem superior to anyone we can. This makes me believe that people who watch this crap are no better than the psychopaths that guest star on the talk show.
Look at the American people sitting in the stands. I can read them all like books. These fat, lazy, over-curious, desperate souls take time out of their lives to try and correct someone else’s mistakes? What a diverse crowd it is. Trucker Billy-Bob sits with his football jersey and trucker hat letting his ooh’s and aah’s flow loosely like the Oceanic current. Next to him an African American lady screams, “Oh, no he didn’t!” The seemingly ‘perfect’ spectators do a damn good job of asserting their superiority with each jeer and scream. Americans…we are such smart people.
As time passes yet another guest appears on the show. An obese woman and her husband appear on the screen. The message on the bottom left corner changes. “Nora is terrified of cotton balls.”
You have to be fucking kidding me.
“Nora,” Clifford begins. “Tell us about your cotton issue.” It is now that I realize there is no way this woman would have survived the 1600’s when slavery was initially brought to the shores of America.
“Well, cotton balls make me sick. I cannot be in the same room as them. When I see them I sweat profusely, I tremble, I cry and I hit people. The sound of cotton makes me ill. I don’t want them around me ever. Having cotton around me is worse than death.” The crowd is speechless.
“I have a nightmare of a man who is made of cotton balls and he is trying to kill me by putting them in my mouth. I have had this recurring dream for as long as I could remember.” Nora cries frantically. “I have a one year old child. He has stuffed toys and I can’t play with. When I change his diaper I am scared the cotton is going to come out and attack me. It’s evil!” She leans on her husband’s shoulder crying pathetically. The crowd sympathizes with her pain.
“You’re afraid of a diaper?”
“Yes,” she nods.
“And a cotton man?”
“Yes. The sound that cotton makes sickens me.”
“The sound that cotton makes? Cotton doesn’t make a sound?”
“Yes---yes it does.”
Clifford exits stage right where baskets and baskets of cotton balls reside. He picks one out and walks back to the stage holding one to his ear.
“I don’t hear a thing, Nora.”
The moment Nora catches sight of the cotton ball she quickly rises from her seat and proceeds to walk to the other backstage exit; stage left. Little does Nora know she walks into a trap. She unknowingly walks into the room of the cotton baskets that were previously shown. In the room was a man covered head to toe in cotton. If there was a cotton movie monster it’d surely look like just like him. Nora screams in agony and runs for the stage. The cotton monster chases after her. All the people, including clean cut Cliff, laugh hysterically at Nora’s pain. Nora breaks for the stage right exit and sprawls out on the floor in fetal position crying out loudly. Her husband consoles her and the cotton monster persists and Clifford Braxton laughs and the audience is sadly amused and America is sadly amused. We all laugh; we all truly believe we are not insane.
I love the image these talk show hosts set for themselves. They make it seem as if they are saints and charity activists; the epitome of perfection. These advice distributors put on a show for the people, that is their job. However, these talk show hosts put on an act as if they don’t need advice. It seems as if these saints have no problems.
On the contrary, talk show hosts are very troubled people. Let’s talk about Mr. Clifford Braxton before his show was canceled. I found an article about Clifford Braxton being arrested for killing a hooker by stuffing George Washington’s down her throat and throwing her down a flight of stairs because she didn’t agree to marry him. As we can see, America’s advice distributors essentially need advice as well; probably more than most. See, this man had a problem with hookers and escorts. According to a police interview, the hooker’s pimp said this particular talk show host acquired her services several times each month.
Now who needs the fuckin’ advice? This man created himself to look as if he were an angel among men. I find this very amusing. Whether we speak of Clifford Braxton specifically or we venture off to speak of the Oprah’s, the Dr. Phil’s, the Montell’s, the Ricky Lake’s and the Maury’s of the world, all these seemingly perfect people have issues that rival ours. If not, they are probably worse. I guess we all need a little advice sometimes, especially the ones who give it more frequently than others.
