March 7, 2012
The Sunglasses Are Part of the Uniform

Recently, I began watching “Downton Abbey”.  This is a british teevee show about wealthy people who suffer from very wealthy problems (inheritance laws, property rights, finding their daughters a suitably wealthy nobleman to marry), and their thousands of servants who suffer from poor people problems (Ma is sick, in love with a farmer, accused of stealing the Master’s snuffbox), all living together in a giant house among many items that require constant dusting.  I had heard of this teevee show only in the context of a previous Forehead of the Week honoree, recommended by a friend, though I had never seen the show at the time.  

I was exposed to it after informing my friends on Facebook that I was streaming “Sister Wives” on Netflix.  Riding the wave of the recent “polygamy craze” spurred by Bill Paxton’s role as a charming serial marriage enthusiast on “Big Love”, which is another terrible show I couldn’t stop watching, “Sister Wives” is a reality show about a creepy guy with three pimply blonde wives and 3092835 pimply blonde children, living together under God’s law and making lots and lots of babies because nobody ever updates religious texts to reflect the fact that the earth no longer needs aggressive populating now that we’ve got quite enough people and we all live four times longer. 

"Sister Wives" was recommended to me because Netflix knows that I enjoy terrible programming.  My proclivity for viewing Hoarders and Obsessed has led them to typecast me as an insufferable voyeuristic asshole, and rightly so.  But even I could not abide "Sister Wives", because all the amniotic fluid on my television was making my house smell.  During the first episode, I felt a violent lurch in my reproductive system, as if I was being remotely triggered to ovulate.  I was afraid to brush up against Sifu’s pants in the closet, lest I develop a "Sympathy Pregnancy" from indirect contact with his scent.  Plus, every single one of those children, regardless of age, appeared to have fucking JAM smeared all over their mouths and hands, constantly.  Three moms, children old enough to w*rk - SOMEBODY wash these kids, please.  I abhor a dirty face.  "Sister Wives" had to go.

So my friends came through with a suggestion, and the moment I saw Masterpiece Theater’s logo I figured I’d last about ten minutes with Downton Abbey.  I wasn’t in that kind of mood.  There has to be some middle ground between twelve kids with peanut butter in their hair and starched doilies.

Four hours later I was so immersed, I barely noticed when Sifu came home.  I pecked him on the cheek and directed him to kindly shush his face because on Downton Abbey, nobody stops talking for three consecutive seconds, ever.  It’s a VERY dialogue heavy show.  You absolutely must pay attention because not only do they never shut up, but every single line propels the plot forward.  Nothing can be skipped or you will miss a marriage, death, or critical conflict.  Before I knew it, Sifu and I were BOTH planted on the couch in our underwear, gawking intently as Mister Bates (teehee) gimped his way into our hearts.

I had to pause it 32908239823985 times because Sifu kept asking questions.  “Why don’t those two old ladies like each other?”  “How does she not know what a weekend is?”  “Where are their bathrooms?  Do they ever go?”  “Is that sister the hottest?  Or the other one?”  All good questions.

Eventually I had to stop before we developed accents.  Nothing is more out of place in the Bronx than a posh sounding “go fuck yourself”.  One does not want to be a sore thumb in the land of middle fingers.

Sifu:  “If we were those people, I’d be a terrible lord.  Because I never wear pants, and all of the servants would be uncomfortable with my dick always out.”

BIOU:  “No they wouldn’t.  You’d be that eccentric old rich nobleman, Lord Penis of Dongshire, and we could issue sunglasses as part of their uniforms.  They can look at your weener, as long as they don’t look you in the eye.”

Sifu:  “Jeeves, do escort my guests to the library while I find my trousers.”

BIOU:  “Please.  Like you’d put on trousers for guests.  Eventually the whole world would just have to accept it.  If you want to pay Lord Penis a visit, you’re gonna get an eyeful.”

Sifu:  “With enough money, something like that is acceptable.”

BIOU:  “Yeah, but if you whip it out at the laundromat, they put you in jail.  It’s class warfare.”

So thanks, Downton Abbey, for making me feel bad about not wearing pants around the house.  I’m still not gonna wear ‘em, but now I’m faced with the knowledge that I’ll never have servants to make uncomfortable.  FML.

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