TV has anus cancer and is dying

Anyone who follows me knows that I frequently torture myself with a huge fresh steaming hot St Bernard’s turd sandwich of abominable television, I don’t know why I do this to myself as it brings out the worst in me, I usually end up venting my spleen and other organs in a frenzy of disbelief, mixed with self-loathing for putting myself through it each time before slowly getting back in the shit sandwich queue another night. I finally hit a brick wall when I realised what an consummate waste of time it is, no seriously, I think I would actually rather smash my toes with a club hammer and be thrashed by nettles while an angry midget squirts bulbs of jib lemon over my wounds and eyes, I've finally woken up to what TV is, on the whole a complete endless and pointless pursuit with all the rewards of sitting in a nursing home watching your nanna slowly die (and you are not in the will..). The fact is, the only real reason I still watch because 99% of the time I just want to watch people fail, suffer humiliation in this modern Britain where any c*** believes they can be a star, and sadly, I feel that is probably the same with a lot of you? Let’s start with the basics, if you are lucky enough to have a day off work and don’t move from the sofa, eventually the Jeremy Kyle show will happen, dumpy toothless lard coloured educationally bereft morons spilling their ill experienced and poisoned pus filled hearts out on TV about all manner of scum class problems. Jeremy declaring stay tuned for those "all important" lie detector tests? Important to who? I don’t care if Lou's child’s father is in fact Terry, the facially tattooed pikey shit hill sat with his jaw involuntarily open, the only result I actually wish for is that it actually transpires that the child doesn’t belong to either of them and got inside her womb because a working couple were copulating so hard that egg and semen flew out of the window and into Lou's cavernous twat. The child could then be ripped out and returned to its competent parents and Lou and Terry taken out the back and a single bullet put into the back of their still gormless skulls, only after being told that the gun was actually a device for implanting mobile phone credit into their minds to which they would agree to being the sorts of which the only contribution they make to society is sticking their "ponce claws" out down the benefits office. These people’s problems are simply an irrelevance and we only watch it so we can point and laugh at the scum of Britain, or Norwich, as its collectively known. The show is filmed in Manchester, presumably to cut down on travel costs for a majority of the shows guests that come from the hell hole sink estates that fester around larger cities. Homes under the Hammer So, Jack and his fat wife Paula own 4 properties, its a tense moment at the Auction while they try and snap up a 5th place to rent out and make a quick profit in a disgustingly unjust climate for property ownership, fuck Jack and soon to be diabetic wife Paula, I hope each of their other properties burn to the ground and the resultant ashes get haunted. A place in the Sun In this piss poor property programme, 50 something year old smug faced 3 times married City worker Martin and his new 22 year old girlfriend want to get a place overseas to escape the rat race, and his rat faced kids from 2 previous marriages, fuck you, I hope you end up settling in Somalia and have your head slowly removed by pirates, I don’t give a fuck about you, or your nubile young gorgeous girlfriend....Oh god, I hope she is ok and gets consular assistance after her fella gets be-headed, poor Petra, all her dreams coming from Hungary dashed by fundamentalist Muslims.. Fat shows/medical shows Then there is a the dearth of girth, the glut of gluttony based shows, supersized vs super-emaciated, my big fat fetish, biggest loser, fattest twattest, my big wobbly heart attack wife and mum, he-pig vs she-blob, to name but a few. Shows trying to make some sort of plight or journey out of people that have engorged themselves to the point where they cannot get off a bed and have to have their pressure sores treated by nurses, who are usually feeders. I don’t care if Leon from Connecticut loses 70 stone and gets to see his penis again, its too late for him, he will end up with arms like a flying squirrel, just throw a lit match onto his petrol soaked bed and roll credits, sorry Leon, the only portion size you need to worry about now is the ap"portion" of blame, which is all yours, eat away you swollen fuck. The only reason I still watch supersize vs super skinny is the tension at the dinner table when the xylophone ribbed anorexic gets a large donner kebab and chips and the be-whaled monster gets a small bag of skittles for dinner, if looks could kill, it’s only a matter of time before the chunk loses it and attacks and liberates the kebab from the corpse like buffoon who would only waste it sitting there playing with it with a fork. Embarrassing Bodies What makes somebody reach a point where they go on national TV, open their legs to reveal what looks like two dropped slices of cheese on toast dipped in guacamole? I have not been able to sleep properly since seeing a "fat pubis" which looked like recently bereaved elephant seal. I have no emotion to know that Janice has had 7kg of fat chopped off her gunt so she can enjoy intercourse with her partner, I just wanted to have a point and laugh? Didn’t you? TOWIE and Made in Chelsea What happened to the UK for this garish orange be-hued fake tits and teeth festival of vapidity to get time on TV? I can only blame Big Brother for starting this fascination of watching "other people doing shit" - This takes the whole charade to new lows, this follows the daily routines of a bunch of semi (now) affluent types from the County of Essex, a County that once attracted the sweeping statement that all the girls from there were blonde and air headed bimbo types that live for the weekend to go clubbing and get themselves pumped up like an airbed by the numerous sexual appendages of footballer types. This show does nothing to help change opinions, the show consists of the cast in various "life situations" usually involving one of the males putting his willy somewhere that he shouldn’t and the gasping fake teared reactions of the now rejected ex cum receptacle. "OH MY GOOD" "SHAAT AAAP" etc. Young girls have taken these dull vacuous and vapid morons to their hearts and young men have usually taken them to their bedrooms and shat a load out onto a Kleenex while watching the show. This show has spawned the inspiration for an even worse show, Made in Chelsea, impossibly dull wealthy people going through situations that no normal people would. I don’t watch this shit, an hour was enough, which made me want to own a fully automatic assault rifle with a grenade launching attachment, If I did it would only be in the hope that a giant Kraken emerged from the Thames while the nobs were having a regatta and slowly crushed all the show members in its huge beak destroying their homes in the process, except one of the blonde ones, Caggie, I'd probably rescue her from the sea beast and she could live as my sex slave and start a new show called Made pregnant and quadriplegic in Croydon Britain’s got Talent, X Factor, The Voice I don’t know anyone who watches this other than to see the failures at the beginnings, the tragedy or watching someone who should clearly be in a secure facility on meds bollocking about on the stage and standing glassy eyed at the end whilst being torn apart by Cowell and recently Amanda Holden, a woman who has forged a career for herself by using the only two talents she has, her once taut vagina and her mouth that looks like a dirty weekend. Yes, and then you get the surprise, the person who you would never have expected, the Suzanne Boyle, the fat blob bloke who looked like Kenny G after swallowing Jabba the Hut, the silly sob stories, my Nan exploded and her body hit the wall on and rib cage, pelvis, arms and lets formed an X, I took it to mean her final wish for me being to appear on the X factor, and here I am, all the way from Palestine...Then you get the actual talents, the Leona Lewis, the Matt Cardle (until he put those mustard trousers on) who can actually sing, but certainly haven’t just come off the streets, the whole show is rigged and suckers just slurp away at whatever bowel of shit soup Cowell serves them up, idiots, oxygen thieves, the text cretins whose lives are so hollow that they are just desperate to buy into something, whatever the next big thing is, the next shiny thing to have, these cretins will queue up and cheer for it. Why a Terrorist group don’t bring out a "pop star" to promote their cause is beyond me, an army of vacant imbecilic "super fans" at their disposal ready to wear a bomb vest because the new Arabic terror star "Jihustin Bahieber" tells them too? The BBC have struck back and the heartless heart that is Cowells empire with The Voice, which tries to be more morally sound, but is essentially a quartet of differently talented stars sitting with their back to somebody while they sing their hearts out and hope they will see fit to press a button and turn around and impart on them some of their knowledge from the industry. The whole premise of singing to the back of somebodies head does not sit well with me, plus Jessie J on the panel, a woman who manages to annoy me with every intake of breath she steals from the rest of humanity, a confused and essentially awful usually spandex clad shaven Staffordshire bull terrier faced woman who promotes standing up for yourself and being an individual on one hand, but on the other someone who cannot even be honest and forthright about her sexual orientation, probably through fear of alienating the male fans and potentially missing out on all important record sales, with a voice with so many trills and variations she sounds like a fax machine in mid-send being thrown onto the cartoon chipmunks, her faux "street" voice and attitude trying to strike a chord with as many quarters of society as possible, for the sake of record sales no doubt, and her completely fake sentiments, curdled further with her no doubt as shrill internal dialogue constantly assuring her that we want to see her clad in some sort of skin tight omni-coloured monstrosity? Her entire being projected onto a young girl or fan could only surely create a state of confusion. I wish the woman would just fuck off. I mean for fuck sake, we are not America, I don’t think it is a good idea for British youth to be loaded with a US level of self belief that these shows bring, it just ends in harder failure, you can’t really succeed at anything in Britain unless some sort of nepotism is involved. However, you can just "get by" quite nicely in Britain, you might get lucky of course, but its unlikely. Britain should have "Quantity Surveyor Idol", or "Accountancy Factor". We are not America, thank Christ, nuzzle up to your old British friends, disappointment, struggle and failure, they will get you through, you are not Miley Cirus, or Bieber, they dont give a half-heartedly pushed out turdlette about you, they just want your money. They are not really your friends, they think you smell and your teeth are awful. TV tries to make up for it with heartwarming shows like undateables, which features people with varying level of mental problems, amputees and/or midgets trying to do what comes naturally to humans, get laid, bless them, it had a story that ended with me and everyone we know crying tears of joy while a guy who looked like the lead singer of Supergrass fell in love, it was magical, and who couldn’t be buoyed by the wheel chair bound girl with the growth defect and the palpable disappointment on her face when her date didn’t turn out to be a strapping policeman, but in fact a bit of a weirdo in a wheelchair, bless her, aim high shoot everywhere I say. Sadly though, it does encourage the horrid point and laugh alienate section of Britain into action. I'll finish with Antiques. The antiques roadshow has been going on for years and people tune in, they are not interested in the history of the tat, oh, did you know this piece was made by fuckling and shisterton in Buckby around 1778 and was commissioned for the sea faring nonce and all round boy botherer Lord Coppen of Thundercunt? Fast forward mate, we just want to hear how much its worth and see the crushing disappointment on the face of the poor prick who was gambling everything on a pocket watch, or the even poorer prick who has trekked all the way from Morecombe with a grandfather clock on their back to be told its worth minus pounds. We need to make a change, this crap is fucking our kids up, turning them into image timid social network reliant divs and it all needs to be scrapped. The only way to save our kids is by cutting TV to two channels, one to show Bergerac on a loop, and the other, The Professionals. Oh, and maybe another channel with Susanna Reid on it, just showing women how to be a woman. God I love you Susanna, marry me? No?, ok, just go out with me for a couple of months and dump me?...No?, how about a date? No?, a kiss?.....No? JUST CUP MY NUTS FOR 30 SECONDS LIKE A NURSE IN AN S.T.I CLINIC? PLEASE FOR FUCKSAKE, I SAID PLEASE..she's gone.