As I’ve got older, more cynical and altogether more misanthropic I find myself increasingly surprised by how much of a soft spot I have for regional news programming. It’s as if my understanding for what’s terrible is somehow unaffected by smiley small-town blandness and aimless reports about vandalised road signs and vegetables that look like people.
Halloween has really snuck up on me this year and so I’m staying in and making my way through a stack of films and horribly dated TV programmes. I’m not even going to dress up; I’m just going to sit here drinking Co-operative’s “red flavour” wine and eating some seasonal branded Jaffa Cake bars, which are all green and have cobwebs on the packaging.
Back in 2009, US authorities discovered a bottle of Viagra in Rush Limbaugh’s bag at Palm Beach International Airport. Rush’s need for such medication is hardly a surprise, of course. He is sixty-two, after all, and his protruding shoot of a penis must surely be sandwiched between his heavy sprawling gut, and the cushiony blubber that defines his pubic region. Every time he has sex, his pocket-sized tool has to arduously swim against the current of a lifetime’s worth of lard before it emerges visibly on the other side. And even then, it still might not be long enough to be used for penetration or, as I suspect, self-gratification.