Enough About Me ...

I don't do America blogging, BUTT, whew thank you America for talk shows. I'm trying this radical new diet: eat less / exercise more. Crazy, I know. It involves like ten minutes on the hamster wheel. To which, just centimeters (that was for you metric system people) away is a T.V. I monitor my heart rate, yeah one of those people. I was conducting a small test on heart rate and television while running on a treadmill. My null hypothesis: Heart rate will not change while glancing at television. I, of course, was under the belief that it would actually decrease even while running. So, I would run, look out at the beautiful canal, the flame red falling leaves and note my heart rate (136). Then I would simply glance at the T.V. and note my heart rate (129). I did it a few times to see if it went down. Each time, my heart rate would decrease when I glanced at the T.V. Of course without excel and some fancy statistics, I cannot report if my findings are indeed statistically significant with a level set at .05. Could very well be left to chance. So, this one glance, I caught the show "My Son's Dead And I Hope He's The Father." It really boiled down to a paternity test show. No dead sons seemed to be involved. Nonetheless, my ten minute treadmill flew by and my heart rate was hovering just above 120 and I was running uphill. All I'm saying is I can't believe these talk shows are still producing daily shows after all these years. Then you look at librettos from Opera or Shakespeare plots and realize people are just fascinated with adultery, misogyny, paternity, wooing and down right shagging your cousin. This show had me totally sucked in and I didn't even have sound. The body language was enough to let me know that he was a down right dirty dog and even though maybe she slept around a tad, he was a married man who cheated on his wife and was clearly Spirits father. He should just own up and be the father he neglected to be these past two years. You ain't nothin'. You ain't nothin'. Hoot. Hoot. Three snaps Z formation (has that phrase made it back from lameville to hip again?)