Sometimes – out of sheer laziness – and a when I’m feeling a bit sluggish and foolish, I’ll determine what I will do later on or at that moment only if I hear certain words in episodes of “Scrubs”.
“Scrubs,” as a lot of us know, is an American television sitcom on NBC about doctors, mainly centralizing around these three; Dr. “J.D.” John Dorian, played by actor Zach Braff, Dr. Chris Turk, played by actor Donald Faison, and Dr. Elliott Reed, played by actress Sarah Chaulk. It was and still is executively produced by Bill Lawrence. He created the show as well. He also, previous to Scrubs, created, executively produced, and wrote for the little, well known gem-of-a-show called Spin City. I won’t go any further; everyone knows Scrubs; I just made an ass of myself with that introduction, damn’it! It’s as bad as the introductions before every movie on TCM, with that white-as-fuck haired geriatric who just stands in front of, like, a fireplace with a picture of him and his mastiff in a winged lounge chair, complete with a bookcase that would tip over if you pushed it. And, as he stands in front of this faked set, he’s holding a drink. He drinks while at work. That’s probably what he’s paid; fine scotch and a meal, that homeless cunt! He probably started laying out a cot in the corner of the sound stage, a week after he started doing those stupid segments. It takes an hour and a half of poking him and swatting him on the back with a switch, as he turns in his intoxicated stupor, grunting and moaning, finally waking with a start, and a few minutes of him groaning, and then outright yelling, “WHERE THE HELL AM I, YOU FUCKING CROUTS?! WHERE’VE YOU KEPPIN’ ME???” Then, utter nonsense. Every day gets worse in his retched life. Alzheimer’s always wins! “I’m gonna fight you Alzheimer’s!” “I think not,” replies a distant, distorted voice. “Did you say something? Where the HELL am I?”
A television show determines my life! Not really. Let me give you all an example; the five that read these little rants of mine, which are now back-logged on my Facebook. Austin Smith…look him up sometime. Or, keep tuning into my blog. HOORAY!!!
Here’s my example of what I’m talking about with the Scrubs thing. Bare with me – just a bit longer, ‘kay? I want to show you an example because visuals usually help, unless that visual were of the principal and the oldest teacher at your old high school having sex, smeared with mayonnaise. I don’t see how that helps anyone. So, how about that example? I was lounging on the sofa in front of my computer screen, watching Scrubs, and Turk and J.D. were talking about watching the movie Judge Dredd for the 99th time. And I thought to myself, “Judge Dredd was a pretty ridiculous movie, but not as bad as Robocop.”
Robocop is an American action film done in the 1980’s about a Detroit cop in the not-so-distant future, who, while tracking arms dealers, gets killed on the job, and, I might add, a pretty violent-way; not the only violent thing that occurs in that movie, either. It’s pretty violent. But that was the ‘80’s; pretty much everything was sex and violence. Any who, scientists resurrect him; kind of like the Six Million Dollar Man, only with a bulky, shiny metal suit. Stronger than Titanium, that son of a bitch was. And he carried a huge fucking gun that’s off-the-charts – like five-times the power of Harry Callahan’s (Dirty Harry, Magnum Force, Sudden Impact, The Enforcer, and The Dead Pool) Dirty Harry Callahan’s .44, and that shit blows holes in people’s bodies. The Robocop’s gun, if shot at a person, will leave behind parts; maybe half of two arms, the shins and feet; balls, pecker, the abdomen that houses all vital organs, excluding the powerhouse brain; all gone. Think of a robot-Harry Callahan without the smart ass remarks and blinding white-rage. So old Tin Man returns to the streets to hunt down those arms dealer fuckers who shot him-to-death, point blank, with pump-action rifles; he does indeed find them! And they get it, Callahan-style – one of them even gets splashed with a little toxic waste, and it deforms him where he looks like a plastic Army Man if you were to microwave him, and that bastard is lumbering around, until he gets hit by a car, and explodes. I said there would be violence!
I believe Robocop is a far-superior work of awesome shit than Stallone’s Judge Dredd, and my description has helped reinforce that opinion within my brain. So obviously, with Robocop on the brain, I thought, “Maybe I should watch Robocop,” since I own that masterpiece on DVD. But laziness and the herb got the better of my inhibitions, and there was no way I was getting up from the comfort of my couch. Unless – and here is the important part – before the end of the episode, I were to hear these words in succession, but not right after the other; “Murphy” – the name of an incompetent doctor on the show Scrubs, as well as the last name of the Robocop, when he was human – “gun,” and “robot” or “cop”. I was off by one word; robot or cop, I know, I could have picked a better third-word, like “arson”.
I continued to watch Scrubs, which led to me remembering that I had not written a blog in quite a while, and then a light went off in my head, and I realized that that random impulse to judge my actions by what was said, in succession, not back-to-back, BUT most certainly, in sort of a random order, in the dialogue of a Scrubs episode, was enough rubbish to fill a post. I’m telling you right now, a lot of these posts are conceived like the one you just read; a thought will slip in my head at a pretty random time, and I’ll roll with it, crafting it into something legible and slightly comprehensible.
My parents went to Washington and brought me back an Irish tin whistle. It’s a bit childish, but it comes with some sheet music – one of the pieces of sheet music is Scarborough Fair by Simon & Garfunkel, and when I play it, it sounds like something that would be played at a Renaissance Fair, and I’ll be honest, Renaissance Fairs are interesting. I dig ‘em! You can carry a sword on you at a Renaissance Fair and not look like a lunatic, or get arrested. They sell hand-crafted weaponry at Renaissance Fairs. Dressing up is optional; I might be open to dressing up if I could create such a great disguise, it fools everyone, and I’m unrecognizable. Or, if I could have in my possession smoke pellets, that I would throw on the ground, and then while my pursuers are dazed and blinded by dyed smoke that smells like burnt hair, I “blend in” to the crowd, and I’m never seen again. They’d call me Shadow or Rogue. Yes, I quite enjoy Rogue…with a straight, Spaniard-style moustache and goatee.
