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Monday, November 26, 2007

I don’t get to watch TV much. This is not out of any objection to the medium. TV is my beloved, I just don’t have a DVR and don’t get enough home time to enjoy it. When I do, I generally multi-task and praise Jah (if you know what I mean) while watching Gossip Girl. The end result is usually me, giggling hysterically, and yelling at the screen, “I’M…CHUCK…BASS” whilst making rapey motions.

Well, I didn’t praise Jah last night, and if you can believe it, that was a poor decision. Instead, I watched March of the Penguins and suffered through yet another Morgan Freeman as God/Narrator moment. When I first watched it, alone, in the movie theater, I did some crying. I attributed it not only to fuzzy, cute animal death, but also to the fact that I was at a movie theater, alone. I find that very depressing.

Two weeks ago a homeless man on the Upper West Side looked at me and yelled “SIMBA!” I took his coronation as a sign that I could handle a little Lion King “Cycle of Life” reality. This was mistaken.

I was about three tiny baby penguin deaths in when I said to Sam, “I think I’ve had enough defenseless baby animal death for one night” and shuffled off to the bedroom to read a book of short stories.

In some sort of unholy union formed by Lorrie Moore (author of short story book) and Morgan Freeman, the first story I read was an entire tale about a woman coping with the loss of her 10 year-old cat, Bert. I read it, slightly panicked, and kept giving my own cat, Boo, tender sideways glances. Had I not been left so raw by the penguin genocide earlier, I doubt this would have resulted in tears. But it did.
I hold Morgan Freeman personally responsible. We all know from his last dozen movies that he is God. We have seen him do crazy things to further a plot line. But this dude could not spare one minute of time to save what are probably the cutest, most vulnerable newborn animals ever to exist? It’s not like they have anything good to look forward to when they’re done being all fuzzy and adorable. Morgan Freeman, you are a stingy, stingy God, and I don’t care for you one bit.

Keep turning a blind eye to dead baby penguins while you make magic happen for white dudes!

I hope he’s satisfied now that he has the fluff and frozen blood of baby penguins all over his hands. I don’t want anything more to do with you, Morgan Freeman, and your Clockmaker God-Laissez Faire bullshit.

It’s at this point that I realize – perhaps, self, you need something more potent than Prozac. Perhaps this is not normal behavior. Blaming an elderly black actor on the natural cycle of life in Antarctica is somehow misguided.

That was all a big precursor to lead into why I started investigating light therapy devices used to treat Seasonal Affective Disorder. The end result was many lulz.

You would think, by the very Sky Mall-ian nature of the photography, that light therapy was quackery at best. I believe there are genuine studies done proving the efficacy of it, but you wouldn't get that sense looking at the visuals.

I like this one. It contains multitudes.

In it you can see how light therapy can heal the world! From back aches, to blotchy skin, to face-gripping sadness - this photon ray of light can fix anything! It gives one hope.

And before I get to the wacky gizmos, I just wanted to let you know that this guy's balls are totally not bummed out any more now that they got light therapy.

Maybe I'm alone on this one, but does anyone get a sinister feeling looking at this?

I feel like she's just trying to go about her morning, eat her breakfast, and tell her mom "no, I'm not going to get cancer if I don't have a kid before 30" when this War of the Worlds SAD lamp jumps on her table and just lords over her.

Not shocked just yet? What about this?

It's light therapy designed by Jordy Laforge! Jordy has departed from his usual gold spray-painted banana clip and gone with something even less streamlined.

Love you, Jordy! Smooches!

To those who still aren't not getting laid enough, even after last week's nasal irrigation lesson, I give you, SAD visors. Oh, they're sad alright!

Now if only someone would Photoshop one of these women with a neti pot in her nose and a stream of water coming out the other end. Then I might be complete.

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