Kids Shows. I picture a room full of executives creating programming for the ‘Ages 1 to 5’ set like this: Dimly lit room that smells of cigarette smoke, Rogaine, and bad intentions. Around the table are a conglomeration of pale skinned characters who look like they either work for the IRS, or are involved in Organized Crime. Their leader, a husky voiced woman who resembles Danny Devito, says things like, “How do we shut these kids up in 30 minute blocks?,” and then the whole room proceeds to maniacally laugh as they plot to destroy us all. End Scene.
I have probably watched more kids shows over the years than the program director for Nickelodeon. For Example: I know WAY too much information. I know the name of Dora’s pet monkey. I know the exact height and weight of Clifford the Big Red Dog. I know how Perry the Platypus takes his coffee. Heck, I even heard a rumor that Sid the Science Kid cheats on his taxes (You can’t claim your toy microphone as a dependent, homeboy).
I even find myself curiously drawn into the “plot lines” on occasion. Me: “Bella, why does Binky look so sad and why won’t he talk to Arthur? Is it his schoolwork or is it that his head looks like a 10 pound sack of potatoes?” However!, I have to draw the line somewhere. And for me, that line stops with the engines of Sodor.
Unfortunately, my horrifically wonderful 2-year old, Teddy has taken a real shine to Thomas. Theoretically, I support this. Come on, Coal-Powered locomotives doing masculine, blue collar work all day? That sounds like the bomb. The problem is that they’ve apparently hired a crack team of chimpanzees to write their episodes. And I may be missing the point, but why are these paranoid Choo Choo’s always so concerned with “looking silly”? And why are 10 ton trains scared of the fat guy in the top hat? Does he abuse them when no one’s watching? These are questions that need answers, gosh darnit! Perhaps, the programs British undertones confuse my simple American mind. Regardless, something’s gotta give.
Three weeks ago, I made a concerted effort to block the audio out and read a magazine while it’s on. I thought I had been successful until this past Sunday. I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night in a full sweat screaming, “Oh my Buffers!!!” Two days later, I stubbed my toe on the stairs and yelled out, “Fizzling Fireboxes!” Now, to be fair, that’s probably better than other things I could have said, but I’m a grown man and this just won’t do.
I do hope that you’ll put me on your prayer chain, list, etc. We are good, relatively sane people and need all the help we can get. Please pray for my wife, Mary as well. The other day, I overheard her singing the Max and Ruby theme song in the shower.
Life Don’t Rhyme,
Greg “Manchild” Owens
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