Orgy-Porgy

I have been man-handled and assaulted. I may even have been brutally raped. But what is worse...I have witnessed (what might have seemed to the participants) a highly erudite discussion on underarm hair. Yes. You may go over the sentence again...carefully...it says, Underarm hair. Would it matter much if I reported, that the conversation was broadcasted on national television. The conversants were two styled-to-seeming-perfection females...twins, no clones (they were obviously synthetic produce), with obviously not a sign of 'underarm hair' in sight. Pneumatic, as Huxley would say. Very. Like meat. The specifics would make little difference. Was this on television or radio, that I was attacked? The topos could belong anywhere...even reality is a plausible option. The possibilities for depravity are great, indeed! For reference, I may guide you to the nearest television set. Follow at your own risk, ofcourse!

Come one, come all...
Barkha Dutt will apprise you of the state the of the curtains that became escape ladders for victims at the Taj (oh, you poor, poor curtains!), and Karan Thapar will bemoan the tragedy of not having frequented the Sea lounge in Taj more often...EXCLUSIVE! EXCLUSIVE!...a few miliseconds away Star News will interrogate Chandra Mohan Bhajan Lal's second wife on her views regarding the first wife...a bald guy will make sport of abusing people...all this while poor Saloni's cancer-afflicted husband takes jal samadhi (how I wish I could!!)

This is rape. One of its kind. One that the victim abets, even enjoys to a great extent. And all in the name of entertainment.
"Amusing Ourselves to Death"...what an eponymous phrase afterall...for all that constitutes our lives. Neil Postman saw it coming in the last millennium...a world obsessed with trivia. Postman examines two seminal dystopian texts - George Orwell's '1984' and Aldous Huxley's 'Brave New World'. The observations are acute, "In '1984' people are controlled by inflicting pain. In 'Brave New World', they are controlled by inflicting pleasure."

Big Brother does not watch us, rather it is we who watch him...we watch him sing, dance and yodel. We watch as he cries, laughs and curses. We watch him dissect cosmic mysteries and we watch as he baby-talks us into status quo. He looks like Prannoy Roy and talks like Rakhi Sawant. And we watch...enraptured. The Huxleyan 'nightmare' translates into reality every minute as humans successively shun existence as people begin living only as an 'audience'...turning all activity into an act of over-publicised vaudeville.

I'm not quite sure where my ire is directed...if it is the media alone, then I absolve myself of all guilt...I also, at the same time, deny myself all agency...

Sigh, so they do mess with your brain, huh?!
The clock has struck 5, I see I'm losing track of my thoughts. So I think I'll switch off and withdraw from words, tonight...
Goodnight —Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!
Fare ye well.
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P.S. As a parting shot, to make up for weasel words...I present...Watterson, a stroke of genius

This one was too good to be left out...