the sun rising over a carribean rainforest

Wait… you’re telling me that Robert Blake is still alive?
Frankly, Tony WIlliams can stick his party animals where the soft money doesn’t flow.
Enron is dead — hand me a shovel.
AOL is deathly ill — hand me a garrotte.
Trains, planes, the Shrub, and the Catholic Church are all crashing.
Why the hell should it take half an hour of channel surfing to find out… well… anything… in the morning. I nearly sprain my thumb on the worn-out remote trying to flip past morning shows before they exhibit another picture of whats-her-name’s colon. And if you subject me to one more traffic report from some bubbly bimbo with a cute name in a helicopter, I am going to cause my own jam by pitching the TV into the traffic outside my apartment.
We live in an age where we can watch live footage of military assaults on foriegn capitals live via television or ‘net. But all I see on every channel when I wake up in the morning is Barry Manilow singing in the middle of some New York street. (Do they have morning shows in LA?)
How much would you be willing to pay to see, unedited and unnarrated, the sun rising over a carribean rainforest? Or maybe morning prayers at a buddist shrine in Japan? Sunset in the desert?
You get the idea.
The more massive our technological capabilities become, the more massive amounts of crap we shovel with them.
I would pay every cent I have just to get that fucking body-builder infomercial off TV; replaced with a half hour of footage of someone hangliding through the Grand Canyon.

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