Finally finished wading through my collection of Manor House episodes on the TiVo. It was a bit like running a marathon, mostly because each episode was two hours long and through some crazy Public Television logic, without commercials, so rather than being two hours of TiVo time, it was two hours of REAL time. By the time I was finished, I wanted to schmuck Sir John. Or wanted to see the Crazy French Chef do it. What a freaky man that Monsieur De SomethingOrOther was. He just made me giggle, especially one bit where they just showed him staring into the camera with those crazy Hunchback of Notre Dame eyes of his and not saying anything. Was he was wondering where he could hide the bodies? It was just all so absurd. And the tutor? Petty little bitch. You just know that he does a drag revue in London on the weekends and makes catty remarks about the other Girls’ hairy backs. I kept rubbing my eyes, thinking he was really Bobby Trendy. And I suspect that he was hitting on Charlie. Also, the Second Footman Rob? He came thisclose to being my Edwardian boyfriend. Seriously. Thisclose. And apparently, he appreciates the curvy round kind of girls, as he apparently had a thing going with Antonia. But alas, he simply could not compare to my Frontier House boyfriend, Nate. (Or my Diaryland boyfriend, Mangus, who likes to make me look pretty. )
Best part of the entire series was when the Ladies Maid got choked up, holding an antique newspaper, for a death that happened in 1911. It showed how terribly real everything had become to them. They didn’t show that sweet woman nearly enough. Poor little Cinderelly.
In other news, I have this intense urge for chocolate that I cannot even begin to describe. It’s all about the chocolate. Chocolate chocolate chocolate. Suddenly, the Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs bird doesn’t seem so over the top. He was merely motivated and thinking outside the box. You’ve got to admire that, really. He wasn’t channeling Bing Crosby like Honey Bear. He wasn’t on speed like Dig Em Smacks. He wasn’t epaulet-wearing alternative lifestyle poster boys like Snap, Crackle and Pop. He wasn’t a freak like Count Chocula or Frankenberry. He wasn’t all sly and full of artifice, like the Trix rabbit. He was just jonesing on some chocolate. You’ve gotta give a brotha his chocolate, baby. To hold out ain’t righteous. Or something.
Hey, are any of you old enough to remember when Trix had a big promotion where kids could send in votes on whether or not the Silly Rabbit could finally get a bowl of mickey fickey Trix? And thousands of kids clipped their little Trix ballots off the backs of countless boxes of Trix and sent them in, voting No Silly, Trix are for Kids or Yes, Give The Rabbit His Trix so that he will shut the hell up and we can watch the damn Smurfs?
And then after the polls closed, they had a countdown to the day the commercial airing the results would air. I remember that day Mo and I were so excited to watch cartoons and we woke up uber early so that we wouldn’t miss the results. Finally, at some point, probably between The Snorks and The Littles, they revealed that America’s voting children had spoken and felt that the Rabbit finally deserved his bowl of Trix. And that cartoon rabbit was so excited, he was almost humping the announcer’s leg and the two kids gave him his bowl of Trix and then’ we didn’t get to see him eat it. Suddenly, after he talked about how incredible it was going to be, how fruity and delicious and part of this nutritious breakfast it was, he looks down and his bowl is empty.
And the two trust fund brats snicker and say ‘Silly Rabbit, Trix are for kids.’
If that wasn’t a metaphor for everything in life that sucks, I don’t know what is.
