Tuesday, January 08, 2013


My wife talked me into watching Downton Abbey with her. By her reckoning, I owed her this attention because of all the zombies she has endured over the past couple of years. The Walking Dead has required a new set of attentions on her part. Still, she comes back for the characters and the relationships. She is not yet accustomed to the periodic decapitations, but the standard skull punctures don't raise much more than a flinch these days.
So it seemed only polite for me to sit down on the couch and see what sort of gory goings-on were taking place in the halls of British aristocracy. Mutilations were kept to a minimum. Most of the nastiest business took place off-camera. At least as far physical dismemberment went. It was the emotional carnage that was hard to bear. I quickly lost track of who was sleeping with whom, and decided that it ultimately didn't' matter because of the horrifying inbred nature of the relationships in such places. I worried about the offspring of such upper crust canoodling.
When it was all over, I missed the undead. Those pasty folks wandering around that big empty house was some cold comfort, but I will be glad to get back to the brain-eaters to whom I have become accustomed.

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