DOCTOR WHO AND THE BIG TITTIED WOMEN

There’s a television program known to only a select group of Americans. A show feared by girlfriends and revered by sci-fi fans worldwide. The longest running sf show in the history of the small screen - Doctor Who.

With 26 seasons, a TV movie, 2 theatrical releases and a stage play, this serial sparked the imagination of generations.

Now, Fox and the BBC have joined forces to bring Doctor Who back to the boob tube.
At one moment, I feel like a gracious fan, thankful for the interest Rupert Murdock’s posse has in bringing back one of my childhood fantasies. But another piece of me, revels in the agony like some vengeful Silurian. A high budget network like Fox controlling the fate of one of the best fictional characters of our time scares me.

For those of us in the know, the Doctor is a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey who travels around the galaxy in his TARDIS (Time And Relative Distance In Space Machine) to save the universe from the likes of the Daleks, the Cybermen, and, of course, the Master, his arch enemy. Along with him for the voyage are various companions, who come and go as the seasons progress.

When Hollywood got control of the franchise, it made two craptastic films staring Peter Cushing as a bumbling Doctor of no regard. No one cared for these films then, and now the BBC has sold out again. It’s a mockery to all who wore the mantle of the Doctor. And all the poor blokes who’ve paid good money to purchase and rent the episodes in the aftermath of the show’s demise, supporting one of our passions.

The first eight Doctors are rolling in their graves.

TUNAMI SURPRISE

Girlfriend playing Final Fantasy X2.

I stare at an oblique picture of Kurt Cobain at the Reading Festival.

Superman’s busting shit up on the cover of a JLA. I’m breaking up weed on the issue.

Some tictacs litter the ground.

I dream of Vonnegut nightmares and Marx fantastix. Super worker’s parties unite but cause and exploding subconscious to radiate the planet’s surface. All are affected except descendents of Darwin who don’t believe any of this shit anyway.

747’s on fire. Play it again. This time on BETA.

The brandy/Dr. Pepper combo tastes like filth. Much too much like dreaded Dalek mucus slithering into an open wound. Even the defense of the pen’s ink, covering my body head to toe is illegitimate. Force clashes with force from Navarone. Death Race 2005 heading straight for a maelstrom of tsunami psychosis. And only the third world can know for sure.

Civil defense is imperative. Everyone knows that, sure as shit as the underprivileged of Thailand know. Waves crest, fall, and puke on the populations.

Listening to Joe Strummer and the Mescalaros’ Global A-Go-Go.

Reading The Military Capabilities and Implications of China’s Indigenous Satellite-Based Navigation System by Geoffrey Forden.