This is the beginning of that time of the year when local TV news assignment editors resort to the usual cliched activities that make us all hate local TV news.
It begins with the usual stand-up live shot at SFO and the other Bay Area airports where dorky passengers are interviewed by dorky reporters, pre-Thanksgiving of course, on just how rough a day it's been standing in line. Of course the dorky passenger; usually some pimpled-faced college prick from Berkeley on his way back home to Austin could have avoided the airport doldrums by booking a flight a day or two earlier, but NO....
Then there's the inevitable schlub reporter: "Frank, there's wall-to-wall traffic here at SFO and despite the look of civility, passengers on their way home to grandma's house are grumbling." Gees, you don't say? I'm just fraught with anxiety. Maybe, god forbid, they could have booked a flight out of Oakland? But NO....
By the way, ever hear of a flight early Thanksgiving morning? I hear there's NO lines and besides, you just glide through the process. Common sense is like a preference for dark meat. It's gone the way of stuffing.
And then there's THIS: the ballet, the grand curtain of ritualisticitus in TV News: the inane, cock-eyed, uber-annoying, pain-staking onslaught of Black Friday, which has now morphed into Black Thursday night.
I don't know what's worse: The inevitable camera shots of doofuses with double chins and absolutely no life standing in line in front of the local Walmart so they can buy a $50 big screen and risk getting trampled to death by a bunch of lowlife, trailer-trash from Fremont. Oh, it's the spirit of the holiday season! Screw the bizarre idea of spending time at home with family and friends with a warm fire and post-turkey bliss--no, let's go freeze our ass off late night and catch pneumonia so we can buy a cheap TV monitor that will probably break down in a week.
I'm sick of it already and I haven't even seen one shot. Excuse me, I'm gonna eat turkey, watch football, and pick up chicks. Pass the stuffing.
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