The stupor induced by Ramadan programming wraps its inescapable tentacles around viewers
CAIRO: Ramadan primetime TV warrants hate mail, but I m too lethargic to write it. I take my prozac after iftar (for these are worrisome times) and, self-medicating, chase it down with a couple of Xanax to dull any residual road rage. I have long since grown accustomed to the idiot box insulting my intelligence, and am fully aware of its evil plot to commit slow genocide by systematically dumbing us down. Seated for some time now, ankle deep in the cycle of corporate centralization and uncritical consumption that compounds our national resentment on an hourly basis, I m ready to accept its offerings.
In these seasonal sweepstakes where programmers are gods and even the most pious of entrepreneurs would gladly sell his mother for coveted ad time, there s a 50 percent chance you ll be confronted with a 0900 number each time you switch on the tube. One must traverse these hazardous waters carefully. Sure they may try and blackmail you with images of orphans or cancer victims, but the forceful gloss of these hucksters presentation will betray their pleased to fleece ya attitude.
A couple of hours ago you managed to survive the pedagogical bullying of pundits who sell religion with preternatural sweetness, and that s no small feat. Before you ate, our primary mufti no doubt enlightened you on the appropriateness of resisting a multitude of pressing temptations from nail polish to premature ejaculation, cleverly distracting you with obsessive attention to detail. Yet even with your intestines grumbling away, you saw it for what it was: a beginner s guide to sidestepping and mollifying God s threats and ultimatums. So give yourself some credit.
I usually do and curl up shamelessly in that wondrous realm of whores and bottom-feeders, primetime entertainment. I feel at home amongst the predictable ingredients of titillation, hypocrisy, and exploitation. I welcome the game show hosts, even if sickeningly sweet saccharine dribbles down their chins as they effusively praise the mediocrity passing for celebrity gracing their lavish sets (sets that we contribute to with our precious tax pounds damn it!).
Someone somewhere keeps insisting that our shabab (youth) are cool and intends to prove his argument by means of sitcom. The writers however are so talentless that producers fear the addition of a laugh track would only baffle the audience. Again, I consider writing hate mail. I mean, even circuses train their performers. The candid camera shows leave their dupes anti-climatically stumped, not sure if the joke is really over, since the gags usually have to escalate into violence to prove they work. But deep fierce outrage aside, I debase myself and laugh along with the vulgarity, for these are the joys of a full belly and a dimmed IQ. Plus there s the occasional breath of fresh air in the mock courtroom, where prosecutors snuggle up to the zany judge (practically sitting on his lap), as defendants attempt to exculpate themselves from their laughable careers.
For those who favor the high-brow, papa bear will happily parade hobos, gimps and a whole host of society s tabloid horrors, but I tend to change the channel before he advises them to go eat cake. Shows that promise real debate fail to penetrate through the wool their guests pull over our eyes, and often leave us wondering if the logic by which people reason, which typically dawns at the age of seven, has somehow escaped them. At least we re starting to get a taste of that polished slickster spin from representatives of the only political party worth remembering, so even if the truth does miraculously sink in, there remain the safety valves of confusion and evasion.
If you re lucky you ll even be treated to a rendition of some topical issue. Deliriously soaking up the proud images of the annual a historical remembrance of the 73 war, I realized they made it look like we won – it was great! Recently many were also privy to a public relations farce regarding the exorbitant railway overhaul budget. Trains will be imported from China, a grid of new tracks will suffocate the Nile, and – thanks to the astute suggestion of our governing pharaoh – the renovated stations will include shops, maybe even a snack bar.
It is what it is and hope seems to be at some remove. Mentally, I pick up the receiver. I shall call somebody, anybody, and discuss seriously the causes that have led us to our chronic hebetudes, as well as any prescriptions for prevention. The recipient will respond empathetically; in a future dimension we will evolve from passive consumers into an active citizenry. But the stupor has already begun to envelop me, and the soap operas beckon. This year has been dubbed return of the veil and it would be folly to miss it. Benighted we stand, regressing down the road that leads to ignorant bliss.
