Alyson Hannigan naked, save for a jar of chocolate spread and a spatula?
Every politician in the world getting set upon by rabid chipmunks, whilst scrabbling to escape from a deep, man-made ravine rapidly filling with ketchup?
Alyson Hannigan naked, save for a knowing smile and a jar of swarfega?
These are what I consider to be among the best and most heart-stoppingly fantastic images known to modern man (or old-fashioned man come to that).
I’m telling you this for two specific reasons:
1. I enjoy thinking up scenarios involving myself, Alyson Hannigan and an array of food items and kitchen utensils;
2. Many of the images my eyes are assailed by each and every day just get on my nipples.
Take signs for instance;
For anyone who hasn’t worked it out for themselves yet, or who may be coming to this blog afresh and untainted by my insipid, inane and all round dismal point of view: TV and I have a strained relationship.
It’s not that I hate TV. On the contrary, I love it to pieces and would do much to protect it (not least because being mean to it would result in me having to shell out hundreds of those quid things to replace it). It’s just that it doesn’t always love me back.
It’s often mean and selfish, thinking only of itself and rarely considering my wants or needs. It regularly sheds shows I like as though our relationship is nothing but an irritation, and often those shows hadn’t yet reached anything like a decent conclusion.
It also allows shows that I really enjoy to become stale, stagnant and unexciting. For that reason alone, I feel that I should undertake a little early intervention to prevent another televisual travesty from happening and talk, from the heart, to the writers of Chuck.
(For those of you who are not up to date with this show (or Dollhouse), be warned: Spoilers abound)