I’m a sick bastard.
I don’t imagine that is a secret to anyone. I find amusement in some strange places.
One of them is the show 1,000 Ways To Die on the, generally geared towards men, television network “Spike”. It was suggested to me by Netflix, and like so many things they suggest to me, I loved it.
It’s like they know me.
The big draw to this show for me is the camp. All of the deaths featured are “inspired by actual events.”
The show is graphic in the way a B-movie is graphic. Each dramatization features tons of too-red blood, fake organs exposed and exploding, and campy, over the top, bad acting. The kind of shit I eat for breakfast.
They tend to set up each story by making the soon-to-be-deceased seem like a complete sleaze bag. Which I assume is to get the average viewer to think of them less like a person and more like a cartoon villain who has finally gotten their comeuppance. A damn fine strategy if the success of your program depends on being able to mock the dead.
I tore through the first season. It actually helped me figure out how to deal with a character in Trashland A Go-Go.
While watching a good chunk of the marathon featured on television yesterday evening, I came across a gem. The death of a stripper that I kicked myself for not thinking of on my own.
Not that I regret the way I killed Coco Darling. I’ll stand by that. But goddamn. This would have been a fine scene as well.
You’ve served me well, 1,000 Ways To Die. I tip my hat to your genius.