On Wednesday night, I spied in the on-screen television listings a showing of Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, a film that I never seen, not in its entirety. I merrily set the D.V.R. to record the film, eager to watch it at the earliest opportunity. Last night, I attempted to watch Monty Python's The Meaning of Life. The D.V.R. had recorded it faithfully & there were no technological hurdles to my watching the film. The insurmountable obstacle was the film itself. I sat through sixteen interminable minutes of The Crimson Permanent Assurance, annoyed by the persistent lack of any entertainment value in the not-nearly-short-enough short feature. Then I sat through the irksome & utterly not entertaining opening credits sequence. The film proper then belatedly began, offering just as little entertainment as the opening proceedings & no end in sight; so, perhaps five minutes into the "feature presentation," I cursed & cut off the whole misbegotten adventure. My fondness for Monty Python has taken a serious hit, from which I'm all but certain it shall never recover.
Life is too full of meaning to waste on nihilistic dreck like Monty Python's The Meaning of Life, yet I shall never receive any recompense for the precious minutes I squandered on that selfsame dreck. That's what eating The Last Angry Man.