As long as Swedish media continues to deploy their journalistic resources to near exclusively cover reality TV developments, review cellphone breakthroughs, and stalk Ericsson's stock price fluctuations in absurdum then the 4rth estate's spectacular investigative reporters of celebrity orgasms will continue to have nothing like the ominous American experience to fear. You'd be forgiven for thinking they couldn't make waves if it was to keep a Spanish beach resort turd from floating into their commonlaw spouse's frolicking mouth. (God they were a pushover to media map into Yankee-Doodle-luvin' submission back in the day.)
Perhaps that's why Swedish standup comedians are about as pas de funny as British cuisine is pas de tasty - one night they're playing to a night club of tobacco chewing quarter-generation metropolites to pay their child support arrears and the next evening they're entertaining a hungover half of that same crowd at a Social Democratic Party team building function. It's an eensy weensy country and the options for salaried employment for rockers de boats just ain't that rosy. Play it safe and joke about poop and burps.
Out of sight, out of mind. That's part of the recipe for a meatball's paradise, baby.
(was this reactionary soundin'? Sorry)
No comments:
Post a Comment