| rdfs:comment | - A way out west there was a station, a TV station I want to tell you about, a TV station by the name of the American Broadcasting Company. At least, that was the handle the network chiefs gave it, but home viewers simply referred to it as Channel Seven. Now, seven... that was the number of years its taken me to grow this moustache out just so. Pretty durned impressive, ain’t it? Quite possibly the bushiest set'a whiskers in all of Los Angeles County. Which is sayin' somethin', 'cause Wilfred Brimley lives here.
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| abstract | - A way out west there was a station, a TV station I want to tell you about, a TV station by the name of the American Broadcasting Company. At least, that was the handle the network chiefs gave it, but home viewers simply referred to it as Channel Seven. Now, seven... that was the number of years its taken me to grow this moustache out just so. Pretty durned impressive, ain’t it? Quite possibly the bushiest set'a whiskers in all of Los Angeles County. Which is sayin' somethin', 'cause Wilfred Brimley lives here. They call Los Angeles the City of A-holes. I'd say that description is purdy durned apt. 'Course, I can't say I ever seen the rain, and I ain't never been to Spain, so I can't rightly say if the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains, or sorta off to the sides-like. But I’ll tell you what, after seeing the network television premiere of The Big Lebowski on Los Angeles' Channel Seven — well, I guess I seen something just as boring as a light downpour on a Spanish prairie. Now this story I’m about to unfold took place back in the early zeros — just about the time of our conflict with Sad’m and the Eye-rackies. Round two. I only mention it ‘cause sometimes, well sometimes these coincidences are so startling, you kinda have to draw some attention to ‘em. Anyways, sometimes there’s a man — I won’t say programming director, ‘cause I’m not sure what that is, exactly — but sometimes there’s a man who picks the stuff that people watch on TV. If that's a programming director, then I'm a june bug caught in a cold, winter wind. Huh? Oh, that is a programming director? Better get my thermals. Sometimes there’s a man, and I’m talking about that TV picker guy, again — well, he’s in a hurry, and maybe a little jumpy in his saddle on account of all the sarsaparilla, and he picks the wrong movie to play on his television station. It may be that he only watched the first fifteen seconds of the film, maybe heard my hickory-smoked voice settin’ up the storyline and figured it for a Western tale. Well, anyways, that man moseys on over to the Outback and gets himself a bone-in rib-eye, which leaves another man, let's just call him the Fred, to edit the film one night before it airs. So the Fred, well, he does the only thing a man like the Fred can do — a quick, white-warshed hatchet job. Aww, hell... I dun it again, went and reinforced this ranch-hand stereotype with my twangy narration. Now I'll never play King Lear.
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