‘Hey! I Can Beat A Tornado!’ And Other Ridiculous Delusional Situations From Television

TV is a ruthless beast.  It’s basically ruined my life.  And I’m not just referring to flattening my ass and removing any trace of a college education.

It’s ruined my life by infiltrating my mind with lies.  It’s forced me to believe that I’m capable of things no human is capable of.  I’d sue, but who has the time for that?  Instead, I’ve compiled a list of delusions.  Ugh, so passive aggressive.

“I can beat a tornado!”

Perpetrator: Storm Chasers

Full disclosure: I’ve never witnessed a full episode.  But as a former Discovery Channel employee, I’ve absorbed my share of promo clips with Australian guys in and around wind.  That must count for something.

These clips create quite the idyllic storm world.  No injuries.  No tornadoes touching down within a five-mile radius.  Just funnel clouds sparkling somewhere off in the distance, likely as part of a child’s science fair project.

Plus, the notion of storm chasing terrifies most non-coma patients, painting me as quite the rebellious gangster.

Sure, I can handle a future of spitting, “READY YOUR CAMERA, LADS!  SHE’S COMING!” to a crew of ex-Marines.

Reality Check

What the weatherman says: “Tornado warning across the greater Boston area.  Stay tuned throughout the day for further updates.”

What I hear: “THE SHE-DEVIL’S A BREWIN’!  GATHER YOUR BUG-OUT BAGS!  KISS YOUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY GOODBYE!  YOU’RE NOT GOING TO SEE TOMORROW.”

I cower under the covers all day.  In my bedroom on the third floor.  So not only do I fail to employ survival protocol 101 and seek shelter in a basement, I choose a hideout thirty feet in the air.  Literally the least safe place possible.

If I bother to open my blinds (fabric: a true protection against hellion winds), I’d witness the 2015 version of Seurat’s Sunday afternoon painting.  Yet I choose to emotionally channel the guy in 127 Hours.

I blame my failed Storm Chasers destiny on those clips.  They conveniently end before the stars drive into a fucking tornado and still consider their biggest problem, “I should probably roll my window up, huh?”

“I can totally run in heels!”

Perpetrator: Every cop show

Practical flats: out.  Mile high heels: in forever!  I mean, I guess.  That’s what TV Lady Cop tells me.

I don’t know, if I were a professional criminal hunter, stilettos would be the last thing I’d consider. They’d pay rent from the back of my closet, collecting dust alongside my prom dress and laundry from vacation three weeks ago.

And yet… TV Lady Cop owns fifty pairs, easy, that only enhance her efficiency.  She scales fences and swan dives onto bad guys and forget so much as teetering after firing a gun.  (Come on.  Tell me she tips over like a cow at least once in a while.)  Heels must be the superhero capes for us peasants.

With this constant reinforcement, naturally I too can run a marathon in five inch Jimmy Choos.  Osmosis, people!  It’s on our side!

What’s the big deal with heels anyway?  You’re just taller.

Reality Check

You’re not just taller.

Here’s real life: Me grunting and lurching along while tripping over blades of grass.  Hello, Hunchback of Notre Dame?  Do I have a match for you!

“I can dry swallow pills!”

Perpetrator: House

Dr. Gregory House dry swallows pills like no one’s business.  I mean, yeah… he’s a drug addict.  But whatever.  Minor detail.

The dude hobbles down the corridor, screws his face into an expression of, “damn my leg… oh, fuck it.  What’s a dead liver to the mix,” and boom.  Pops the cap off of his Vicodin and throws a handful down his gullet.  No water or anything.  Then continues about his crankiness as if he isn’t slowly choking to death.

He’s every girl’s dream.

Reality Check

I drop several Ibuprofens onto my tongue.  Wink at the faucet like a judge sentencing a pretty boy to prison and then… walk away.  House survives without water, so can I!  It’s just another way for society to tie me down!

But not five minutes later, it happens.  A tumor materializes in my throat, rapidly and methodically constricting my airway.  My pupils dilate; sweat floods from every orifice.  Is my left arm numb?  Of course not, idiot.  This is so much worse than a heart attack.

Screw you, Dr. House.

Screw you, all of TV.  I can’t handle life anymore.