As my beloved Philadelphia Eagles plod to their inexorably mediocre finish, I’m distressed that my travel schedule will force me to see most games on the televisions of our country’s bars and restaurants. It’s not the quality of the picture or the patrons that have me on edge (although both promise to be low-grade). It’s the closed-captioning.
Sure, when it comes to late night talk shows, sitcoms and hundreds of other programs whose currency is chatter, cc’ing is essential for our low-frequency friends. But why must we be subjected to chunky blocks of courier type dominating the screens of sporting events, for which visuals are everything? Since even the most bionic eared cannot hear the announcers at crowded eateries anyway, closed-captioning hurts everyone.
And, for the love of Christ, if we must endure closed-captioning, hire a stenographer! If I read one more “Touchtown!” or other typographical monstrosity, I’m hurling my bar nuts at the screen.
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Last night I came home and my daughter was watching a movie with closed captioning, and when I asked her why, she said "Daddy did it and he couldn't undo it." . . . . but I really just wanted to say that I am SO HAPPY to finally find someone who shares my view of The Hangover! Thank you for helping my crusade. I say, if you want to laugh long and hard, rent Knocked Up, not The Hangover . . . . . .
I was watching a dramatization of a ghost story the other day and the caption read: "Ghosts haunt a group of bishops." Which suggests bishops as in, the religious appointment. The show was actually about a regular old family with the last name ... Bishop.
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