Dexter is the only thing I watch on TV these days. So I split my spare time between my friends and a serial killer. And you know what, I want this serial killer as my friend. Because he's witty, clever and we share similar issues. Not the urge to kill of course, but the need to wear a mask around certain people. Like work colleagues or those tediously boring friends of friends who you get stuck sitting next to in the pub. He's got faking social skills down to a fine art, and I could do with a few lessons from him. If he can fool people into thinking he's an average middle-class Joe instead of a cold-blooded murderer, then surely he could help me to act like I'm really interested in knowing what my colleagues did at the weekend or what they've got in their sandwiches. It'd make life so much easier.
The way he deals with his girlfriend's irritating mother and nosey colleagues is really something. Not forgetting how he single-handedly rids society of the evil people by killing them. Well, the police are pretty useless now aren't they? I mean you could say he's my hero. Gone are the days when heroes were goody two shoe-types in tights (how terribly dull). Society has moved on; developed; progressed. We now want something more from our heroes. We want blood. And intensity and rawness to wake us up from our terminal apathy. In the recent Batman film we all know the Joker was the preferred hero. Partly to do with the fact that Heath Ledger played him, but also because he spoke the truth and made some pretty good points, carried out his dastardly plans majestically and was really rather witty. I know which one I'd pick to sit next to me down the pub. Batman would be that tediously boring friend of a friend.
The logical progression for our base, Hello and Heat-riddled, Paris Hilton-infested capitalist society is for it to have a serial killer as its hero. Seems quite appropriate. After all, we enjoy murdering our minds with air-headed celebrity's opinions and gossip. In fact, Dexter's far too good for us. He's got principles that he sticks by. And I've never seen a copy of the National Enquirer in his hands. Although that means that he probably wouldn't recognise Paris Hilton if she came up and slapped lipstick on his face. Shame, because that means she's safe.
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