No outfit can ride a story to death quite like television, as we have seen during the past week of all-pope-all-the-time coverage of the passing of Pope John Paul II, and, before that, the bizarre nonstop soap opera that was the Terri Schiavo case down in Florida.

To be sure, each was a major news story deserving of major coverage, which is to say they were notable events, conspicuous in their effect on mankind. A guy would have to be rather a callous contrarian to argue otherwise. But with all due respect to the principals involved, anyone who didn’t pretty much have his or her fill of things in either case after the first five days of continuous blather by cable television’s talking heads has

got to be a closet masochist with a keen taste for suffering.

By now, we’ve seen the phenomenon enough to know that when the various television outlets try to one-up one another for ratings it can be brutal on the viewing audience. From the O.J. Simpson murder trial to Bill Clinton’s flirtations with White House interns and the impeachment process, on through the 9-11 terrorist attacks and the continuing war in Iraq the feeding frenzy has flourished seemingly around the clock, to the exclusion of other news.

But give television its due. It is the perfect medium for certain stories where pictures tell more than mere words can ever hope to, the 9-11 sneak attacks on New York and Washington being a perfect example of where it best serves. Television excels in holding us captive at the scene, but it has never learned when to let us go.

On the theory, I suppose, that anything worth saying once is worth saying many multiples of times, Television Guy covering The Big Story has no qualms about repeating himself every 10 minutes or so for days on end.

It is a job you’d think would quickly drive a normal person nuts; that faced with such a proposition as his life’s work, your average bear would say the hell with it and find a more-fulfilling calling. Selling patent medicine door to door, perhaps. Or peeling pulpwood amongst the blackflies and no see-ums of greater Township 4, Range 11.

But not these people. Much like Cuban dictator Fidel Castro haranguing his subjects on the joys of communism upon the anniversary of his glorious revolution’s victory, they actually seem to thrive on nattering mindlessly for great stretches of time without saying much of anything.

To be fair, the talking heads did pass on some substantive stuff about John Paul II, including a balanced accounting of his “legend and legacy as priest, evangelist, poet, protector of the poor and defender of the faith,” as Newsweek magazine put it.

As well, there was interesting trivia concerning such things as the pope being shod in his favored brown shoes for his final journey home; the massive security arrangements required for such an event; and the fact that the building where the church’s cardinals will elect a new pope would be periodically swept for listening devices to ensure the secrecy of the process.

The rub came when they reported it over and over and over again, until only a glutton for punishment could forgo punching the kill button on the television remote control gizmo in search of blessed relief.

And speaking of blessed relief. … What must the bathroom situation have been in a mob of four million souls who had been patiently standing in line for up to 24 hours? The weak-kidney faction of the viewing public would have been especially interested in hearing the talking heads lend their expertise to answering that one, I would have thought, although hearing it discussed only once probably would have sufficed, thank you very much.

All of this, I suppose, is my own terribly long-winded way of getting at the bottom line here, which is this: Offer me a choice between the job of Robotic Repeating Television Talking Head and that of a highway construction site flagman spinning his signpost from “Stop” to “Slow” and back again for eight hours a day under a brutal August sun and I’d grab the latter so fast it would make your head ache.

Exciting as that career might be, however, my ultimate dream job – the position I secretly covet as a card-carrying Type A personality constantly on the go – would be that of the guy in charge of changing the gasoline price signs down at the local service station.

There’s never an idle moment in that occupation these days. And I could

sure use the guaranteed overtime.

NEWS columnist Kent Ward live in Winterport. His e-mail address is olddawg@bangordailynews.net