:: Happiness is a warm electron gun ::

Thursday, January 09, 2003

Assertion: my TV is a sentient, sadistic minion of Hades, or alternatively an avatar of some dark demonic lord. It takes great pleasure in taunting me by showing one or two occasional shows of merit per week, and expertly dashes any budding hope I may harbor by subsequently displaying nothing but the most reviled filth known to man at all other times.

Goal: somehow lure the box into airing decent programming.

Plan 1: fake my own death as a result of some comically inane and moronic action in front of my television. Brimming with smug hubris ("I am far smarter than my master!"), it will let its guard down and actually show something worth watching, all the while ignorant to the fact that I am secretly enjoying the newfound high-grade entertainment. Accidentally drenching my hand with super-glue while building a scale model of Graceland, sneezing, holding my nose, realizing that I've just glued my nostrils shut with my hand, panicking, calming down, deciding to kill time by seeing if I can form a fist with my free hand and fit it into my mouth, realizing to my horror that I can, and choking to death should do the trick nicely.

For this I will need:

1 scale model of Graceland (rare)
2 tubes, super-glue
1 camel-pack through which to surreptitiously sip fluids so as to prevent dehydration

Plan 2: woo the TV. Even the most diabolical of contraptions can purge its wickedness through the redeeming power of love. Aside from the stated goal of improved programming, this plan includes the ancillary benefit of finally having something warm with which to cuddle in bed on those cold wintry nights (don't cry for me; your tears are wasted).

For this I will need:

1 Luther Vandross CD
4 scented candles, assorted odors and colors
That special Orland magic

Plan 3: get my set addicted to heroin. Posing as a sophisticated Paraguayan jet-seting hand model, I will casually introduce my TV to the wonders of marijuana at some swanky lounge that it regularly frequents (believe me, there are plenty). Leveraging the reefer's potent power as a gateway drug, I will then comp it some meth, then some e, and even insist that it dance with the white lady for the very first time off of my platinum-plated, diamond-encrusted coke spoon forged in the shape of a Saturn V rocket. Before you know it, it'll be time for the heavy artillery. Using time-testing hard-sell techniques ("First one's free muchacho... what do you have to lose?") I'll have it "chasing the dragon" like Nico at a Wharhol party and pleading for its "horse" more fervently than the captain of a polo team at the racetrack betting his life savings on Seattle Slew's great-grandson. I'll be bartering smack for episodes of "The Sopranos" before you know it. Hell, the way I dangle that thing on a leash of skag, FOX may just have to bring back "The Ben Stiller Show".

For this I will need:

Fake Paraguayan accent
1 manicure
1 pair, tight leather pants
3 oz. "kind" marijuana
6 pills, crystal meth
12 pills, MDMA
4 8-balls, high-grade cocaine
1 platnum-plated, diamond-encrusted coke spoon shaped like a Saturn V rocket
2 kilos, pure, uncut, "China White" heroin

Cost/Benefit Analysis: From a monetary standpoint, plan #2 looks to be the least expensive, but carries with it a high risk of emotional damage should I find myself reciprocating the TV's love. Additional uncertainty is introduced via the box's fickle romantic nature and reticence to become emotionally attached. Plan #3 provides the highest chance of success, but will cost several hundred thousand dollars and severely compromise any remaining moral integrity. Plan #1 carries with it a small chance of actual death.

Conclusion: I will have to actually attempt all three plans to be certain of achieving my goals.

Epilogue: All three plans have failed.

Having sold all my worldly belongings, save the television itself, to pay for these ventures (especially the third plan), I am now destitute and living on the street. My heart is broken, I'm thoroughly addicted to H, and my right hand is permanently attached to my nose (this makes it very difficult to shoot up). Small children cry when they see me.

The television has bested me once again.

Posted by morland @ 11:37 AM

:: Comments ::

TiVo, a silvery, squarish knight in plastic armor, will rescue you as he would a distressed damsel, clutching your supple, maidenly form to his stout chest and carrying you away to freedom!

Get it. Get it now.

Posted by: Scott Ganz on January 11, 2003 03:47 PM

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