Tuesday, October 26, 2004

A little more remote than I'd like

Where in the hell is my remote control? I started flipping when the commercials came on during the World Series when my boy, Jason, called. I went to the kitchen for a bowl of ice cream and when I came back and sat down I’d left off on channel 39, TCM, whatever that is.

To make matters worse, it’s a musical. West Side Story. Come on, Maria. Fuck Tony and get it over with.

“…in America! …in America!”

I endured 10 minutes, coincidentally how long it took me to eat my ice cream, before I finally got off my lazy ass to look for the remote. Under the cushions, in the recliner, on the floor, beneath the sofa, in the refrigerator, on the counter. For the love of god where in the hell did I leave the damn remote control?

“I’m distoibed, I’m distoibed, I’m psyyyyyyychologically distoibed….”

Fuck! Under the table, under the rocker, behind the end table, in the freezer, in the dishwasher, under the recliner, under the throw pillow. I REFUSE to turn the channel by hand. That’s why I have a freaking remote the size of a horse’s ass with more buttons than a 757. I shouldn’t have to get up and poke a button with my finger in a slumped, unnatural position. That shit is just wrong.

“…oh so pretty, I feel pretty, and witty, and briiiiiiiiiight!...”

Oh god!!!!! On the desk, near the phone, in the drawer, on the mantle, on the floor, in my pocket (like it would fit), under the desk, under my chair, on the bed, under the bed, in my goddamn fucking hands! Nothing, nada, nowhere!! What the fuck did I do with that piece of shit remote control? I went from the living room to the kitchen to the living room. How could it be lost?

Jasmine called at that moment and I explained to her my plight. “Are you sure you didn’t go anywhere else?”

Like where, Boston? Fucking women. I excused myself from her infinite wisdom and hung up the phone in order to get back to my 911 search.

“The Jets are gonna have their day toniiiiiiiight!”

Shit! I give. I fucking give!

It was shriveled pride that I stomped over to the television like the whipped little bitch that I am and pushed the channel down button thirty times to get back to Fox. Afterwards I dragged my defeated ass into the bathroom to take a leak and I’ll be damned if that son of a bitch wasn’t sitting on top of the tank to the commode.

Oh yeah. I peed after I hung up with Jason.

Shut up.