Technology and I have a somewhat tenuous relationship. Without certain members of my family doing such things as “programming my remote” and “plugging in the microwave,” I’d probably still be stuck staring at a can of Spaghetti-O’s forlornly and wishing I could figure out how to open it. It’s not that I’m inept, it’s just that I’m inept.
I’m okay with this because while I have routinely explained that dirty socks actually do not have to roam about the house in pairs of two, looking for a family, but prefer to actually live in the basement by the washing machine, my pleas have fallen on deaf ears.
Division of labor, I guess.
The television, however, I have figured out.
Not maybe the fancy doo-hickeys that go along with it and all the buttons on the 57 remotes that we own (apparently they all do mystifyingly separate but all equally important functions and can never, ever be thrown away, ever), but I understand how televisions work.
See: my television is home to a number of very small actors who are incredibly versatile. While sometimes they boringly report the news (although never naked, because we’re not in the UK), when I switch channels, they seamlessly switch to contestants on American Idol, a wee Ryan Seacrest joyfully narrating and building the suspense. The tiny actors then whip out instruments and sing and dance and occasionally even have talent.
The actors that live in my television set are not the same as the ones that live in yours, though, so we’re never watching the exact same episode of Law and Order: Incredibly Depressing Episode Where You’re Reminded That At Any Moment Someone You Love Might Be Raped (and Probably Die), because having MY actors live in YOUR television set is positively absurd.
But the actors that live in my television are amazing, I’ll admit. They’re almost as awesome as the hamsters that live in my air conditioner that hold ice cubes in their mouths and blow cold air through the vents at me (but nothing, let’s be honest, is THAT awesome).
No, the actors are awesome because no matter how hard I try to catch them in the act of switching between programs, I simply cannot do it. That means that no matter what, I can’t catch Ryan Seacrest announcing, “THIS, is your NEXT RAPE VICTIM!”
But THAT, Pranksters, is what I so desperately require my television to do. If I could make my television set do anything at all, I would make it so that all of the programs did a mash-up.
Meaning, that at any time, you could catch Dexter Morgan mutilating one of the Desperate Housewives, his hair all sexy and askew, as he told them all of his secrets, yelling about his Dark Passenger.
Or maybe Dr. House could come in and do a musical number with some of the Glee kids about the wonders of Vicodin, because honestly, there’s nothing not wonderful about Vicodin, once you get past the potential for addiction and stuff. (WHATEVER)
The horrible contestants at the beginning of American Idol would be chased off the show by some roaming sharks from Shark Week, screaming as they were eaten alive, right in front of your very eyes. I mean, don’t tell me you haven’t thought “Jesus, people GET A FUCKING LIFE” when you’ve seen some of your fat male television actors traipse across the American Idol stage in a Star Wars themed thong bikini, making your ears bleed.
Kate Gosselin would find herself on Dog, the Bounty Hunter as his new wife and occasionally all of the actors would duke it out a la Celebrity Death March.
Then my television would have to make me popcorn. OBVIOUSLY.