It pours, straight through the roof. (Or more accurately, when
the snow melts …)

And where does it pour? Straight into my television — the vehicle whereby cheesy soap operas, late-night talk hosts, sitcoms and juicy reality television shows occupy my wine-addled brain when I finish work.

So for Christmas, Ed and I get to buy each other a new boob tube. (Let’s just skip the part about how we need a new roof.)

And now we have to buy an overpriced HDTV. I would have been fine watching my analog piece of shit for another 20 years. I prefer my TV a bit fuzzy, to tell the truth. I don’t care to see every wrinkle on Deidre Hall‘s face (Botox takes care of most of them, I know …). And I certainly don’t need to see the mold and grease in the grossest restaurants in the country any more clearly than I already do.

And how in the hell am I supposed to get a Sesame Street nap when there’s no TV? Who will Simon point at and say “boos coos”? (That’s Blues Clues for those of you without kids.)

Frankly, I think we’re going to have to take action tomorrow. I’m starting to panic. And to all of you uptight literary types who don’t even have cable (I know some of you read this), I say you try having three kids and not plunking them in front of the good old electronic babysitter for a break. And you try reading mind-numbing city council stories for eight hours and then coming home and tackling a novel.

I prefer to read on the treadmill and fry the day out of my brain when I’m done working. Judge me if you must, just don’t take away my TV.

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