I was lying in bed the other night with the TV on. It was late and my body was weary, and I kept telling my self that I really should get to sleep. But you know how it is: sometimes the TV hypnotizes you. You lie there slack jawed dribbling spit, eyes half open, mesmerized by some inane infomercial that isn’t even remotely interesting. You find yourself drawn against your will into another dimension; a place that sort of looks like our world, but is horribly different.
Welcome to a bizarre realm where incompetence reigns. It is a place where uncoordinated dolts attempt to accomplish every day kitchen tasks but fail miserably: tomatoes are smashed; flour explodes; eggs are obliterated; garbage cans are overturned; milk is spilled; dogs bark; sirens wail---it’s almost like you’re watching one of those shaky camera documentaries of real people living through tsunamis and hurricanes. Oh, the humanity!
But it doesn’t end there. There are people in this alternate universe who are just as devoid of fashion sense as they are of common sense. They wear ball caps with built in mullets. Follicle challenged golfers wear sun visors that come complete with a curly mop of hair. Still others venture out to football games wearing blankets with sleeves. And because driving, ogling women and drinking coffee all at the same time can be challenging, lecherous multitasking commuters in this frightening world wear oversized full frontal bibs to protect their painfully preppy clothing from spills caused by poorly secured travel cup lids.
It that’s not enough, apparently in this crazy place, the radioactive, smelly, war torn disaster areas that are teenager’s rooms can be organized by simply gluing hooks on the walls. So along with the posters of brain dead prepackaged pop divas, your teen can proudly display dirty socks, empty chip bags and their unfinished math home work from last semester. But hey, at least it’s not on the floor.
I groaned. It was too much to bear! I roused myself, fumbling for the remote, hoping against hope that it wasn’t already too late. Would the ghost of Billy Mays appear in chains at my bedside, moaning about a better way to cook my potatoes? Would a shiny black raven hop onto my bed, bathed in the dying glow of my TV, and quote me two for the price of one, just pay shipping? Ridiculous! Defiantly, I clicked off the TV and rolled over, knowing that there was no such thing as ghosts and talking ravens, almost laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all.
I left the light on, though, just in case.