Category: Humor

Comedy By Remote Control (2018)

I bought a new television the other day and I’m reminded of something I wrote 5 years ago.  Nothing has changed.

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A certain acceptance comes with age.  As you get older, you realize that the world is not going to change that radically between now and the time The Grim Reaper takes your pulse.  Walmart is going to remain the mighty retail monolith it’s always been.   McDonald’s will sell more burgers than Africa has cows — despite the interesting fact that no one you know has ever eaten there.  And Microsoft, Google and Apple are going to continue to rule the world in an unholy triumvirate worthy of Octavian, Mark Antony and Lepidus.  However, just because you’ve accepted the inevitable doesn’t mean certain things don’t continue to drive you nuts.  Our world is loaded with stuff that simply doesn’t make any sense.  For example, in North America a two-fisted gigantic bottle of Coke™ sells for 99 cents, the smaller (smaller!) bottle costs $1.50 and the bottle of water (that beverage you can get free out of any garden hose.) is $1.89.  Just let that sink in for a moment.  It makes you wonder what Dasani actually means — you just got robbed?

However, the single most ridiculous thing in our world that sends me loopy every time I think about it is the remote control.  This is the point and click device that revolutionized our society.  It changed us from a vigorous, dynamic people into lazy swine with the attention span of a hummingbird without its Ritalin.  It does everything but deliver the potato chips and chew them for us.  I swear, if you knew the correct sequence and pointed it at NASA, you could launch the Mars Rover.  I (the original techno-moron) have recorded Games of Thrones in my living room while lounging through Spaghetti alla Vongolese and a bottle of Amalfi Red (I had to fight to get that combination) on a rooftop in Rome.  It is the most important item, aside from the coffee pot, in any household.  So why, by all that’s holy, is every single one of those little bastards different?

We live in a homogenized world.  If you were magically transported to a shopping mall in darkest Bavaria, when you opened your eyes, aside from The Gotterdammerung music playing in The Food Court, you would have no idea where you were.  You could be anywhere from Indonesia to Eau Claire, Wisconsin.  The utter sameness of most of our planet is worthy of Groundhog Day.  Yet, when your television finally hits the wall of planned obsolescence and you have to buy a new one, you’re about to enter the undiscovered country.  You’re reduced to re-inventing the 21stcentury wheel because the brains of the operation, the remote, has changed its shape, its size, its colour and rearranged all of its buttons.  The first time you use it, you think you’ve paused Breaking Bad: the Teenage Years to go for the Orville Redenbacher’s and suddenly you’re recording a 24 hour marathon of Everybody Loves Friends, in HD, on a channel you haven’t even paid for – yet.  So, you start pushing buttons like a Rhesus monkey in a primate behavioural study.  Nineteen clicks later, you’ve selected the adult classic, Boob Chaser III, which Channel 531 casually informs you, has been “shared” with your Facebook friends.  “Thank you for choosing Pay Per View!”

And it’s no use trying to beat the system with one of those Universal control-everything-but-the-toaster jobbers.  That’s just madness.  You need an advanced degree in binary engineering from M.I.T. just to turn one of those babies on.  By the end of the first hour, you’ve screwed up the set-up so badly the instructions are now in Hebrew and the one channel available for your viewing pleasure is The Weather Network from McMurdo Station, Antarctica.  Finally — $19.95 plus tax, poorer — you give up and go back to fighting with the original villain that came in the box.

I know that, in fifteen minutes any twelve-year-old can reconfigure my system so she can run it off the microwave.  It’s not that technology is all that smart; it’s just that it’s smarter than me.  However, I don’t understand why, when all technology is basically the same, every piece of equipment is so utterly different from the last one that you need to hire Thomas Edison to figure it out.  I can’t be the only guy on this planet old enough to remember Ronald Reagan.  What’s wrong with one size fits all?

We have cars that can parallel park themselves, murderous drones that search and destroy across the wilds of Pakistan from a Wii™ system in Wiesbaden; we’re on the verge of creating nanobots that literally eat disease.  Yet, when I want to watch an old episode of Arrested Development on Netflix, I still need six (different) little boxes to do it.  If this isn’t Comedy Central, I don’t know what is!

Lies We All Live With

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Lies perform a valuable function in our society.  They keep us civilized because, without lies, fat people would be fat, stupid people would be stupid and 99% of the rest of us would be obnoxious assholes.  Everybody knows that lying works on a sliding scale from “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” to “No, I didn’t shoot Mr. Brown” and we’re content to live somewhere in the middle of that moral dichotomy.  Unfortunately, these days, lying is more about Mr. Brown than Mr. Claus, and it’s becoming institutionalized.  This isn’t healthy.  I’m not talking about politicians or journalists who have been lying to us ever since Cheops the Unwashed told the Cairo Gazette he wanted a small funeral.  I’m talking about those everyday lies we all recognize and just have to live with.  Here’s a small sampling.

Clothing size – The relationship between the number stamped on the label and the actual size of any article of clothing is purely coincidental.  For example, my closet runs from mostly medium through large, extra large and even a few XXLs – and I’m a man.  Go to a woman’s closet and you’re going to find a roulette wheel full of size numbers that would make a croupier cringe.  Actually, I think that’s how clothing manufacturers determine sizes: they just spin a big wheel and whatever it lands on – “We have a winner!” — that’s the size.

Airline prices – I don’t care what the advertisement says, nobody has ever gone to San Pedro, Switzerland, Swaziland or anywhere else for $99.  Nobody!  The 99 you see bold as gold in the ad is just the launch code.  The airlines use that to launch you and credit card into debtor’s prison.

Calorie count – These aren’t actually lies; they’re just blatant misinformation.  When the package says “100 calories per serving,” this is technically true. However, what they don’t tell you is the serving size they’re talking about is a WTF joke!  Who eats half a doughnut, for God’s sake?  I pig down two before my coffee’s even cool enough to drink!

Microwave instructions – Reading the instructions on a box of microwavable anything is like reading an email from a Nigerian prince: you know it’s a scam, but you just can’t help yourself.  Everybody knows there are actually only two settings on a microwave – overcooked and underdone — but we all try anyway.

And finally:

You can’t miss it – Yes, you can!

When Harry Met Meghan (FINAL)

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The Royal Wedding is over, but there’s still time to indulge in that fine old international tradition: Making Fun of the Royals.  This has been going on for centuries.  In Colonial America, the newspapers were full of cartoons about George III, and I can’t even print what the French had to say about Henry V!  So, since I’m beginning to think my invitation to the wedding didn’t get lost in the mail, and since this is going to be the last biggie royal wedding for a while (Prince George is only 4) here are a few catty remarks about the Royal Nuptials.  If you watched the solid walls of media coverage, you’ll recognize the participants; but if you didn’t, don’t worry: they’re all the usual suspects.

It was a beautiful spring day in Windsor, and most of the hats looked as if their sole purpose was to confuse the pigeon population.  Meanwhile, many of fascinators had obviously been designed to pick up Wi-Fi so that the various plus-ones could watch the FA Cup final during the ceremony. (FYI: Chelsea-1 — Man U-0)

Oprah Winfrey’s sack was a last-minute design by Stella McCartney and was securely cinched in the middle to prevent the heavy bits from shifting.

Sir Elton continued to break gay stereotypes by showing up in his one good outfit — again.

Whichever Williams sister it was, walked in as if she was looking for a fight.

Patrick J. Adams, Meghan Markle’s former co-star on Suits appropriately wore — a suit.

Thoughtfully, Princess Michael of Kent didn’t wear any jewelry.  (Google it!)

Victoria (Posh Spice) Beckham got confused and thought she was going to a funeral.

It’s a pretty safe bet that Pippa (Middleton) Matthews, was told to keep her scene-stealing ass in line this time.  So, rather than risk Royal censure, she came dressed as a can of Arizona Ice Tea. (You can Google this one, too.)

George and Amal Clooney spent most of the day looking utterly bewildered that nobody gave a damn whether they were there or not.

Ben Mulroney did a wonderful impression of a discount Justin Trudeau.

Harry’s ex, Cressida Bonas and Abigail Spencer (no relation to the real ones) clearly shop at the same store: Tesco.

Princess Anne went for either cultural diversity or cultural appropriation by wearing a kimono, but nobody was brave enough to call her on it.

Surprise!  Surprise!  Surprise!  Sarah Ferguson (Fergie) Duchess of York was invited, but Prince Philip made her sit in the corner.

And speaking of Prince Philip, this guy is officially the toughest old bugger in the Commonwealth!  He’s 96 years old, fresh off  hip surgery, and yet he got out of the car and marched into Windsor Chapel as if his wife owned the place.  The man is made entirely of gristle.

And finally:

That low-level whirring sound everybody heard throughout the ceremony was Edward VIII, spinning in his grave, muttering, “American divorcee, my ass!”

Disclaimer:  This is satire.  In fact, I’m actually a hopeless monarchist and I love all the trappings that go with it.  It’s the simpy/sappy media coverage I object to.