Part Three! This is officially a trilogy! Lots of franchises don’t make it to this point. Think about it… The onset of rigor mortis prevented Bernie from doing his trademark floppy-armed wave, thus derailing any hopes for a Weekend at Bernie’s 3. After saving New York from a malevolent underground river of slime, there was really no way for the Ghostbusters to top a feat like that in a sequel. Also, we never got to see Boof have a litter of werewolf pups in Teen Wolf 3: Doggystyle. Even Guns ‘n Roses couldn’t muster another 18-minute monster ballad to justify a potential “Use Your Illusion III.”
So we’re in rarified air here. And this is nowhere near the final installment. My plan is to be like Tupac, and continue releasing new posts about remote controls long after I’m dead. People don’t seem to question this, so why not? I can just imagine some of the zany mishaps with remote controls I’ll encounter in the afterlife…
Anyway, in the previous segment, I implored my wife to exercise responsible use of the remote control with this simple request:
“If you’re going to watch TV, and insist on using the remote, can you please make an effort to leave the remote in a logical place?”
Seems like a reasonable request. Considering my sanity hung in the balance, you would think my wife might make an effort to honor my wishes. Instead, she devised a method that would seemingly address my concerns; yet at the same time make me painfully regret making the original request in the first place. How does she accomplish this feat? Well, after each use, she now places the remote control on top of the TV.
It took me a while to catch onto this. Nobody thinks of looking for the remote on top of the TV. Ironically, it’s almost the last place you’d look. I’d find myself spending a solid hour scavenging between couch cushions, filing police reports, and lighting prayer candles in hopes the remote would soon be safely returned before even glancing at the top of the TV. By the time I would actually locate the remote, whatever show I was hoping to watch was over and Spring Break Shark Attack II had begun.
Seriously, who puts the remote on top of the TV anyway? The whole point of having a remote is to avoid having to get off the couch and walk over to the TV in the first place. My personal definition of hell is pretty much having to rise from a seated, comfortable position when I shouldn’t have to. But what other option do I have? It’s not like I can watch TV without the remote control (another personal definition of hell). Lying on the couch, when I gaze across the room and see the remote taunting me atop the TV, I simply hang my head in defeat. At this point, you may as well prod me with a pitchfork for good measure…
Of course, I brought this on myself. I asked my wife to leave the remote control in a logical place. I didn’t clarify this any further. The word “logical” is somewhat ambiguous, and it left my wife plenty of loopholes to hang me with. It’s like one of those episodes of the Twilight Zone, where the guy is granted three wishes that all backfire horribly on him. You get the idea, where a simple wish to be “rich and famous” is granted by turning the dude into Rosie O’Donnell or a wish for “happiness” is granted with total spiritual consciousness instead of with an Xbox. And of course, these cruel and ironic twists eventually force him to use his final wish just to turn everything back to normal.
Sadly, I’m almost at that point. I think I would rather spend hours searching adjacent rooms, kitchen cupboards, linen closets, and all the other unorthodox places my wife likes to leave the remote rather than enduring the humiliating walk of shame from the couch to the TV to retrieve the remote… But the question remains, how did my wife come up with a plan so ironic? I think she may have borrowed the idea from Alanis Morrisette:
It’s like rain on your wedding day,
It’s the remote sitting on top of the TV,
It’s searching for an hour for something that is in plain sight,
And who would have thought? It’s standard…
Stay tuned for Part IV…