The couch potato lost his remote and yelled out to his estranged wife in the kitchen “What is the meaning of Life?”
He had had a wonderful life through some torrid times. His life was equivalent of a Shakespearean comic-tragedy – if there was one. He had survived the harsh extremities of the life span of his batteries.
And so it began: an arduous journey through a painstakingly, fingers-to-the-bone work out of the biped’s second digit of his right hand. A click followed a zap, and like a creation conversely and contradictory to his life’s governing principle – say like the laws of physics – his dreams flashed before his eyes. The envisioned dream was at his finger tips, momentarily, like a condemnatory King Nothing, executing orders and like a lawful, civilized and well-governed society, his wishes brought him success and rewards. He was content. But content he was only by the will of God alias the cable guy who could only grant him so-many channels to choose from depending on the prayers, payable in dollars and cents, he offered.
A punch of calories kept him sustained. The resultant body fat was good for the winter and for his health benefits. He had served his biological purpose with two kids lost in the vicinity of his vacant backyard. He could not figure out where he was heading. His subjects, the infrared diodes, exercised sycophancy to monotony. He could pray a bit more but he would lose his fat.
He looked up to the dear devil which had always been there for him. El Diablo, as he playfully preferred, had been in the nook and cranny of all his deepest thoughts. In times of despair he had provided the devil his workshop, and in return increased the productivity levels of adiposity.
The first rays from the magic box beamed tranquility. Our obese, father-of-two, soon-to-be divorced protagonist relaxes on the groove, that he had carefully articulated with the paintbrush that was his behind, on the couch. This is what his kingdom looks like…
Tranquil lounge music leads us to a young dashing gun with a pair of aviator sun glasses starts his life as a Park Ranger on the Rocky Mountains keeping out anti-socials and preserving wildlife. Here, he is one with nature, at peace most of the times. His heart beat is at a pleasant 72bpm ensuing a pulse racing dare-devil camaraderie when duty beckoned. He clawed as far as the mountain clawed – from the United States to Canada. Political boundaries made little sense to him unless the border (read: guns) dictated terms.
All was well till a rabid Grizzly Bear was out for Cheerios, deciding it could do without the morning newspaper and milk and decided that breakfast would be adequate with Mr. Ranger’s tenderized yet muscular limb somewhere near Mount Timpanogos.
It was an irony worth a thousand words. A semi-bleeding torso with a missing member flowing blood was reminiscent of a serene stream bringing life to its embankments or in this case some maggots and flies. His pain and cries of help echoed across the tranquil scenic beauty. His voluble and articulate decibels were at times downed by the local fauna. A colorful and vibrant chirping bird was oblivious to his endeavor. The only empathy was the unsuccessful mating calls of the moose which probably was on the next menu for the great Grizzly, maybe for lunch, the main course with a bit of garnish on the inside; Bon Apetit.
A short wobbly intro tells us that he bled a bit but survived. There was always prosthetics he pondered, as did the fetishist Marilyn Manson. His optimism was that of the people of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945-“さとる、あの雲はシルバー･ライニングがつけてるみたいです …” (Satoru, it seems as though there's a silver lining attached to that mushroom cloud...). A lot of flashing images and a few bouts of epilepsy later constituted a deeper meaning of his journey. He had to listen to the sounds, he could ignore the visuals. A simple case of elimination and he swayed some more. A trigger of neurons and some chemicals calmed him just as the serene beauty of the tranquil meadow that was near Mount Timpanogos. Of course, the stimulus was different at his dichotomy of his life thus far. These were, however, not two extremes. Well at least not his MTV. They were two different sensations. Music was secondary and taken for granted. Musical chords he may not understand but the beats were embedded in his thoughts like a 1930’s typewriter, stern, rigid and assertive. He could see himself playing his guitar in the air like the swaying hands of a morning raga. Entwined wires on the back stage from heavy duty speakers, like serpentines from the head of Medusa (or Marshall), embodied his devil ridden psychedelic quest. The reflex that was endowed on him to throw the remote on his TV, right when Richard Marx made a tear-jerking romantic proposal, was held back by the fact that the proximity to his remote was his only savior. Music, he liked it or not, had always been his companion. If only he had his iPod so he could lambaste John Denver's Rocky Mountain High to soothe the savage beast.
But nothing can take away the tranquility of his cross border terrorism [screeeeech!!!] or was it Transcendentalism, he forgets. Then there was Ice-Hockey. Yes, who needs the new age Manson when all the action in the world was available within the confines of the rink? Grrrr….Hell, he could use his prosthetic to smash the goaltender’s teeth. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t have John Denver by his side. Or he could be in a cocoon of a cockpit driving around in a circle at a quadrillion miles per hour and extract the same joy that a four year old experiences on one of those dizzying merry-go–rounds at the local fair. Or maybe he could try and match the enduring energy, vigor and lively levels of Golf. Or maybe a few more diodes can expand his periphery. This was not Rome and there was no Colosseum, just some big brands speeding and expanding across the screen dreadfully prompt and an enthusiastic yet a low bass voice commands you to “Drink that cola, smoke that cigarette, Mr. Grizzly here’s your Cheerios…” There were hours of legalized lunacy. But that’s OK; his lawyer is in the Caribbean.
Since his dissection of the theory of avoiding the newspaper in the morning, he considers an abortion. It’s a new world and men can have babies, stamped and approved by the special seal of the United States of America. He is now with Oprah a.k.a. I-have-a-boring-life-so-I’ll-pick-my-neighbours-nose-and-televise-it (come to think of it, so does the US Government). The daily weather announces and proves that it would be easier to win the million dollar lottery. “Bright and sunny sky with signs of nimbus…” He looked outside the window and wondered whom he should pay to shovel his driveway. George the Second makes another candid appearance and gives hope to millions of his fellow countrymen. You can be President even though you might be a grammatically incomprehensible nincompoop. And there’s a lot more where that came from. He has taken the Freedom of Speech to a new level, a level that should have a bullet torn across the tumor that is his brain.
The electricity then says “you didn’t pay the bill”, and our man who starts from the Rocky’s to I-have-a-big-nose-Oprah and George-God-Save-Us, concludes that his channel is off air. He yells out to his estranged wife in the kitchen “What is the meaning of Life?” chokes on a potato chip and dies.
The Mr. Potato man,was born, destined to die. So, it didn't make a difference what he did in between or how many channels he surfed on the idiot box. All that matters, or rather should matter, is the Alpha and the Omega. But the Alpha sunrise begins from someones Omega sunset. So all hope of your existence would be lost, unless you are one Adolf Hitler. Ravaging Europe perhaps with an extended arm and a miniscule moustache.
So YOU may have found your remote and switched to a third channel. I think it’s a bit late and you should be off to bed. You may die in a few hours time or maybe in a few decades. You do not exist for me, so turn the page…
Static.
…cut to commercial…
P.s. Adolf Hitler was a bad, bad man. He killed millions.
