Remote (Un)Controlled

So, I have realized that I have lost all control of my remote control.

I mean, I have heard about women fussing and griping about this malady from the year of one, and arrogant me, never thought that there would come the day when I would fall victim, cast among the desolate remoteless ranks.

I sat back in resignation the other day, and watched as DV stepped into my abode, made himself comfortable, and picked up my remote control and automatically changed the channel to ESPN. I mean, he did not even give it a thought. He was just an automaton with a glazed TV-viewing look in his eyes, the testosterone actively pulling his stings, as apparently, he could not have been comfortable in the vicinity of a television, and not have the remote in his hand.

Has anyone given this some form of scientific study? Is there a cure that I should attempt to find to appease the women of the world, and give them some say as to the channel rendezvous points? I know that there is a bag of money to be made should a cure be discovered.

In attempting to garner some control of my control, I have tried reason: “Why don’t you find something that we both can watch?” Painfully guising my impatience, and clenched teeth.

I have tried cajoling: “Pllleeeaaasee! I was watching that!” Painfully gnashing my clenched teeth.

I have tried the feminine wiles: “You don’t wanna watch this ol’ thing, now do you, Pumpkin?” Struttin’ and sauntering in front of the TV, deceptive alluring smile guising clenched teeth and fists.

I have tried tactless fact: “Star, this is my TV!” Parting my lips and emitting intimidating growls, displaying my clenched teeth, getting even more incensed at his raucous dismissive laughter.

I have tried violence: “Gimme the flicking thing or I goin’ t’ump you!” Then, would unclench my teeth and fists, jump on him, and start to t’ump him and bite him; getting even more irate as he snickers and holds the remote above his head, well out of my reach.

I have tried theft. But, learned the hard way that when I stole the remote and ran out of the room crowing with victory, that I needed to be in the room for it to work. Eventually, I would have to go back in and face the music. Crap.

And of course, I would mix and match: cajoling and violence; feminine wiles, reason, cajoling and violence; violence in isolation; tactless fact and violence, etc.

Now, I just give up and pray that he falls asleep so that I can change the channel, but, as fate would have it, I am always the first to sleep. I just accredit this to the fact that ESPN bores me to death. I have sat through football season, and prayed for the end of the torture with the Super bowl. Then, I had to suffer through basketball season, where I learned about well placed screens, and flagrant fouls. Go Celtics.

Now, it scares me that throughout all of my suffering and newfound resignation that I would never again sit and watch a program of my choice, somehow, something has been sinking in. Crap. I am being programmed subliminally.

His revolution is indeed televised. Dyam remote hog!

On that note, I shall now exit.

Ta ta...

'Fro

Naughy Nefarious Nemesis!

So, whilst catching up on my very outdated blog reading last night, I took my usual jaunt over to the page of my arch nemesis, the evil villain and obnoxious spammer, Trouble (Insert evil theme song here), prepared to read with a sneer of the upper lip, and to render some insightful and thought provoking comments to his posts.

Whilst there, I encountered the following ditty, composed by the man himself:

Ode to da Fro

Outspoken soul-sista
you had me at “Hell no!”
ranting raving misbehaving
I wax inquisitive,and need to know.
Are you au natural?
A ’60’s kinky curly girl,
Cicely or Pam Grier.
Hendrixonian heteroclite…
Heckler in hedonistic herecy,
with Oxy-cleaning action
you brillo-pad the world,
scrubbing crusty bullshit,
until freshly sparkling,
appears the truth.
Dark and sultry sage,
you are Yin to my Yang…
Not to mention how,
you augment my wang.
Anomalous Momos,
Where were you when
I was making the mistakes of youth.
In my penchant for noodging pixies,
and beer swilling sensualists,
I would have ‘picked’ you Fro.

“’Picked’ you Fro”…Lawd mi’ gut!! Get it!!! "Pick"???

As I continued to guffaw, tittering and wheezing, I automatically started to compose my poetic retaliation to his arrogant assumptions and presumptions (sneer of the upper lip continues), then realised that such an action could possibly ignite a turf war the likes of which Biggie/Tupac, Paris/Lindsay had never seen. Therefore, for the sake of peace and tranquility in Blogland, I stood down. Hmprh. {Flashing my gang symbol here}. All innocent by-standers, saved by my sacrifice, you may convey your thanks.

Leon, not offended at all. Here is an episode where I can use the metaphoric brillo pad to scrub the crusty and entertaining poetic bullshit, the likes of which can only be coined by such a Trouble-maker. Can you imagine if he was inclined to use his nefarious powers for good???

For those of who are more inclined to prose, and are of a non-poetic bent, check out the hilarious Cliff-Note break down of the Ode here.

On that note, I shall now exit. Sonny has returned home for the Easter hols, and it has been at least fifteen minutes since I harassed him. I need to make up for lost time.

Toodles…

Amphibious Encounter

So, I restin’ up good, good from my Friday Night trauma, elevating my still swollen knee, when I feel piece’a coldness on mi elbow. When mi look, mi and a frog eye mek four!!! Lawd’a’mercy, he stare me right in the eye, with that piece’a ting on he neck expanding and contracting as if he saying hello!!!

Lawd, mi throat still hurtin’ from the screech, an’ mek me tell ya, if he wha’ my prince, I sure as hell hope that he put me on he life insurance, cuz I can tell ya, we were just not meant to be!

That mo’fcuker is dead! D-E-A-D !! I upped and killed he dead, dead, dead!!!

In a fit o' vexation after the screech, I grabbed a shoe and squished he rass! ! Guts and entrails splat all over the floor. When I done wid dat, I grabbed the bleach and pour it ovah he carcass, jus' to mek sure! Only a likkle bit o’ bleach was left, so I had to use Tilex an' Sno Bol to mek up the difference!

Hmprh. If you goin’ do a killin’ mek sure you do it right. Not like dem horror movie thrillers, whey deh give the villain one wack, and den run screaming into the sunset, or run to hug and kiss. Idjits!!

When you smash a perpetrator, deliver a final run through, jus’ to mek sure! Shoot an extra bullet ; give an extra stab ! Den, poke ‘em in the eyeball to see if deh flinch!! There will not be a sequel for this som'bytch!!

Screw that chain of life / food chain bullshiit!! I say kill ‘em all!!!

I mindin’ my business and he have the audacity to place his slimy, cold, wart ridden, nasty self on me???? The unmitigated gall!!! The nerve!!! Death to ‘im and he kind!!! This means war with all those of the amphibious and reptilian families, who I know are all related to this mo’fcker!! I goin’ fix unnu! Armed with my bleach and ten foot radius squirt gun, I goin’ reign death and destruction on all a’ unnu! This is the final solution!

Den, I tell mi brudda ‘bout mi trauma, and Mr.Man have the nerve to laugh at me! He lucky that I'm a dainty, delicate, and sensitive creature, otherwise, I would’a use the same shoe and squish he rass too, and tell him two words when a'done ! Hmprh! I fix him, though!!! He had to get rid of the body! I know that he did look squeamish when he was scraping up the guts and gore! Dah wha’ he get! I would'a move before I touched that crap! I killin' 'em, but I ain't cleanin' up. Froggiecide! Lizardcide! (No Snakicide, cuz I jus’ not messin wid dem. I goin’ delegate that task!) Death to them all!!!!

Had to tek a bath an' bleach and scrub mi arm where the rat bastard did lan’.

On that note, I shall now exit. I feel like scrubbin' again. Rat Bastard!

Out.

Afro.