An open breakup letter to my TV
Dearest television,
We've had a good long run, haven't we? I remember many nights spent laughing at your antics. Occasionally you told me something that got me thinking. You've even managed to teach me a thing or two.
We've had our share of fights as well. I still remember the cold, dark winter of 2002 when we had our worst fight ever. I've still never really forgiven you for cancelling "Firefly" and "Boomtown," but to do them both in at the same time spoke volumes of your cruelty.
I have a confession to make, television: I've been talking about you behind your back. I've been telling my friends for some time now about my plan to scale you back. You cost too much and you don't really add a lot of value to my life. You've hung on this long due to some combination of patience and apathy. Tonight, however, was the last straw.
I've been that guy all weekend. You know, the guy who tries to bend all those around him to his will. You see, I trusted you with recording the SEC championship game on Saturday. I know it's longer than you're used to handling, but I felt comfortable in your abilities. I had to ask everybody in Chattanooga not to mention the score around me.
After my drive home, I settled down for a nice evening catching up on football. You teased me, that's for sure. You took me all the way to the first touchdown before you started in on your old tricks. Soon, I realized that the remainder of the recording was damaged beyond repair, cast to the winds. The worst thing, though, is that this isn't the first time you've done it. Oh, no, we've been through three of your crummy Comcast Motorola Peesacrap DVRs, and every one of them gave us the finger on the way out the same way you did. This is the very definition of an abusive relationship.
Well, no more, television. I'm making the call tomorrow and taking you down. How do the words "basic cable" sound to you, wiseguy? Oh, yeah, once you were "Silver Premium Digital" or some other code name for a hundred dollars a month of vapid agony. How's the view from the cheap seats, jerk? You'd just better hope that writer's strike works itself out soon, or you'll be staring at the inside of the armoire doors from now until the next Presidential adminstration.
I'm glad we've had this little chat.