Waking up to Maury

Last week I picked up a remote control for my TV. It has been over a year since the 20" APEX TV I bought from Costco stopped responding to its factory remote. I had, at one point, discovered a neat little trick to make the old remote work for a few brief moments: all I had to do was throw it against the ground with some force. But one day I threw it a bit too hard and the flimsy thing fell apart. Since then, I've cut down my TV watching because my two favorite channels, Rogers Sportsnet (channel 22) and the Food Channel (channel 56), are more than 30 manual clicks away from each other. There have been days when I've wanted a replacement so I could take advantage of the free cable service I get, but I've had a hard time parting with twenty dollars for the only replacement model I can find that will work with my brand of television, a yellow SpongeBob SquarePants unit--I kid you not. But it would seem that serendipity has succeeded where determination had failed. While strolling through the local Radio Shack The Source by Circuit City last week, I happened to spot a store-branded remote with an inoffensive design for only 14 bucks. A quick scan of its compatibility list confirmed support for my TV, and I've been using it happily since then.

The reintroduction of a remote control in my life has brought a whole new world of convenience. I can now check the scores and watch the latest Iron Chef reruns in bed before I nod off. More importantly, I have regained the ability to program my TV to wake me up in the morning. Today I awoke to the pleasant cacophony of the Maury Povich show. This morning's show was based on the classic ugly duckling story and featured formerly unattractive people confronting past tormentors with their "new hotness". If you've never been nudged out of your slumber with the words "Uhh uhhhnnnn honey, you can't have none of this now! That's right, this be the new hotness!" I highly recommend you try it. I'm waiting for the "Who's your Daddy" episode, so I can wake up to Maury's solemn "You are not the father" followed by the triumphant cry of "I told you! In yo face beeyaaaaaaatch!" from the newly acquitted father-not-to-be.

All I need now is a George Foreman grill and six pieces of bacon (if you don't know what I'm talking about, talk to me or Tiff so we can introduce you to The Office).



Your Favorite Jerk