Hey, quick question, Hot Dog: how can you tell if someone doesn’t watch any television? Actually, it’s rather simple; for you see anyone who doesn’t watch TV will assuredly tell you right away how they don’t watch TV.
They lay in wait, like a conceited mountain lion, waiting for a moment to pounce as soon as someone mentions anything they watched on the tube. From there it’s a downhill ambush on the, now one-sided, conversation. Incredible, how suddenly a pedestrian discussion about how racist or incompetent Terry Bradshaw has become or speculation about The Office’s Jenna Fischer’s belly button depth can be instantly derailed in favor of them filibustering about how “they don’t have time for that inane chatter.”
Way to steal all the fun out of the conversation, you little fun-burglar. Hey, buddy, at least TV taught me not to interrupt until the commercial break, but you come in, on your high horse, touting your anti-television gospel. It should be noted I’m taking the liberty of assuming you’re interrupting my conversation while you are literally on the back of some unfortunate, drug-addicted equine.
However, non-sober stallion or not, I thought in the spirit of manners you shouldn’t impede my stimulating discourse about what I think Matt Lauer smells like on the air. It’s quite rude, and, to be honest, you don’t see me trying to change the subject when your going on an on about the donation you gave to the Humane Society, the charity fun run for fat-orphans with low self-esteem and Lou Gehrig’s disease you’re setting up, or how you insist on paying a carbon tax on everything you buy.
Lisa Frankly, I think carbon can pay it’s own taxes and if I’m going to help someone, besides myself, on their back taxes, the list starts and stops with Wesley Snipes. Further, I honestly think these fat orphans are the ones who could benefit from running more than you and the others who want to pat themselves on the back. Do I air these grievances? Nope, you don’t see me interrupting; I just keep keeping my mouth shut and continue to fantasize about hitting you with my car.
How incredibly fascinating you are; boy, to go through life not doing something the rest of us do. Your time must be so freed up from not watching television that you’re able to find time to read all the great philosophers, travel the world, and achieve self-actualization. You don’t see the rest of us bragging about not doing things; I wasn’t vaccinated, but you don’t see me prancing around all smug, clamoring about how great my immune system is for keeping me polio-free all these years.
Seriously, have we become so boring that we need to talk about the things that we don’t do to make conversation? I don’t tell you about how I don’t exploit children for cheap labor. I don’t tell you about how I don’t shoot up Vicodin mixed with barbecue sauce because I’ve heard great things about the smoky, smooth, yet flavorful and relaxed high it provides. I haven’t even broached the topic about how I’m not using my neighbor’s name and apartment address to commit mail fraud. Why haven’t I told you about said lack of mail fraud? Well, because it would be a lie, since I’m about six months into my personal best mail fraud caper. Sorry, humble brag!
My tribe of one has spoken and the verdict reads: we like television and we don’t like you. Don’t try to convert me; I’ve seen your side’s zealots and believe me when I say that I don’t like what they’re preaching. This adult baby likes his mouthwash mug full and his TV on during marathons of circus or funeral accidents. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s just how I am. Don’t try to tell me how green the grass is on the other side; the other side does not have a video of daughter in mourning discharging a barrage of thunderous farts during their eulogy that end up overshadowing not only their dead mom’s funeral, but their dead mom’s entire life.
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