As you know, I recently went through a period of abstaining from my habitual consumption of hours upon hours of fine TV viewing per night. It was a difficult adjustment that involved a lot of reading of books, gnashing of teeth, and contemplation of jumping out windows. But then I realized we only live on the second floor, and if I broke my ankle and was put on bed rest without having access to any Sheriff John Burnell TV entertainment, I’d really lose my mind.
So, being the Craig to my Kim that my beloved husband always is, he called up Direct TV and reinstated our service. His agreement to do so was predicated upon my solemn swear to limit what I watched and to try to keep it to Nova programming only.
As you can imagine it didn’t take long for him to get annoyed by the high pitched sounds of Sheriff John Burnell’s squad car and feral raccoon attack shrieks. As I laughed and laughed like I had the extra chromosome, and the sirens and screams blared into his office, Brian picked up the phone, and in a sad, sad moment for the already-dwindling audience numbers of obscure police chase and animal attack shows, he cancelled our service yet again.
At first I was sad. Not nearly as sad as when the mama raccoon failed to get a tasty bite of flesh off the frantically running legs of the exterminator on Animal Exterminators, but my sadness level was pretty damn close.
Then, just when I thought my husband could wrong me no more, I walked out into the living room last night to behold a scene straight out of a meth lab bust on Cops. Only instead of meth lab-making paraphernalia, there was a veritable explosion of computer parts, wires, and technical garb, the likes of which would have given Bill Nye an orgasm. And there sat Brian in the middle of it all. Smiling up at me and covered in the detritus of his latest science experiment.
I ducked under wires, tripped over motherboards, and stared in wonderment at the suction cupped antennas attached to our walls, ceiling, and windows, and then, after taking pictures of this fine disaster, asked Brian what the heck he was doing now.
He grinned with pride, set down one of the three keyboards in his lap, and informed me that he was getting his fair bride TV…for free! My hero!
It doesn’t work yet, unless of course it’s supposed to be snowing inside Jerry Seinfeld’s apartment, but the sound quality is excellent. I enjoyed listening to Jerry and Elaine bicker for about half an hour, then in a twist of fate so divine, I realized I’d rather be reading a book. I only wish my beloved Burnell would publish a tome about the dangers of driving while showing off.
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You could always get a subscription to TV Guide.