Readers check in… but they don’t check out.
Okay, I need to hire somebody. I’m having some issues around the old house.
Oh, it’s not to clean the place up, though we could use that, too. And it’s not to balance our checkbook, no matter how much we need financial help. Hell, it’s not even to do work on our hundred-year-old house, certain pieces of which are in varying stages of falling-downness. No, all of these are minor problems that I’m sure we’ll eventually work out without requiring the assistance of an outside party. But there is one dilemma that’s just not going away, and I think we may need some professional help.
I need someone to come over and watch TV for me.
Yes, that’s right — television. As many of you may remember, my wife and I are the proud parents of a TiVo unit. She hasn’t really gotten the hang of it yet — she still tapes the same two exercise shows over and over, letting them copy over themselves in a seemingly endless circle without ever watching them. Clearly, she needs a bit of practice with this whole TV-at-your-fingertips thing.
But I’ve done a bit better. I’ve got maybe ten shows that I ask the machine to tape just about whenever they’re on — the Simpsons, Futurama, Family Guy, the Powerpuff Girls (that’s right, the Powerpuff Girls; if you don’t like it, you can suck my ass; I’m comfortable with my manly manliness), South Park, Coupling, and a few standup showcase series on Comedy Central. Actually, quite a bit of stuff. Add to that the occassional movie or special event that I want to see, and you’re looking at four hours or so a day being taped. Maybe more.
And therein lies the problem, you see. I’m not looking at four hours of television a day. Or even the ninety minutes or so it would take to watch it while whizzing past the commercials. And so, the shit starts to pile up. And up, and up, and up. And the thing can only hold thirty-five hours or so of material before it has to start chucking stuff to make room for the new shit. Which is not what I want. I taped that crap for a reason, and the shit ought to be watched before it gets recorded over like last week’s Red Sox game or some lame-ass Roseanne rerun.
That’s where my new hire comes in. I’ve decided that I don’t have to be the one watching this stuff, just so long as someone views it before it’s shit-canned by the TiVo engine. At least then the effort I made in getting the shit recorded in the first place won’t have gone to waste. Somebody will get their entertainment value out of my excellent taste in TV shows; never mind that it’s not actually me all the time. I’m willing to share the love. I’m cool like that.
So, I’m in the market for a couch monkey. Someone who can come over and sit in our living room for two or three hours a day, and watch the shit that I’m not going to get to. Ideally, the person would take notes on the shows, maybe even report on the highlights, but I’ll be happy just to know that someone watched the good shit that I recorded before it got whisked away back to the ether from whence it came. Honestly, the hilarity that’s sitting there now for a couple of days and then expiring is just appalling. I’m sickened. Really. Bleh. See? Bleh. Sickened.
So please, folks, if you know anyone who can do the job, let me know, all right? Things are already critical, and we’re leaving town for the weekend. Things may get taped and copied over that I don’t even know about. Oh, the humanity of it all! I may swoon, or whatever the manly equivalent would be.
(Belch, or something, I don’t really know. I was never all that close to swooning before, so I’m not really sure what the alternatives are.)
Hell, maybe you can do the job. Really, there aren’t many requirements, and you seem like a smart enough cookie. Look, all you gotta do is come by, check out the list of recorded shit, and watch five or six of the oldest shows. That’s it. You can even make yourself a sandwich if you want.
(Just don’t touch the beer, man. We’re not that close.)
I mean, really, how hard can it be, right? It’s the easiest job ever. A monkey could do it.
(Well, this monkey could certainly do it… but she’s too talented to ask her to do this. Besides, the commute to Boston and back might be a wee much for her.)
Anyway, if you’re interested, leave a comment to tell me why you should be my new couch monkey. Maybe I’ll get several responses, and we’ll set up a rotating system or something. You can even come over now to practice if you want — the spare key is underneath that ugly-ass plastic frog thing by the porch. Just let yourself in and give it a whirl. But remember what I said — the beer is mine. You’re gonna have to do a lot more for me than babysit my TiVo if you want to get your grubby hands on those puppies. I don’t put out for all the hired help, you know. You’ve got to earn the good shit, baby.Permalink | No Comments