Birthday Blowup

So, for my DOB, my wife decided to buy me an all-in-one remote.  In theory, this was a good idea.  But “in theory”, Dorf was funny, but you’re never going to get as much yucks out of him as you wood seeing a real dwarf wear buttless chaps and a sombrero.  This remote has more buttons to push than an overworked, and potentially postal, Texas Instruments engineer.  It has this LCD screen at the top that occasionally lights up.  It seems to flash “Dumbass” when I touch any button.  Pushing the “channel” button in either direction does not change the channel.  It only changes my wife’s mood from tolerant to serial killer.  She seemed to suggest that I was Retard Two D Two for thinking the channel button would actually change the channel.  She yelled at me that I should not “just start pushing buttons” without asking her first - remember this is “my” gift.  She reminded me that I was not present when the remote was explained.  I failed to ask her if you received 3 or 4 credit hours for sitting through that tutorial.  Then she got all “woe is her”, and proclaimed her sadness for buying me something I did not like that ruined my birthday.

Seriously, all of this just went down within the last twenty-four hours.  Anyone who knows me knows that I’m too much of a wuss when it comes to my wife.  Not that she wears the pants in the family, because a lot of guys wear coolats.  I was going to tell her that no guy on earth would ask for, want, or be happy with a remote for his birthday, because it simply eliminated the need for other remotes.  With all the shit going on in my life, do you think I ponder either the existence, functionality, or need for any piece of lazy facilitating electronic device?  Hell, I’d keep a bucket of rocks at the side of the couch if my arm was accurate enough to hit the channel buttons on the cable box; and I wouldn’t think another minute about whether or not I had too many rocks, or if I could reduce the number of rocks in my bucket if I used a more springy, spongy rock that would rebound back to me - eliminating the need for any other geological channel changers.  I would rather have 10 Jitterbug style remotes with buttons larger than the square root of big than I would have 1 remote too uppity and deceptive as too cause a blimp in the marital radar.  Why not just get me a pair of scrubs with “Dr. Dumbass, M.D. General Surgery” on them and be done with it? By the way, I actually bought my wife some of those for her birthday (with her real name), and they’ve been worn less than a blow up doll still in the box.

Well, I finally got that off my thoracic without her knowing.  I’ll feel better, until she hears about it.  I don’t have to worry about her reading this, because she pays less attention to my musings than old people do traffic control devices and speed limits.  The truth will never set you free.  It will only cause arguments, detention, imprisonment, and embarrassment when a member of the opposite sex gets up and takes off running like they heard the staring gun at an Olympic qualifier.  I’m done.  The dog is licking herself so loudly the neighbors are starting to wonder if Ellen Degeneres brought Wanda Sykes over for some of my wife’s famed flambé.  So, with that being implied, I’ll go out with one final thought/observation/question: Does being Diabetic mean you read L.Ron Hubbard’s first book and buy into Scientology?  Love, peace, chicken grease - and don’t tell my wife, please.