Welcome to "There Is No Dog". This is where I uncork my ears and pour wine into your eyes.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

Tom's TV

Tom's TV

Tom jerked off for the twelfth time to the whole infomercial for College Girls Exposed and the first eighth of a Save the Children drive, although he wasn't really paying attention at that point. His nights had become increasingly sleepless ever since the power button on his TV stopped working, leaving the wretched device perpetually on 24/7. Even more disturbing, a power surge had literally melted the plastic around the outlet plug, keeping it plugged in. Most disturbing of all, he angered a Tiki God at a Hawaiian t-shirt store, which cursed Tom's circuit breaker to provide power to his TV forever. Tom would have simply ripped out some chords and moved the TV, but it was expensive and Tom feared he might hurt himself if he tried fumbling with the electrics

Tom replayed the entire saga in his head for the twelfth time: He had initially tried calling customer service, who told him in a fake American accent that his TV would never turn off again. Tom then tried inviting over his friend who builds TV sets, who told him in a thick Boston accent that once this type of situation happens, the TV, "just ain't gonna get turned off." Finally, he tried calling a mechanic, who told him in a mechanic's accent that his TV was beyond the point of repair. He then attempted to simply turn off the cable box as a temporary fix, but was transported into a dimension where those who defy the Tiki Gods are doomed to suffer for all eternity.

So there Tom was, praying to the Tiki Gods for a night of sleep while watching a man with a starving child on his knee, asking for donations for the twelfth time. Tom heard from a friend once that most of the proceeds for that sort of thing go to the church and only, like, a third actually goes to the children, but he wasn't sure how true that was and he figured a third is probably better than nothing. If anything it would allow him to stop feeling so guilty about accidentally finishing a rigorous masturbation session to a little girl with bugs crawling on her feet if he donated a little bit. But his phone was still in the pocket of his pants, which were hanging halfway out of the hamper on the other side of the room. Though Tom's mind was awake, his legs were comatose and his bladder wasn't full enough yet to snap them out of it. Tom pictured the reunion: his legs waking up in a hospital bed, his bladder sitting there crying, "I never left your side the whole two weeks!" (which was bullshit, though Tom, as bladders probably have to use the bathroom at least once, but Tom later decided the bladder was just being hyperbolic.)

If his remote wasn't lost, he would have muted the volume, but every night by 12am midnight he's too exhausted to get up and turn the volume down. He would turn the volume down to 0, instead of muting it, because the font of the word MUTE in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen annoyed him and wasn't positioned center enough between the two sides of the bottom right angle of the screen. He would have put a pillow over his head and turned to face the wall, but Tom always hated facing the wall because when he was a kid he took the expression "someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed" and took it to heart; adopting it as his mantra after developing Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. All the little superstitions and fears he developed as a child eventually wormed their way into his head in his teenage years, and now he pays a mann in an Austrian accent to tell him it's OCD every month in a sterile room with too many pictures of Reagan on the wall for Tom to take him seriously, even though that shouldn't matter as far as his professionalism is concerned. "How can I take someone like that seriously?" thought Tom as he flipped to a channel that was playing melodic symphony music (thank the heavens for PBS!) Isn't Reagan the problem? Isn't capitalism what's making him depressed?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, It's not capitalism causing his depression. It's this fucking television set that won't turn off. Actually it's an imbalance of shfjshfksjkjexes and anti-pnjsjdlksldkaxes misfiring in the polololsdsjnjsnjololian center of the brain, according to a pamphlet he once read half of. But right now, in the moment, the problem is this fucking television set. This cursed fucking television set. This inane, mind-numbing, shitty, anti-Semitic asinine jew nigger Reaganite fucking slut whore television. This asshole faggot piece of shit Lutheran highdef banana dada futurism twelve-as-a-motif tike idol kike shitty slut whore racecar palindrome Rac E. Car cunt pussy dike spic spicdike cum nigger racear slut whore bitch bastard foul womb cripple tardy-gaited witch, "who, like a foul and ugly witch doth limp so tediously away" Shakesperean nada radiogaga capitalist obsessive compulsive Tiki-loving cunt fucking television.

Tom had tried at least twelve times to write a rant about his television like the one above, but was concerned about using the N-word in it. He would have been using it facetiously, and he would certainly have included an addendum to the following paragraph explaining that, but he didn't have the strength to get up anyway. His computer was all the way across the room in his clothes hamper, hanging halfway out, in his pants from last year. That's not right. My computeristoobigformypantstofitinsideofthehamperwithmybadself.

Tom thought of about twelve good potential names for the heavy metal band he would start if he ever learned how to play the harpsichord and sing at the same time, but only three of them were actually good. Christallnacht, Dr. Hatefuck, and Thelonious Punk. The other nine aren't worth mentioning. It was at this moment that Tom realized he didn't have any arms. This was something he probably should have noticed earlier in life, because to find out at age twenty-something that you've never had arms is a lot harder than coming to terms with it as a child. Tom tried to remember how he wrote papers while he was in school, or how he signed his checks at the bank, or how and why he got hired as a typist for a law firm and how he's been working that job for the past year and a half. But Tom had more important issues to worry about: he had somehow jacked off twelve times tonight without hands.

Twelve minutes later, Tom got out of bed, turned the volume down, made a sandwich, jerked off to a soundless episode of some old sitcom with a sort of hot actress playing the requisite bitchy wife, and typed up some work so he'd have time to take a nap in his office tomorrow.

Twelve years later, Tom is doing much better. He has arms now, as well as a few books out on the subject of ancient Hawaiian mythology. His TV is still always on, but he's learned to distract himself better from it, as well as to accept it as just a part of his life. He drinks more than he should, but is in relatively good health and is in a fulfilling relationship with his new female therapist, who still charges him but via sexual favors, which he is more than willing to provide. His face is upside down and the entire bottom-half of his body might be a steam-powered miniature locomotive, but he's optimistic. He's even set to direct a feature film based on one of his books starring and actress he's having an affair with. From time to time he is pulled into an alley and beaten by five men in black suits in an unmarked van, usually biannually on August 13th and Christmas Day, but this doesn't affect his job performance or the portal to Hell in his chest that will bring about Armageddon when he dies. No: for now, Tom is okay.

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