Normally I don’t watch much television. Only three of us live here. Saint Mary, Joe The Dog and me. In these days of governmentally forced imprisonment, someone likes to leave the TV on as “background” and it’s not the dog.
As a consequence, I’m exposed to a virus on the outside and indoor media manipulation when I walk through the living room or kitchen. I’ve stayed inside too long because I’m beginning to feel as though death rays are being emitted from that talking box. In a way, it’s true.
There are more commercials than in previous decades. I haven’t set a stopwatch to it yet, but I believe the actual air time of any program, including the news, now consists of more commercials than the actual broadcast they promised me. I suppose I could get one of those Tivo things and avoid commercials. But why should I have to lay out the investment when I didn’t invite them in? If the Fuller Brush Man knocked on my door and asked me to let him show me all his brushes, I’d say “No, thank you” and shut the door. Why do zillions of us passively allow this home invasion by death rays?
You may now realize that commercials annoy me no end. Not because they’re trying to sell me something, but because they didn’t ask to come in and they entered with deception. At least the brush salesman would have told me what he’s up to, out there at my front door. In these times of misguided lockdowns, every commercial I see or hear tells me, in one way or another, that we’re all in this together. We’re not. Saint Mary, Joe The Dog and I are in this together. Ford Motor Company has never set foot in this house. Neither has Viacom, which airs the most commercial minutes per hour, according to the folks who analyze that sort of thing. Why do they speak of “we,” as though we are intimate friends? I would think if we’re that close, they’d at least offer me a stock option. That would set the stage for a much friendlier relationship.
Today, every commercial assures me that, during this terrible crisis, their company is here to help me. That’s shameless. They want me to help them. And they’re not here, they’re there. All I want is for them to fess up and admit it. If they were here, as they claim to be, we could have a conversation based on honesty, like with the Fuller Brush Guy. But they’re not, so my solution is to hold up a foil turkey roasting pan to avoid the death rays while I’m in the kitchen.
The smartest thing most of us could do is turn off the television and read a book.
This odd national scare we’ve had will pass. I suspect most of us will feel foolish about it before too much time goes by. We are in this together, you and me. I’m not selling anything other than ideas. If you’re as old as me, stay safe. If you’re young and healthy, stop worrying and enjoy your life. I realize you have no idea who the Fuller Brush Man is, but take care around older people and help to protect us. Our later years may be valuable to you. And we’re honestly here to help.