The Television

The television has been off all morning. The kids have been involved with other childhood activities and the television seems to know it.

"After all," the television winces, "good ol' friend, friendship has its limits. Why do I sit here lonely, neglected, underpaid, and sometimes over-utilized. How could they leave me alone?"

Somehow you can sense its silent grief.

The alluring power button that though it does not have a light seems to beg to be turned on. "Please, watch me. You love me. You cannot leave me alone for so long." It seems to wale in its own above-human-ability-to-hear-high-pitched whine.

"Oh, pity me," it weeps at it is splashed with the water of the across the room water painters.

It feels like it is getting a slap when a spare ball of play dough gets thrown in its direction. It can smell the icky odor of cookies baking (because tvs only like to eat electricity--they can't adore that tantalizing aroma).

The happy hollers from the children seem to deafen the dear, television. "Why," he wonders, "would children like to play and make noise? When they watch me they sit in one place transfixed for hours on my beautiful pictures and noises. They are stunned into silence and obedience. Why can not they be like that now?"

Poor, poor television. What a sad life he has. . . . if he ever had any.