Married man seeking PBS station

I lost twenty pounds as a kid. It was at the HMV record store. I went home with two new LPs. I told my mum I had been mugged by a Scotsman. She believed me. I looked glum. I’d mistakenly bought Johnny Cash instead of the Clash.

I just got our new digital converter for the TV. I lost the three channels I had and got two new stations. None of which I want. And it all started out in Spanish. I tried to stumble through but stopped at “Saludo.”

I want public TV and can’t get it.  I deserve it. I gave them money. I’ve given them my tears, my laughter, and an aching bladder because of no commercial breaks.

But no. Nothing. Even the rabbit ears don’t procreate a picture. It’s just white fuzz like a baby rabbit with myxomatosis.

I almost pulled the black box out of the wall and booked it on a flight.

It’s disgraceful the way the box made me act. I shamed myself in front of my daughter and the neighbours.

I needed to watch a DVD when it was all over just to calm down. Something simple and sweet.

I’ll have another stab at it in a few weeks.

In the meantime, I’m succoring a David Sedaris book to comfort me.


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