YES, MASTER

There is something so futile, so sad about living your life this way. Spending countless Friday nights alone with the TV. Ah, television. The drug of a nation; the center of the known universe. The Cathode Ray Nipple. The Nipple is good, the Nipple is wise and the Nipple is giving. The Nipple is my friend. It can be yours, too. My benevolent TV is jam-packed full of flashing HOT and loud NOW theater for the masses. I burn incense for It on the back of my remote control while chanting from TV Guide. I am supposed to be praying for guidance. When I feel I am ready, I turn It on. The lights in my Martian-assigned apartment flicker briefly, and the room is bathed in a soft-blue light. My TV enunciates to me in a perfectly calm and mature female voice. "Buy this. Be like this. Own this product. Use this cleanser. Drink this beer. Shove this up your ass today. Shove this one up your ass tomorrow. Eat this and drink that. You will become sick and dead if you don’t put these shoes on your miserable goddamned feet this very instant. Everyone knows you are a nobody. Look at the Beautiful People on your screen. See how much fun they are having? That’s not make believe, that’s real. The Beautiful Ones have it all. You are a loser, unless you look like this and eat this stupid fucking candy bar. You are a poor, misguided little bastard, but a better person for having activated your television unit. Welcome back to the fold. We missed you. We are your only friends. Don’t leave us again." We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming. I’m smokin joe blow saying, "Kill Your Television."