Mr. T and the Plasma Screen
This year, instead of trading presents like normal, I turned to Mr. T one day and said, “Hey, I’ll buy you a wall mount if you buy me a flat screen TV.”
At the time, we were sitting in front of out current hulk of a projection TV that we snagged off of Craigs List for a few hundred bucks when we first moved into our house. The color on it was all jacked up and had been for six months or so. The whole top of the screen had lost the blue pigment, which is pretty important when you’re watching Tim Burton movies. The result was this sad droop of blue color across the middle of the screen where the laser doohickey thing inside was sending us a big ‘fuck you’.
So, anyway, we’re not spoiled bitches or anything, we just really needed a new TV. Plus, the living room is relatively small and that big projection thing took up half the room. It would be nice to have a set that didn’t extend so far from the wall that it was practically touching my eyeballs.
When I told Mr. T about my plan, he was, to say the least, extremely excited and wouldn’t shut up about it until the deed had been done. We ended up finding something for a ridiculous sale price at Walmart with Chinese baby fingerprints still warm on the box. It was a big flat screen that would mount to our wall like our own freakin retarded Picasso-Samsung love child.
So, big fucking deal, it’s like buying a new stove or something, right? No. Little did I know, but televisions are like the sports car of the house. While Mr. T is not the manliest of men, he has the usual manly ticks. He likes to work out, drinks beer, farts in front of grandmothers and sticks his hand down the front of his pants in the grocery store. But he’s never exhibited this particular dimension of blatant manly-ness. It was like his penis grew six inches the second the cashier handed him the receipt. Now he’s part of a new club among dudes that discusses and compares mega-pixels and screen sizes. I can just see him in his forties, salivating all over a new sports car, buffing it to the same sheen as his shiny bald head. It’s going to happen. Samsung has kindly opened my eyes to this fact.
The orgasm of running out and buying a big TV instead of exchanging presents wore off of me quick. On the big day, our kids were ripping into all sorts of goodies while I stared on with the traditional up-till-2-being-Santa look of sleep deprivation. Usually, I would have a few shiny things of my own to open to ease the pain of piercing screams erupting in my living room before sunrise. (Little T got a talking something that you slam with a hammer. That’s great sweetie. Where’s my fucking coffee?!?) So I just sat there and slowly adjusted to a mode where I could absorb the joy of the little ones. Then I grew pissed as I watched that rat bastard Santa soak up all the credit for my carefully planned purchases.
While I’m not enjoying the TV as much as Mr. T is, I am very pleased with this purchase. If he starts acting like an ass, I’m going to politely remind him that he is the proud owner of a wall mount. The TV is mine.