Our remote control died today. It was a sudden death—quick, painless, and completely unexpected. Some bodily fluid seeped out, and I irrationally accused H.E. of drowning the poor thing; though on second thought, it was probably just sweat, some by-product of the remote control’s death throes.

H.E. tried to contact the E.R., but because mankind discriminates against technology, those who specialize in remote surgery do not work on Sundays, least of all when it is also Father’s Day and regardless if they work at the office or at home, remotely.

Already we miss our beloved remote control. We can barely live without it, so important was it in our lives. We had to change our channels manually today, and we can’t access our recorded shows and the On Demand menus. What poor orphans we are that we can’t rise to life’s challenges and the remote control’s expectations of us without it.

But we must spend the day grieving and relishing our memories of our beloved, like one long moment of silence in respect for the dead. Tomorrow, after the funeral, life will continue … when the offices are finally open and we can replace the damn thing.

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