Battery Operated

Boyleing Points

You drop the TV remote on the floor and the fun only starts. Not most of the time —every time — the batteries fall out. You’re not even finished cursing when at least one of those batteries starts rolling under the couch. You curse again as you see the little bastard disappear from view.

You get down on your knees and you can’t find the thing. Or you can see it, way back there, probably just out of reach. You feel the blood pouring into your head as you reach all the way, reach even further, …Jesus, your arm might get stuck. And finally...nothing. You curse again because you can’t reach the renegade battery and the thing is practically staring back at you with a smirk. You take a breath. You didn’t get the battery but on one level you’re pleased that your arm is ok.

You’re crazy and you think maybe your arm has grown in the last 30 seconds so you’ll try one more time. You reach and reach until this time you feel an arm cramp coming on. You gotta get out there now! Go Go! Get out. Now! Cramp coming!

You’re on the floor and you roll onto your back. You look at the ceiling. You don’t want to move for a minute because you really don’t want to confirm that you’ve pulled a muscle.  You’re out of breath. You don’t want anyone walking in right now.

And it gets worse. The I-want-to-punch-that-kid Kars 4 Kids commercial comes on. You really need to change the channel or hit the mute button as soon as possible. You can’t go old-fashioned and actually walk over to the TV because you have no idea where the on/off button is, let alone the volume dial.

You get off the floor and must face the grim reality. The couch, the desk, the piece of furniture that is better left alone, must be moved. You’re afraid of what might be under there.

Dust balls that look like they might have been alive once. A piece of candy that hit the floor and rolled out of sight, three years ago. You’re afraid to find the poor meatball when somebody sneezed.

You take another look in your junk drawer hoping a spare battery pops out in the middle of allen key wrenches, scotch tape, string, paper clips, and little plastic bags with screws. But no such luck. 

You gotta do it. You need that battery; you need that remote working. Technology is supposed to make your life easier. Yeah, right. 

You move the furniture. It’s not that bad. There’s a coin, a pen, a small furry ball. And the battery. Somehow the battery got a coat of dust in the five minutes it’s been gone. You blow off the dust, slide it back into the battery slot, and triumphantly point the remote at the TV and click.

Nothing. The battery is dead.

Have a nice day.


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