Wasting Time

"What a waste of time," I say to the television as I am gathering my keys, sunglasses, gym towel, and wallet, on my way out the door to go to the gym to excercise, after which I will take the car to have the oil changed, after which I will pick up the dry cleaning and pick up take out food for dinner tonight. Presumably a somewhat productive day. "I can't believe anyone could actually watch this crap." This particular crap being the Surreal Life on VH1, another inane reality show in which C and D list celebrities agree to live in the same house together, all the while making asses out of themselves and trying to make asses out of the other participants, to the delight of an insatiable viewing public. I'm not buying it though. I'm not the arrogant sort, but I am definitely above this nonsense. I can't see squandering thirty minutes of my life in front of the boob tube digesting this brain-wasting material. Not me. No way. As I gather my effects, which are scattered about the house, keys on the bar, glasses on the desk, wallet on the coffee table, etc., an evil and insidious transmogrification is taking place. I am surreptitiously seduced into the saga of these ass clowns on the tube. I find myself drifting, floating towards the sofa. Oh no! Oh shit! Oh God!! Got...to...get.......car keys.......got to...get....the...........fuck...........outta'.............. It's too late!!!! I'm trapped like a fly in a spider web! And oh what a tangled web it is. My ass is hermetically sealed to the couch, my eyes glued to the TV zombie-style, and a very palpable sensation of atrophy pervades my cranium. I'm done! Toast! Fried! All oatmeal above the eyebrows. I've somehow involuntarily relinquished my free will to the pagan gods.....
Fast forward 2.5 hours......Honey, could you bring me another beer and my checkbook? Pizza guy's here.