"Now you're going to get a ticket for calling GOD a goofy fuck."
- Kimmyk, June 10, 2007
You'll be happy to know Kimmyk (if that is your real name), that I have been driving summons-free since Sunday. However, the demons that infest my life have seen fit to provide me with added impetus to believe that God is both a goofy fuck and a bit of a sadist.
Just as Lenny Bruce used to tell the police, "I defend you guys all the time" before they would arrest him on some dopey public indecency charge, my vengeful God smote my TV just hours after I posted that I said He was a goofy fuck. You really know how to hit a guy where he lives, and You know better than to mess with something useless like my genitalia or my self-esteem, so You go right to the heart of my existence - my TV.
On Sunday, I decided to forgo the return-return-return trip to beautiful Bulle Rock to watch the girls play golf in lieu of watching the live coverage on The Golf Channel. A few volunteers told me that the crowds jam the course and I could see more on TV than I would at home. Since Paula Creamer was realistically not a factor for the win, I figured I would take their advice and watch on TV. That was going great until the TV stopped being a TV and started being a large black piece of furniture. No picture, no sound; or in layman's parlance, fucked.
Suzann Pettersen was putting for birdie on the 16th hole just as my TV was sinking into its own hole.
Truth be known, the TV has been acting strangely for a few months. It would turn off at random - sound but no picture - so I figured all it would take would be a gentle nudge to the powers above to render it completely useless. Now, I am the proud (i.e. indebted) owner of a 37-inch LCD TV that will soon be hooked up to digital cable, thereby completing the Satanic cycle of TV technology that ends when the world does. Of course, we all like these things to happen on our terms, but the world does not (and never will) revolve around us, so we have to adopt, adapt and improve - motto of The Round Table.
As faithful readers with good memories know, I bought the TV in direct response to my ex-wife walking out 11 years ago. It remained the one lasting remnant of my failed marriage. Now it is a heavy carpet ornament waiting for my one drunken rampage that sends it plummeting to a fitful death over the ledge of my balcony onto the grassy lawn below. I'll wait until my neighbors are away.
As for You, vengeful God, if that is your real name (sometimes disguised as golf course volunteers) I'm warning you, you goofy fuck, keep your hands off my cat.
I'll find a young priest and an old priest and fix your ass.