With a low rumble the little engine died, and the garage door began to lower itself with a mechanical whine. Slowly, the young man exited his vehicle and went into the house.
He let the dogs out.
He got the mail.
He let the dogs in.
He fed the dogs.
He let the dogs out again.
He turned on the TV.
That flat world of superstar models and informercials blared to life. An old man on a stretcher reaching for a piece of pizza and being flung through the hospital enveloped the fuzzy screen.
Next channel. A man and woman going on a TV date. Next channel. A man and woman getting married on TV. Next channel. A man and woman having sex changes on TV. Next channel. A man and woman getting divorced on TV. Next five channels. Oprah.
He set down his drink, and switched the channel again. A beautiful Hawaiian beach at sunset, two people walking hand in hand in loving embrace. And then there was reality.
He walked across the room and hefted the dismal box of wires and circuits. Outside a deep fog covered the sky and an orange glare burned through malevolently.
Over his head the TV went, and with one sudden motion it sailed through the patio door.
A broken screen here.
One dog crushed by the TV.
Blood on his hands.
And all because the sun always shines on TV.
Notes: While this chapbook text is fiction, images of my own house and of my senior year in high school served as inspiration. And perhaps more so than the other texts in this section, this piece is particularly dated due to its cultural references. I recall a Little Caesar's Pizza commercial from 1992 that had an old man being wheeled through a hospital. He grabbed a piece of pizza, and the cheese on the pizza kept being stretched ... and stretched, until finally the cheese acted as a rubberband and flung the old man through the hospital.