Why is it called a remote control? It's always right there in my hand. It's my third hand. We're caressing cousins. Lovers. It whispers different channels softly into my ear. "Paul, come closer. There's an olive oil special on the Food Channel right now." It can't get any closer to my body unless I eat it, which I almost did once, mistaking it for my 12-inch Subway sandwich on pumpernickel and covered in M&Ms. My usual, unusual lunch.
I tried having my appendix removed and replaced with the remote. Didn't take. My body rejected it, plus my stomach crunches kept changing the channel.
For me, the remote is a modern day rosary. I caress its colourful buttons like Jesus beads. I pray with it. Dear Jesus, please bring out the next Stranger Things episode.
Sometimes, when my wife is mad at me, I pretend I can change her channel with the remote. "No honey, we're watching a comedy now. I'll be the laugh track. The slasher movie ended hours ago."
It only becomes a remote control when my wife pries it from my cold, dead hand to watch Grace and Frankie. I run out of the house to avoid that show, and become a remote husband.
