About This Post

I try to be funny, especially here on this blog. I also try to publish some pieces I think are funny, but, as I described over at my other site, I sometimes fail spectacularly. When I wrote the piece that follows, I was certain it was hilarious. I was certain the way Ralph knew his theme would convince his teacher that he, Ralph, deserved a BB gun. I don’t even think what I wrote earned a C+.

I am publishing it here with the hope you will help me. Please let me know what you liked or what might have been funnier. If you hate it or just think it is not funny, let me know that too. Either leave a comment or use the contact form.

Thanks.

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Game of Recliners

They are idiots, all of them. My family started watching “Game of Thrones” two years ago, and now they are addicted. I was not allowed to watch because, back then, I was too young. As if I hadn’t seen beheadings, petty squabbling, and gross sex before. My parents obviously have no idea what the Disney Channel uses to attract the 8-13 year old demographic.

My older brother was allowed to watch. From what I glimpsed, my brother would have fit in nicely with most of the hapless fools wandering around Westeros, if only because of his poor complexion.

During the first season, which entails clans vying for position around some dumb-old iron chair, my parents used “Game of Thrones” to improve their social position. They invited neighbors and relatives and former friends to the house to join them as they watched, as if they were the only people with HBO and DVR service.

A few dumb old-people fell for it and started hanging around every Saturday, and what had been merely embarrassing now became ridiculous and pathetic. During the opening credits, they reviewed previous episodes and speculated on what might happen next like a bunch of fifth graders in the sex education portion of biology class.

Near the end of the first season, my father hurt his back installing a new fifty-five inch television, and he was unable to sit in the recliner that sat opposite the television. It was the best place in the room to view the television. Everyone wanted to watch “Game of Thrones” from that recliner.

My brother claimed the right to sit on the recliner, which my mother encouraged and defended because he programmed all of her shows for her on the DVR. My brother basically controls the remote for both my parents, because my father doesn’t know how to scroll to the future or delete anything.

The old people are all giddy and stuff about the upcoming third season, but I hope that my father’s plan falls apart. At this point, the only thing going for him is how expensive it is to subscribe to HBO (because that’s what their dumb-old friends complain about), and that their dumb-old friends don’t know how to illegally download movies and stuff (try Google, dumb-old people, and when you find a site that offers the recording you want, click through all the gross porn ads).

I have news for my parents and their dumb-old friends: the recliner is not what matters. The remote control is the seat of power, and I know how to get it. My brother is in the habit of keeping the remote control with him at all times, but often forgets it in the bathroom after pooping. I will brave the stink and stuff one of these days, and secure the remote. Then, while people search the house for the remote, I will password protect “Game of Thrones” on HBO and set up the DVR to record every Disney show so that everything else is thrown away.

My father, dumb old-guy that he is, is about to be schooled in politics junior-high style. When Disney is the only channel to watch, he and his fake friends won’t have to wonder what will happen when the wildings arrive. The landscape will have already been buried under an avalanche of beheadings, petty squabbling, and gross sex. Winter is coming.