A Chance Encounter

Open Letter to my DVD Player

Dear Panasonic MT-500X432WQ

You and I have had some good times together. Remember that time I was sick for a week and you played the first five seasons of LOST for me? That was a great time. Remember all the pornography? Remember that time where I ate half a bag of mushrooms and I played the “Yo Gabba Gabba” DVD 342 times consecutively? Or that other time when I watched "The Notebook" and cried like a 10 year old girl with a skinned knee and you didn't laugh at me? Good times, right?

I’m writing this because I care, but you have to know that I’ve reached the end of the line with you. When I hit the “Menu” button on my remote, I want to see the menu. Expeditiously; with no delay and immediately. I do not want to be told “You cannot do that at this time.” Ever. One time you just put up the little “not” symbol with the red circle and the diagonal line running through it. Not cool, man. Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do with my own movies and TV shows. If I want to see the menu, or skip a chapter, or whatever the hell else I want to do, then you do it when I say so. You work for me, don’t forget that. I brought you into this house and I can send you out of this house just as quickly.

You and I both know that there is no earthly reason why the menu can’t be shown while the DVD is currently vomiting its way through a preview for Alvin and the Chipmunks 2: The squeakuel. I mean, are you serious right now? Having you tell me that I “cannot do that at this time” is infuriating to the point of madness. I don’t want to see a trailer for “It’s Complicated” starring “two actors going through the motions for an enormous paycheck.” If only someone had told them “you cannot do this at this time” when they were reading the script for that shitpile. Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked.

I might even let it slide if you provided a good reason for your insolence:

“You cannot do that at this time because I’m constipated and I don’t want to.”

“You cannot do that at this time because the electricity just ain’t flowin like it used to.”

“You cannot do that at this time because I’m hungover.”

“You cannot do that at this time because you hurt my feelings that one time where you yelled at me.”

“You cannot do that at this time because one time you paused me for 3 hours while you banged that chick from the Quick Check and I got really tired and hot from all the extra spinning and stuff.”

Here is the bottom line: respond to my commands promptly when they are issued, and you and I will be cool again. Start playing games with all your little messages and “not” signs, and you and I will have a major problem, friend. Don’t test me.

Signed,
The person who bought you and gave you life

50 percent of marriages end in Jelly Beans

I know we all have read and heard the famous statistic that is thrown around often by people afraid to get married or recently divorced people, or angry people, or constipated people, or people who just comically fell on a cactus and make a bug-eyed cartoon face and say ‘Yowwwwwww’.

“You know, fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce! So, I don’t know why anyone does it. I mean, really. Fifty percent. That’s like half. Of all marriages. 50 percent!”

I know, we get it. What I don’t understand is, nobody ever talks about the other fifty percent. The winners. The ones who made it, baby. The ones who got it all figured out.

The ones who eat a rainbow from both sides and meet in the middle with a playfully shy kiss like Lady and the Tramp with a spaghetti noodle.

The ones who have sex ten times a week. “Wait a minute, there are only seven days in a week!” says the doubting Thomas. “Exactly”, says the oversexed husband, with a wink.

The ones who hug each other so tight that they merge into each other and become "Super-Spouse 2000” who can shoot pre-nuptial agreements from 2000 yards away with their laser eyesight and stomp out adultery with their iron robot boots.

The ones who high five each other each morning, and violently make love each night, followed by yet another high five (with their hands).

The ones who are constantly captured in photographs with their mouths open and eyes squeezed shut in hysterical laughter while pointing their faces heavenward.

The ones whose Facebook statuses always say “Just got back from two weeks in Cabo with the Hubby (Wifey). We laughed literally every minute of every day. The weather was great! Sex was better! LOL! Heard it snowed here in Jersey! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL! LOL!”

The ones who feed each other dinner across the table while out at a restaurant and then “accidently” smear some gravy on their partner’s nose and then laugh about it for 35 minutes afterwards.

The ones who have not only done and seen everything you have, but have done and seen it more times and in better ways with nicer weather and better clothes on (while having sex for the third time that day).

The ones who love each other so hard and so much that if they hold hands and get a five step running start, can actually leave the earth in flight for much of the day. They will come back to earth in time to have sex (don’t worry your pretty little head about that *wink*).

The last time someone started talking about marriage and relationships and divorce, the inevitable global statistic reared its ugly head, as usual. Before the person could go off on a rant about the hopelessness of marriage and the utter void that envelops you as soon as you walk away from the altar, I immediately screamed in their face:

“50 percent of marriages end in Jelly Beans! JELLY BEANS! So you would be stupid not to get married to someone. STUPID! JELLY BEANS!”

I don’t get invited to parties.