Not until we carted the sucker home, unboxed it, steadied it on top of an extraordinarily hard-to-put-together TV stand ("Aiiieeeeee, I broke my finger!") did we realize the model was a "Smart TV."
How smart is it? Well, it's tons smarter than me. I can't even figure out how to turn the volume up. Sure, the instruction manual helpfully takes me through the steps of MacGuyvering a bomb made out of oatmeal and paper clips, but try finding any advice on how to turn the damn sound up!
The enclosed manual was no use. Tastefully done in nothing but simple, verbiage-free illustrations (probably to cut down on having to print four languages), I couldn't make heads or tails out of the drawings. Cavemen hieroglyphics. The picture of the two men on the floor next to each other, legs up bicycling, still has me mystified.
Occasionally, a robotic voice blurts, "For volume control, please see online manual." Course I can't figure out how to access the mysterious online manual. And if it's just pictures again, why bother?
It makes no sense whatsoever. At random times, the annoying robot voice hollers out things like, "I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that."
Think you have the answer? Fine. Go confer with my smarty-pants TV. Go on! I'll wait right here...
See what I mean? Stupid TV's smarter than me.
The characters in my new book, Peculiar County, are smarter than me, too. They never waste time watching TV.
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