THE DEVIL IN MY HOME

Call me a weirdo. Call me an alien. Call me a fuckin’ hipster. An elitist. I am counting the days for my cable TV to be terminated; I am looking forward to the moment when I can dump that devil’s equipment, the receiver and the remote, off and cleanse my home of their awful influence.

I’ve always hated TV. My father would have the TV on as loud as humanly possible from the moment he stepped foot inside the house, until the moment he went to bed. So my evenings at my pre-marital home were always poisoned by the loud blare of I.R.I.B. Once I married, I was able to enjoy quiet TV-free evenings for exactly one year. Then, Iran made its way into the World Cup and it was deemed impossible not to have a TV in your house. My in-laws, appalled at my barbaric cruelty, bought one for their son us and installed it when I was out. I had left in the morning a quiet home. I returned in the afternoon to a high-pitched yammer.

Fast-forward to Halifax. The ridiculous high cable bills meant it made sense to not have it. Until a smooth-talking devil’s spawn talked us into getting a two-month free package. Just to try it out. You can always return it if you don’t like it, he said. Damn well right I will.

It is not just the regular evening noisy blare, though god knows that should be enough reason. TV programs have a particular sort noise which exceeds that of regular music or movies. It’s an aggressive, repetitive, drilling noise. Audience laughing, stupid ads repeating over and over. And over.

Those TV programs, they suck out the brains of your children. The princess,  she can easily sit in front of the TV for 3 hours straight, 5-8 pm, make that 6 hours on the weekend, not moving, eyes bulging. i-Carly. Victorious. The a.n.t. farm. The Next Star. Oh god how I hate The Next Star especially. Those malign sadistic bullies. Any request for her to move, to do something else results in fights, stress, pleading, arguing, bargaining. As if I have to compete with YTV.com for the attention of my child. As if TV regulates my daughter’s hours, and everything has to be negotiated around the hours of those shows.

And what do they show, these beloved shows?  They show a glossy bright world where “having fun” is the rule. They teach that the most important thing is life is what your friends think of you, and how glossy your hair is. The kids in those shows are just realistic enough for an ordinary child, the princess, to imagine herself there, and to feel frustrated with her every-day surroundings. “The Next Star is coming to Halifax! Maybe one day I can be in it!” she states. “How can I be in a TV show?” she asks. She was happy to be my child. Watching those devil-shows, she is learning to be unhappy with me. Unhappy with her home, yearning for the glossy world of Victorious and iCarly which seems so close, yet so far.

Parents, don’t fall in the trap. They are out to get your children’s heart, their mind, their soul. Fight back.

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