Life of a TV Remote

Before I say anything, I should describe my appearance to make it easy for you to visualise my plight life in your mind.

I was a TV Remote of an LG 42-inch LCD TV. I was about eight inches tall and two inches wide (I was proud of my dimensions, if you must know). I was black (yep, I know for some twisted reason colour is important to humans).

I was made up of carbon-fibre. That’s a good thing as that means I was strongly built while being relatively light. Carbon-fibre is a really good material to be made up of, you know.

That’s enough about appearances, I think. I trust you can now easily picture me in your mind. If you can’t, well, the fault lies with your imagination.

So, here I begin the recounting of my little life.

No matter how hard I try, I just can’t remember my fabrication. Perhaps, that is because my memory is untrustworthy, but I don’t mind all that much–at least it works. One day, I suddenly woke up and found myself in a huge, plush electronic showroom. I could only half-watch and half-guess my surroundings as I was packed in a cardboard box and there was only one little hole to see.

I (or the cardboard box enclosed around me) was somewhere (I never did know exactly where somewhere was, but it was on the top of a shelf or something as I would have been able to observe the showroom in its completeness if not for the cardboard casing).

On the left of my position there must have been the entrance, as I would see people entering and exiting barely out of my visual-range. And just beside the entrance, began a row of huge flat-panel TVs (both LCD and Plasma, I supposed) stretching towards infinity (I’m a goddamn TV Remote, you understand, and my definition of “infinity” is much finite than yours).

Rightward, there were all sorts of assorted electronic stuff–computer speakers, keyboards, mice, tablets, et cetera. Just beside the entrance, on the right, was the billing counter–almost always occupied by a cute, scantily-clad girl. I’m not sure why most showrooms prefer good-looking females as their attendants, but I can hazard a guess: aesthetics, in each aspect of life, matter a lot to humans, and customers are more likely to buy stuff on recommendation of a pretty, silver-tongued girl than otherwise.

One day, the TV, which I accompany, got sold. I was happy, as my life before the purchase had been wearisome. Not that it was much of a life–I would lie in the same place, enveloped in darkness and having only a limited viewing range to observe the outside world. Indeed, the only redeeming quality of those days of my life.

How was I to know that my lowly life was about to become even worse. Much worse. In a different sort of way, though.

I only have hazy memories of the purchase. One thing I could clearly see was that I was bought by a young couple who had a little girl with them. The girl was fast asleep on the shoulders of her mum. My spirits brightened. I loved children. They didn’t have characteristics like deceit and deception which seem to be specifically reserved for adult humans. Maybe the process of maturing screws something up, I can’t say.

Anyway, we (the TV and I) were brought home. The couple instantly threw their older CRT TV away and hung the newly-purchased TV on the wall. I was horrified at that wanton piece of cruelty. The poor old fella must have entertained them for a long time.


I was put on the table in front of the wall on which the TV–my new companion–was placed. It was evening when we were delivered and installed. And that night I enjoyed the best moments of my life. I was out of my case so I could breathe freely now, could finally talk with a new friend, the TV, we conversed about the trials and tribulations of life at the showroom. Life of a TV Remote, I decided, was not so bad after all.

And from the next day, I realised how naive I had been.

As I’ve said before, the TV and I were bought by a couple with a little daughter. When the morning came, the husband went to the office and the wife became busy with her household chores.

I was left to the mercy of the girl. For the first few minutes, it was great–to be handled by her tiny, pink hands. But she quickly got bored and began licking me, bathing me her saliva. After a while, even that wasn’t enough, as she suddenly threw me away as far as she could, picked me up and threw me once more. This process was repeated again and again until at last she got tired.

This would happen almost daily. My only moments of respite came when either the girl was asleep or her parents were present in the room.

Even the parents would brutally strike me against the floor whenever I ceased working. Instead of replacing my batteries, which would have been the only reasonable thing to do in that case, they would tap, tap, tap…

I was made up of good-quality material, aye. But even carbon-fibre could only handle so much. I soon started to show signs of wear and tear. Finally, one day, after a session of particularly great abuse, a crack appeared across me.

I was immediately cast out of the house in favour of a “replacement”.

I never saw what “replacement” looked like, but I did hear the father of little girl merrily saying just before he brought it and threw me out, “The new one looks better and is stronger!” I had no ill-will against the “replacement”, and I wished him luck, hoping that he would last longer in the clutches of the little girl.

So. Here I am, lying in a heap of garbage in a waste management facility.

I have a feeling I ought to have a grudge against somebody, but for the life of me, I can’t remember against whom or why .


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