TV REPAIR

by Sanchez Vickle

October 28, 2002

Fat patterns pulsing
in stitches of static
erratic and plastic,
the spastic display.
With a bang and a kick
and a "cheap motherfucker!"
an emergency side-slapping
repair is performed.
The picture then jittered
and shimmied and quivered
then twisted all sideways,
the image deformed.
With a hearty "hiya!"
like the best fake karate
pissed off fists of fury
rained down on the set.
A homemade remedy
for that TV set voodoo,
a righteous exorcism
time-tested and true.
But with one kick too many
the screen split like a prism
and with an ass-rattling blurt
that cheap cocksucker died.
Now, most would be ready
to cash in the towel.
To blow a foul "Taps"
into a snot rag, goodnight.
But not on my watch!
No, I cannot abide it.
You will not go gently,
you green plastic hunk of Taiwanese shit.
So I break out my tool box,
and with saw in hand,
I proceed to gut it,
this department store brand.
And oh what wonders
pour forth from its cavernous womb!
All transistors and vacuum-sucked tubes.
Delightful chrome marvels
mysterious in hue.

And though I could not save it
this shitbox complex,
the labyrinth of doodads
built only to vex,
I have other plans
for this flat-lining set.
These parts could prove handy,
and I'm one to bet
they could be glued together
to make a grand UFO
that might scare the brown vittles
out of Clem down the road.

Milestones

1998: Future turncoat Raoul Dunkin joins the burgeoning commune staff, blatantly lying about his desire to learn more about alternative journalism and liking Red Bagel's haircut.

Now Hiring

Taxi Driver. Duties include awaiting passengers, driving passengers to and from desired locations, growing increasingly paranoid, cutting hair in extreme fashion and shooting pimps in bloody finale.

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