What I, and television, lacked are robots. here are the robots?

When I die, I want a massive bronze statue erected over my grave. The statue would be me and a robot sitting on a couch watching TV. If a resting place is an indicator that the rotten corpses under your feet, in fact, existed – I’d at least want it to be accurate of what most my existence entailed.

I don’t shy away from admitting my compulsion with TV. Some of the best nights of my life include personal isolation while pixilated images dance before me as I feast on a reheated bowl of spaghetti o’s. I find it gratifying obeying TV’s laugh-tracks – erupting with manic laughter on cue.

I reached a disturbing conclusion during an uproarious episode of According to Jim. Jim had come home to find that his favorite Bear’s jersey was washed by his wife. Jim – believing the dirt and grime accumulated over the years endowed the jersey with sacred powers of some kind – let in with a barrage of zingers focusing on the difference between men and women’s appreciation of sports apparel. I was late with my laugh-track laughter.

In vain hopes to prove my miscue was merely a fluke, I turned to CBS’s King of Queens. The lovable man’s man, Doug, was up to his old tricks. The proverbial “Game” was coming on. Jim needed to finagle his way into procuring the living room space, and television, for he and his motley crew of beer guzzlers. Domestic zaniness abound – Doug and his wife took turns burying one another in gender-specific punch lines. I, again, fell behind in my laughter. Horrified at my idiosyncratic behaviors – I hunted for something to get me back in sync with my electric box’s orders.

My pursuit even spilled onto the web. I looked up a new sitcom, Rodney, on ABC’s website. The description of the show’s riveting premise hooked me: “Standup comedian Rodney Carrington stars as Rodney Hamilton, a down-to-earth guy's guy who, with his own heartland intelligence, speaks the truth.” Unfortunately, Rodney’s unequivocal uniqueness didn’t alleviate my crisis.

After visiting shows like George Lopez, Yes, Dear, and reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond I realized the problem wasn’t with me, but with my multi-channeled friend. What I, and television, lacked are robots. Where are the robots?

Robots – although one-track minded and emotionless – are the most entertaining subject yet to be tapped. In a spaghetti-o-educed fit of clarity I grabbed for a pen and notepad. I began concocting a cure for my ailing electric box – a pilot episode for my new TV series, Can Our Robot Watch the Game?

In the post Seinfeld and Friends era, I needed to bring a distinctive premise to my sitcom. I chose a middle-class suburban family and their robot. The characters are equally atypical. The laughter is sure to be endless with the main character Roy – the father. He’s an abusive alcoholic who suffers from dementia. Watching the home team win under a sturdy roof with his closest friends is his sole desire. Jane – the mother – aspires to mediocrity, and has a fervor for cleaning. The two children Billy (17) and Ashley (13) are your typical teens: rebellious, ill-tempered, heads of the east coast international tricycle mafia, and girl/boy crazy.

The gleaming gem of the show is TR4815 – Fifteen for short. Fifteen was found inside a UFO that crash-landed into Roy’s favorite bar – The Office. Fifteen finds himself being the latest addition to the McGoogle family. When Fifteen isn’t trying to destroy the human race he’s serving up cupcakes, and laughs, for the McGoogle’s.

Fearing my daily prescription of watered down entertainment was merely fit for the lowest common denominator of intelligence I realize I must heal my vacuum-tubed companion. I must visit the networks and deliver the serum – Can Our Robot Watch The Game?

Will Tyler meet a network big wig? Will he get wasted on a quart of rubbing alcohol and die in the gutter? Tune in next week for the next shocking episode of Lost In a Pixel Blizzard!

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