The Remote

She says that I lost it. She says it was my fault. She says that I had it last. Good job Perry Mason, it wasn't me though. I fully admit that I was sitting down watching The Simpsons because that's just good family TV. But then I sat the remote down and left the children to the best babysitter ever, Homer Simpson.

That's the last I saw of the remote. Hossmom deduces that since I had it last, that I was the one that misplaced it. Very nice, very neat case she has built there. It all comes together, no loose ends. Very well done.

Oh but wait, who else is in the house? Why, it's Bubba Hoss and Little Hoss. C'mon man, that's like assuming I'm the killer when my roommates are Ted Bundy and Charles Manson. I'm not saying that my kids are crazed murderers but they will cut you. and when it comes to the remote, they go for it like a fat kid goes for cake. Your case is full holes now, isn't it? And that, ladies and gentlemen, is called reasonable doubt.

Regardless though, it left us without the remote control. Combined with the lazy boy it becomes the single most identifier of the American male. and it shows our single greatest weakness: we are totally addicted to Tivo. Think you're not? Try it and see how well you fair. And if I'm an every day addict, then the kids are Keith Richards. By the way, I do realize that I have now compared my children to Ted Bundy and Kieth Richards in one blog. Turns out, I'm a bad father.

I got the shakes from the children asking me repeatedly for Dora, that cartoonish minx that is the bain of my world. Honestly, I'm not even sure how to work the TV without the remote. Do they even make them like that anymore? And the kids have never lived in a world without on demand TV. So I did the only thing that an addict can do. I ripped apart the house, systematically, piece by piece, looking for that last score.

In the living room I moved out every piece of furniture we had. I threw over all the cushions, I dug in all the crevices and I moved every knick nack that could possibly be kiestering my remote. I found 1 sipppie cup, 2 hot wheels cars, a dish towel from 1982, what looked to once have been an M&M and the tattered remains of my manhood. But no remote.

In the kitchen I emptied every drawer. I took out and checked every pot and pan. I looked in the pantry, opened a box of cookies just to make sure. I ate the hole box and still nothing. I went to the top cabinets even though they can't reach them. Because after all, they are my kids and history says that they will find a way. I even checked the dishwasher as that has been an issue in the past (I wrote a blog about that one.) Still, no remote.

I tore apart the playroom. Pulled down every book in case they had found a way to squish a remote between the pages. I checked every bin and punched every stuffed animal that I could find. I took the fabric off the bottom of our chairs because they are ingenious little bastards. Nothing. Only a 1/2 eaten muffin that is a least a year old and exactly 23 cents.

I did this to every room we had. Over 2 days I looked every where a remote could possibly be. I looked in the heating vents, jacket pockets and then traveled to the Bermuda triangle just to be sure. My thought was that if I actually touched every single thing in this house eventually I would come upon the remote. But just like Keyser Soze--puff, it was gone. 2 days and the only worth while thing I found was a couple of batteries that I think are still good. Christmas is around the corner.


After all this, Hossmom walked around the house with a smile on her face. It appears that in my search I had inadvertently done a deep clean on the entire place. She was happy, the thought of the remote gone.

Son of a bitch. Boys, I think we have a new suspect.