My remote died the other day, a loss which I realize would not generally occasion the tone that my fake boyfriend Keith Olbermann might use to eulogize fixture of Negro League baseball Buck O' Neill or anything like that. It bugs me though, because I'm feeling kind of helpless this week and like my plans tend to count for nothing, and it's hard enough to cope with the fact that my idea of excitement in the bedroom is knowing that King of The Hill is on Adult Swim at eleven. If I were able-bodied, I'd like to think I'd hardly notice, and the truth is, if I got magically cured today, I probably wouldn't for a day or two, just because I'd be standing up and sitting down randomly(Because it's there!) or running gratuitous showers