Another fruitless Saturday morning spent watching Lucky Charms commercials and shoveling pounds of sugar, high fructose corn syrup, and starch into my mouth. Nickelodeon advertises active children engaging in outdoor recreation. “What is your VERB?” a fit basketball player inquires to me via television. Actually, the most demanding task of this Saturday morning is to reluctantly coerce myself from the couch to toast a pop tart.
It is 10:00 A.M. Birds are serenading in golden rays of sunshine, and maple trees dance in the breeze. It is perfect weather for a leisured bicycle ride to the park. However, a new episode of Spongebob Squarepants is soon to premiere, and it would be a shame to miss it for a balmy spring day bound to come again. Thus, I return to my snug domain to revel in the animated television show I treasure so well.
Suddenly, a garbled voice from beyond the kitchen attempts to elicit me from the television. The poignancy of my mother’s shout corroborated that my presence was mandatory. I phlegmatically rose from the couch and abandoned ship. My mother greeted me with a grin, and entrusted me with a broomstick. Zealous with a bottle of Windex in hand, she asked if I could aid her with annual spring cleaning chores.
Of course I obliged her, but my mind was inundated with thoughts of the cartoons, toys, and breakfast cereals I deserted. It then became comprehensive that I was addicted to television at the juvenile age of 12.