You know the tale...you're sitting there spending some "quality time" with the boy, except he can't seem to pull his eyeballs away from whatever stupid sporting event he's watching. He might as well get the remote surgically fused to his hand. The thing he's caressing so lovingly in his hands and carrying around the apartment ain't you, sweetheart. If he could, he would remote control his life.
Meanwhile, you think about all the quality TV you could be watching, like the "L Word." In fact, you sort of wonder for the millionth time if it wouldn't be easier to date a woman. At least then you wouldn't have to suffer the inane commentary and mindless enthusiasm of the hetero male sports fan.
You know that you're in trouble when entreaties of untold sexual thrills and sugary desserts are promised to no avail. Apparently, you are not as sexy or interesting as a team of sweaty men pacing up and down a court. I mean, I would take a team of sweaty men, but I think that's an entirely different scenario.
You negotiate. You bargain. It's entering the realm of UN Peace Negotiations. Finally, you capitulate. You pout. You picture how the living room might look with two TVs side by side. You resent that the sounds of cheering sports fans might be the soundtrack of your life as long as you live with this person.
The only consoling thought is that they could put "FINALLY GOT THE DAMN REMOTE!" as they lay you in the ground with the remote clenched in your cold, dead fist. Who wins now, sucka?
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