[s]Goal: 100,000 New Goal: 200,000[/s] New Goal: 250.000

[Naked~Frog]

Mich... ha... hahahaha

[Naked~Frog]

So funny.

[Naked~Frog]

But I don't know why.

[Naked~Frog]

BEARDED MAN ON TV!

[Naked~Frog]

One in 100 people are a psychopath. Not all are violent though. Most aren't.

[Naked~Frog]

Serial killers just give them all a bad name.

[Naked~Frog]

Scanning brains... brains... scanning brains on TV...

[Naked~Frog]

It's very boring.

[Naked~Frog]

Now commercials... not much better.

[Naked~Frog]

But I don't have the remote...

[Naked~Frog]

I wonder if I can find poems about remote controls on the internet... I bet I can.

[Naked~Frog]

Since so many people care about them.

[Naked~Frog]

Remote Control

by Richard D Croft

Monday, May 06, 2002

Afterthoughts are all, the sound of clocks

 

and trees ticking in the wind, a dog down the block,

 

crushed by dusk and howling. The locks -- I've forgotten

 

if I remembered.... My children,

 

at home far from home. They send money

 

with love. I sit in the chair they bought to keep me happy

 

and still. They call when they're busy. Their names

 

come back slow as they do. Love rots. It's a rotten shame.

 

Not right with myself, I part the curtain -- and look there,

 

my boys are...

 

impatient. The one with mean sleepy eyes

 

lies on the couch devouring cheeseburger and fries.

 

He cradles the back of his skull in the crook of his elbow,

 

but never looks in the window out the window.

Their input drips from a satellite

 

that wanders mute, weightless and star bright

 

up there in the black beyond blue sky.

 

They'd have to pack pipes to get so high --

 

and do. Spun dizzy in the light of dead stars,

 

their eyes suck the electric milk of mother

 

Hollywood from sixty-six stations.

 

Babes in Toyland's on 65 at four.

 

The boy slouches in his armchair.

 

He blows smoke rings and coughs,

 

but isn't about to turn himself off.

 

 

 

It is the year of elections.

 

Bulbs pop in the media circus

 

as committee chairs meet like Gods on Olympus

 

to rant about the programming selections

 

of the poor programmers who helped them win elections.

 

They go home, find their children washed blue and leaning toward

 

Magnavoxes as if the glowing boxes were imparting dying words.

 

They feel distant as satellites, and are,

 

if not further. Their children are

 

disturbed by the interruption.

 

An actual person, unapproved by Nielson.

A new day and the boys next door have lost their keys.

 

Moonlight filters through the side yard trees.

 

The short one tears a hole in the screen,

 

slides it up so he can fit between,

 

then crawls over the sill.

 

I get two stations well,

 

four others with binoculars.

 

A second third bather,

 

I am a nameless silhouette in a window.

 

We all swim towards the post anthem snow.

 

The lights go on. The lights go out.

 

The nothing that everything is about.

 

The cat mews. The wind blows.

 

Today, I hold nothing but the will to let go.

 

 

Remote control, pay per view,

 

I already know the late night news.

 

The trees beat the shutters

 

as the wind tears at their clothes, but no matter.

 

All that you keep forever

 

is all that you lose. I can't make order

 

of it, but I know my apathy, confess my crimes.

 

The anchor loosens his tie, says we're out of time.

 

A blizzard snows the screen, a fuzzy mess --

 

a quantum disaster of little matter. Good night, God bless.

 

The rerun of the sinking sun, the rising of the moon....

 

There's really never anything on.

[Naked~Frog]

Remote Control

 

Listen to this poem!

 

By Alicia Zakon

 

Why you let him play you like a video?

Turn you on and off like a radio — tell you when to go

Fast and slow

Change your channels because he can’t stand your show

Make you feel so low

And you afraid to say no

Why you let him rewind you?

Criticize you

Hypnotize you until the screen turns blue

And your life is through

Why did you give him the device used to control the operation of you?

Why you let him tune you, confuse you, and abuse you?

Reject you, select you and eject you

Why you let him track you, slap you and map you?

Don’t know why he do what he do

But you need to pause you

And rewind you

Look at your life before he met you

Look back at that moment when you gave him

The remote control

And see how the story unfolds

How instead of asked, you were told

What to do and how to feel

And yet you believe that his love is real and still

Fast forward your life

It appears to be fine, but just like this day and time you’re hurting inside

Don’t lie

Today, don’t neglect you

Reset you

And take back the power that was held from you

Take hold of your life

Have it your way

Take hold of that remote

And push play.

[Naked~Frog]

REMOTE CONTROL

 

I wish I had remote control that worked on Mrs Ragg,

Then I could put it on to mute when she began to nag!

I'd love to put on rewind, each day at half past ten,

When playtime was all over we could just begin again.

 

Each day in Mental 'Rithmetic she needn't scream and shout,

I'd simply put her on to pause until I'd worked it out.

And any time I got fed up and hungry for my tea

I'd fast-forward to home time, at twenty-five past three.

 

Sometimes when she's very cross her face goes bright and red,

Then I could help by making her go black and white instead.

And when she makes me work too hard until it hurts my head,

I needn't cry, I needn't sulk, I'd switch her off instead!

 

 

George Ansell

[Naked~Frog]

A Familiar Tale

 

’Twas the night before Christmas - Dad felt like a jerk.

’Cause the family’s new Home Theater just wouldn’t work.

It wasn’t Dad’s fault, he’d been working all night,

But his very best efforts could not get it right.

 

The plasma’d been hung on the wall with great care,

But only the Test Pattern could be seen there.

Empty boxes and cables now cluttered the room,

And the home entertainment was o’er shadowed by gloom.

 

"How do we use it?" (Mom was under duress).

"Which button does what - which one should I press?

We have three new remotes, plus the one we’ve been using.

What on earth can we do? It’s all so damn confusing!"

 

(All over the land ’twas the same situation

Millions of TVs tuned to only one station.

Thousands of families were all in the same boat -

No one in the house could program the remote.)

 

Then Sis took control and smiled dimple to dimple,

"I know what to do. This is all very simple.

I’ll buy that remote that we saw on TV.

I’ll drive up to Big Box - who’s coming with me?"

 

"But it’s snowing," said Dad. "The roads are all slick.

And setting up a remote’s not that simple a trick.

You don’t know how to program - you got D’s in math.

It’s just too complicated. Go take a bath."

[Naked~Frog]

Last one was by Julie Jacobson

[Naked~Frog]

“There is a button on the remote control called FAV...”

BY CLAUDIA RANKINE

There is a button on the remote control called FAV. You can program your favorite channels. Don’t like the world you live in, choose one closer to the world you live in. I choose the independent film channel and HBO. Neither have news programs as far as I can tell. This is what is great about America—anyone can make these kinds of choices. Instead of the news, HBO has The Sopranos. This week the indie channel is playing and replaying Spaghetti Westerns. Always someone gets shot or pierced through the heart with an arrow, and just before he dies he says, I am not going to make it. Where? Not going to make it where? On some level, maybe, the phrase simply means not going to make it into the next day, hour, minute, or perhaps the next second. Occasionally, you can imagine, it means he is not going to make it to Carson City or Texas or somewhere else out west or to Mexico if he is on the run. On another level always implicit is the sense that it means he is not going to make it to his own death. Perhaps in the back of all our minds is the life expectancy for our generation. Perhaps this expectation lingers there alongside the hours of sleep one should get or the number of times one is meant to chew food—eight hours, twenty chews, and seventy-six years. We are all heading there and not to have that birthday is not to have made it.

[Naked~Frog]

remote control a wee poem by MelREMOTE CONTROL

..........................................

He HOLDS it tightly in his hand

And rarely lets it go

I guarantee yours does it too

The greedy so and so

It's ITV,then BBC

oh no it's channel 4

And i don't know anymore

I guess it's just a man's thing

So i'll sit and do some puzzles

Read a book right through the night

So come on girls lets fight this fight

Let's start our own patrols

We'll march with pride

And grab them:

THOSE TV REMOTE CONTROLS

poem by M.M.LOWE

[Naked~Frog]

I knew I would find some.

[Naked~Frog]

Everything is on the internet.

[Naked~Frog]

Everything.

[Naked~Frog]

Even me.

[Naked~Frog]

And a Naked Frog...

[Naked~Frog]

Well...