Imagine a scene if you will:
A overly-endowed 30-something woman with a white-girl afro sits in front of a 42″ high-def television. She is surrounded by an endless display of books that seem to distract the onlooker from any other item that decorates the apartment. An older gentleman who resembles an angel in a Michaelangelo painting is dutifully washing the dishes in the next room, silently wondering how he ended up in this position of such clearly designated woman’s work….
The woman holds within her hand the tool that will affect the decision she so chooses at the appropriate hour. She closes her eyes and envisions her alternatives.
In one vision, there are perfectly air-brushed women of various nationalities strutting down a sparkly runway wearing the Secrets Victoria tried so desperately to endorse. Each model wears a beautifully- designed pair of wings that is the envy of every woman and gay man who ever longed to be costumed.
In the other, the possible demise of one Tara Knowles, the most despise-ed of all fictional characters the woman has encountered. For 6 seasons, (that is television, not nature, seasons) the woman has awaited the prospect of the crinkle-foreheaded fiend’s extermination. Too, there is an off-chance that a more beloved character might expire, and event that the woman would hate to find out about later on the radio.
She opens her eyes and runs one calloused finger over the button that says “Channel”. Will it be the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show or the season finale of Sons of Anarchy? She wonders solemnly who the fuck scheduled them both on the same night at the exact same time, while secretly plotting the traitor’s death.