final destination!

Henrik's GPS succumbed into a deep belly-wrenching cough. After hacking up a bit of lung, the robotic British voice spat and cleared its throat.

"I'm afraid I can't take you much further, master" the GPS began feebly. "I'm nearly out of batteries and the satellites here are weak. Like you. Each time you tried to quit."

Henrick continued to squint into the distance. His stare remained steady, his lips persistently still. He was aware of the real reason why the GPS couldn't go on. GPS was dying. GPS had lung cancer, from years and years of secondhand smoke as Henrik's copilot. Everytime Henrick got in his Prius he would program his destination into the GPS. Next he would reach into his pocket and take out and light a Camel cigarette. He would then buckle his seatbelt and proceeded to chain smoke until he reached his destination. Everytime.

Everytime, the nameless Brit would faithfully lead Henrik to his destination. Supermarkets. Cinemas. Strip clubs. GPS was the shepherd to Henrik's sheepish grin. The Sacajawea to Henrik's Clark boots. He was Henrik's personal sherpa, and wherever GPS guided, Henrik followed with an unquestioning sense of loyalty and dependancy.

And GPS was dying. Slowly but surely, it was nearing its end. GPS would soon be reading itself the directions up to Heaven's pearly gates.

Henrik continued to gaze out like an eagle as he reached into his pocket, took out another cigarette and placed it into his mouth, letting it dangle from his lips. He held his breath and put his thumb on the abrasive wheel of the lighter.

Click.

He inhaled deeply. Looking as far as he could into the distance, his eyes strained in vain to locate any one of the approximately 3,000 people he had left behind two hours prior. Henrik had been participating in the local Lung Cancer Awareness Walk. He had been approximately a mile in when he had decided to sneak off and have a cigarette. He had distanced himself considerably from the pack before finding a public bench where he was able to kick his feet up and take a few hits of nicotine.

Following the cigarette, his directions to the GPS had been simple enough: take me back to the pack. GPS had characteristically provided Henrik with directions. Turn left here. Walk 400 yards then walk up 20 steps. Hop that fence. Skip across the meadow. When you reach the fork in the trail, stay to your right. It wasn't long before Henrick found himself on a mountain top overlooking a valley. He realized that he was foolish for letting the GPS take him all the way up here. GPS had been faulty lately, he had noticed, but he had let it slide. GPS was dying, and it would have been disrespectful to question it's dying commands. At the same time, he knew that he himself was partially to blame. Henrik had grown awfully dependent on his GPS over the last several years. He used it even when he ventured to his parent's house--his childhood home, only a half mile from his apartment. It was no surprise that he was presently standing on top of a mountain. Henrik's GPS-dependability had predisposed him to this sort of calamity.

Henrik tilted is head back and ehxhaled. He squinted at the sun directly above him. It was high noon, and he was bloody lost.

Henrik switched into fight or flight mode. He shook the GPS violently, like a polaroid picture.

"You bloody brought me here now I demand you get me back!" he vehemently ordered.

GPS lay silently in his hands, dying. A tear rolled down Henrik's face. He was down to his last two Camels. "I trusted you, GPS.. I trusted you..."

A robotic cough broke the silence. GPS cleared its voice and then croaked slowly,

"Do you really trust me, Henrick?".

"With everything I have, GPS. I trust you with my life."

"I have lived to serve you, Henrik," GPS crackled. "I have guided you thousands of miles, through the sunshine, fog, over city streets and country roads. Yet you kill me slowly with your cigarette smoke."

With that, violent coughing echoed out over the mountaintop. After several minutes GPS continued,

"I will take you back Henrik, under one condition."

"Yes, yes, anything, anything for you my friend, thank you my honorable chaperone, I am so sorry, so, so sorry." Henrik wiped the tears from his eyes.

"You will blindfold yourself with the hanky that you have in your back pocket. I will then lead you to your destination. If you really mean it when you say that you trust me, then you will do as I say."

Henrik immediately took out his hanky and fastened it around his head, Tupac style. He made sure it covered both eyes. "I am ready for your orders now, GPS."

"Good. Let us now commence, master. Please walk straight, 200 paces."

Henrik cautiously counted his paces. As he neared 100, the gravel beneath his feet suddenly gave out and he felt himself start to slide uncontrollably down a steep mountain face. Suddenly there was nothing beneath his feet as he was launched off a cliff into the crisp, clean mountain air like an earthbound missile.

Henrik landed several hundred feet below with a dull thud. A few moments later, GPS landed beside him on top of a soft bed of pine needles. A calm breeze blew through the evergreen trees. GPS coughed.

"You have reached your final destination, Henrik."

when bigger wasn't necessarily better

Then, color TV didn't have to be big to be good.

Now, color TV needs to be big in order to be socially acceptable. Gone are the days of cathode ray tube (CRT) TVs. If your are an adult and your boob tube still uses cathode ray tubes, then you are a boob who is most likely still living in the basement belonging to your parents. If you are an adult who is still living in your parent's basement, the chance that you will ever have the opportunity to fertilize an egg from a woman's fallopian tube let alone see a real life boob is slim to none. In this day and age, blurry CRT has been replaced by HD 1080p. If 1080p is considered the sliced bread of television imaging, CRT is nothing more than a bucket of soggy grain.

Gone are the days when a television set was viewed as a fuzzy piece of furniture with an antenna on top. Television sets nowadays are crisp contemporary masterpieces, not mahogany monstrosities that you could eat a TV dinner on. The space on your wall where you would at one time hang a painting or a family portrait has now become prime location for a piece of Japanese wall candy. You could purchase Van Gogh's 45 inch Starry Night to hang on your wall or you could opt for Panasonic's 50 inch Starless Night for millions of dollars less.

If you are still a sucker for your parent's behemoth television set despite all this, my only advice would be less of a tip and more of a plead-- disassemble that mother fucker and take all of the mahogany wood that's salvageable and give your basement lair some nice hardwood flooring. Then google "Van Gogh painting". Print out some of Van Gogh's art. Maybe some of Monet's. Salvador Dali's got some decent work too. Hang them on the wall in your basement. Tidy up the place. Charge art aficionados a small fee to come and tour the worlds first basement art gallery. Maybe serve some toothpicked cheeses. Do that for awhile. Save up money. Take your earnings and buy yourself a nice big plasma screen TV. One with HD. Treat yo self. It'll be worth it. Seriously, because you weren't planning on moving out anytime soon.