I recently converted to a smartphone, only to find out I needed a smart TV.
If you recall, I wrote a few years ago about my love affair with my big TV, which at 42 inches took up my entire living room.
Not that I was complaining.
I loved its gargantuan screen, which made footballs look as big as watermelons and bachelorettes' heads the size of hot-air balloons.
Maybe because their heads were full of hot air.
But now my big TV looks tiny, since now there are 47-inch, 54- inch, and even larger TVs, at a fraction of the price that mine cost.
Yet I remained loyal to my big TV.
I want one marriage that lasts.
I hadn't even heard of such a thing as a smart TV until somebody mentioned it to me, and I thought they were kidding, and then when my other TV died, I replaced it with a smart TV.
I admit, I didn't even know what that meant when I bought it. All I knew was that the price was right, and that they weren't charging extra for its brainpower.
So I got it home and right off the bat, I knew my new TV was smarter than I am because I couldn't even understand its remote control. It's black, and in the center is a little cube called the Smart Cube.
I'm not making this up.
All I'm doing is telling you what my TV tells me to.
If I press the Smart Cube, onto the screen pops something called the Smart Hub.
We get it.
My TV is smart, not humble.
I looked at the array of buttons on the Smart Hub, astounded. They were buttons I'd never seen before on a television, like Shop TV.
It's not a television, it's a store.
I didn't push the Shop TV button, for obvious reasons. If I start buying things from my TV, my new address will be the poorhouse.
Which would not be Smart.
Then there's a button called Social TV, which I gather is for any parties my TV wants to attend or clubs it wants to join.
There is even a button for Fitness, which I fully intend to avoid, again for obvious reasons. I pressed it just to let you know what it says, and it contains something called Cardio Blast and Sexy Beach Abs.
Luckily I don't need either of these things.
My cardio is already blasted.
And I avoid sexy beaches.
Then there's a button called Schedule Manager, which sounded kind of controlling, but I checked it out. Immediately, a black box popped onto the screen that read: "Set the current time and date first."
I found this tone so bossy, I opted out.
Not only that, but I couldn't figure out how to do it.
If this TV is is so damn smart, why doesn't it know the time and date?
So do you.
There's even a button for a Web Browser, which I pushed and discovered that I could actually go on the computer from my television.
So my new TV is a store, a gym, a secretary, and a computer.
There's only one thing it isn't:
So it's not that smart, after all.