Just Like That Episode of Night Gallery

It's 6:30 in the morning, I have an incredible earache and a crabby four-year old who is royally pissed because I broke his pop-tart in half to facilitate consumption, we're in the middle of heatwave in southern Louisiana that has produced the hottest temperatures ever recorded here, and I've had no sleep because of said incredible earache. We're in the lobby of the rehab hospital to have child # 5's hearing checked because some meddling family members insisted on knowing why child #5 had some mild pronunciation problems RIGHT NOW instead of just waiting until the end of the summer so he could be evaluated at school as the S/O and I had agreed to previously.

This situation has done nothing for my sunny disposition. OK, I have no sunny disposition, so you can imagine what it has done for my stormy disposition.

The woman who I shall refer to "helpful" receptionist checks us in, apologizes for the fact that the temperature in the lobby is roughly that of a meat locker, and "helpfully" says, "Let me at least turn on the TV for you."

This is the part of the story were it all goes horribly, horribly wrong. The TV warms up and what should we be treated to but Fox News. I think it's the execrable Fox and Friends, but I refuse to look straight at the TV, because looking straight at Fox and Friends reportedly has the same affect as staring into the visage of Chthulu. That is, unless you've fortified yourself with some kind of magic amulet, you'll soon go screamingly insane.

"Tell her to change the channel," I hiss to the S/O. I avert my eyes as he returns to the enclosed glass receptionist's enclave. He returns and says, "Sorry, you're out of luck, she says the channel changer is broken." "Tell her to TURN IT OFF THEN." "Helpful" receptionist is now peering out at me with a look that says, "Who is this unreasonable woman?" Well, lady, you are now milliseconds away from finding out that your idea if unreasonable is woefully inadequate.

The S/O has a faint look of amusement on his face as he pulls me to a part of the meat locker that is as far away from the TV as possible. It's like that moment just before the drunk breaks the beer bottle across the bar: we are literally on the cusp of the brandishing-a-waiting-room-chair- and-taking-hostages part of the morning festivities.

You see, there are certain things I cannot countenance: torturing puppies, burning orphanages, watching Fox News. You can't even inadvertently stumble across Fox News on the home TV because I've removed it from the channel list. If I could pay DirecTV to not even add it to our package, I would gladly do so.

Luckily, showing up at some godawful hour of the morning means a short waiting time, and before the situation can get out of hand, a cheerful assistant --oh, and they're all cheerful here -- whisks us away to sign paperwork.

Long story short, the crisis was averted, and we found out that child #5 is normal and healthy, and that the fact of the matter is that four-year-olds don't usually HAVE THE DICTION OF LORD FLUFFINGTON-CRANBERRY OF CHAPPINGTON-ON-THE-GREEN, and may occasionally have some pronunciation difficulties. Because, you know, that had never entered my mind.

Still, I am reminded of that old "Night Gallery" episode with John Astin, where he realizes he can't escape the radio station he finds himself in for reasons that eventually become obvious. With my luck, Hell is a place where Fox News runs on a continuous loop.