Command Chair Envy

My in-laws are a million years old.

They live in the cellar, sitting in twin robotic command chairs with built-in retractable ottomans, facing a television as big as the wall. They smoke cigarettes and agree with one another about world events and bicker over household ones.

Between them lays a dog the size of a pony who farts ponderously as she shakes the webby strings of drool out of her jowls.

They don't open the windows, so the whole place has the aura of a music video. Distance is exaggerated by haze, and everything is faintly blue. The light from the television carries before it is sapped, lending a dying ghostly bloom to half of room.

The television offers them glimpses of Condoleeza Rice, whom they revere like a right thinking person's Princess Di. The screen is divided, so it is also showing them how their stocks are doing and what it might be like to run around the world on a big scavenger hunt. They summon channels like Kirk summons Scotty.

They want to know if I love Condi Rice as much as any reasonable person should. They offer me vinegar wine and imported strawberries.

The dog farts, and I retreat.

Man those command chairs are cool.