Why won't my mother love me?

I spent a good portion of my adolescent life in front of the idiot box (that's "television" for you folks out there who don't have to wear a helmet and foam padding all over at all times). As a result, much of what I learned came from the TV. It was my de facto legal guardian when my de jure parents weren't around. I have learned much from the Great American Box for Idiots. She has been an absolute blessing. Yes, HER. What, a chair can be feminine but my mother/secret lover/box can't?

Sesame Street taught me my numbers and helped developed my first adult social intuitions. Bert and Ernie introduced me to the world of potential homosexuality, and Big Bird taught me that my imaginary friend Snonkolees should go away. R-r-r-rewind: Everyone thought Big Bird was hanging out with Oscar the Grouch a bit too much. You just know that Oscar the Grouch dealt some shady stuff living in a freaking DUMPSTER. It's all his fault that poor Big Bird ended up hitting too much of that marijuana and imagining Snuffleupagus all the time. [Seriously, if you're up early enough or if you're not busy around after school hours, watch a little bit of the show. There's some funny stuff targeted at adults in there.]

The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers taught me what my teachers in school were never allowed to teach us:

1) Scientific and political advisors be damned, teenagers with social drama led by a mysterious gigantic talking head and a robot of questionable sexual orientation are the solution to all our interplanetary terrorism concerns

2) White & nerdy teenagers who wear glasses are AWESOME at beating the shit out of animatronic and/or costumed creatures made of clay

3) All black people are cool and hip and with it. Also, great dancers

4) I think the Green Ranger was Irish

5) If true, Irish guys are sneaky tricksters/badass

6) Kimberly was FINE

7) Wait was Kimberly yellow or pink

8) Just Google Image'd it, yeah she was Pink Ranger

9) HELLA FINE

Of course, who could forget cuddly, lovable, master of the literary arts, Shakespeare to my Fido,Wishbone? Who the fuck needs college English courses when you have the cutest dog in the world teaching you the story in short digest form, replete with adorable costumes and real-world life lessons all wrapped up into a 22-minute package?

Inspector Gadget may also have some responsibility in piqueing my interest in the hard sciences. The sheer amount of amusing and plain awesome gadgetry that Inspector Gadget could fit into his body and expel from random orifices was, for some reason, fascinating to me. Only now do I realize that he was probably some sort of early Japanese sex robot prototype gone haywire. You can't honestly ask me to believe that a geeky guy who can cram a helicopter, a flamethrower, a chainsaw, a magnifying glass, and all sorts of other crap into his head didn't also happen to think about cramming a fifteen-inch, instantly extendable, flame-spewing fandangled mandangler down the front of his pants. It's just that, when the American television producers decided to green-light a show about a detective robot, they had to censor a couple of things, such as change the name from "SUPER NIPPON EXCITE METAL MAN: CLAW BOSS ANGER!!!!!" to something more polite and acceptable to the average American audience. The producers also probably removed Gadget's deep-veined purple-hearted Spartan of love. (It was either that or "Dora the anal explorer." Take your pick.) 

Her loving glow at three in the morning, her warm caress when the harsh bullwhip of winter strikes, her smooth static tingle when you gently touch the glass screen - there is no greater feeling than knowing soy amado. I love you, Mother Brain.