Ms.nosey-posey glanced at the mirror in her living room, that stood above an ornate bookshelf. The mark

on her forehead was a source of irritation.  The IDIOT!!! who had installed it, not only had done so, off center - only slightly yes, but certainly noticable - but the hue wasn't quite right either.  Atleast that part could be rectified - and yes, it would cost a bit, but such as life.

The tv, finally, was through with it's latest string of commercials - there were two advertising garden gear, one from a travel agency, another from a software shop, and three others from various other businesses.  The commercial-free option was ... hmmph, "experiencing technical issues..." How convenient...and didn't their rate just go up, again?  

Posey muttered a blue streak.  She was beginning to consider switching back to standard, but then she wouldn't be able to watch ... well, alot of things.  Not only that, the programs available on the standard, were shortened, although by five or so minutes per half-hour episodes - in order to accommodate the advertisements - still, five minutes, more than occasionally, made the difference between finding out who done it, who was doing who (or what) and not finding out who, or why.  

Another little trick to get you on premium - whether or not you could afford it (many really couldn't) was the volume games.  On standard, as soon as the butler began to sing to the detective, the background music would kick up enough, that you couldn't hear all the details being spoken - just most of the whys and the hows...almost is not enough.

But what posey was interested in watching, wasn't her usual fav dramas.  No, the evening program would be viewed by a global audience - superbowl, take a seat!  That wonderful, inspiring world leader was about to, once a glorious again, take world-wide center stage.  And oh, he was a looker.  Yep, Posey's little plastic toy, in the other room would be busy tonight.

(Mental pictures, mental pictures, ew, that's gross - posey is, like in her mid 60s...ugh!)

Well, now, Dear Reader, while you're headed for the nearest waste-basket, to puke your guts out, your narrator has got to get her old fat ars'e, back to 2021, and over to the grocery store.  Yeah, can't let that go for tomorrow.  Tomorrow's the Lord's Day.