The milk was bad and you stand ashore the river Styx, waiting the boatman. Amidst the splashing waves, you twitch with restless anticipation of what awaits on the other side. You're confident you lived a good life, but then again, you're not feeling many comforting thoughts as the looming caves ahead draw closer. You're escorted through a chasm of chambers and led to a door where your escort leaves you to your lonesome.
You open the door and peak inside...A nice bed. A full bar. A glorious couch. A fridge stocked with delicacies...and a 48 inch plasma hanging on the wall. A guide on the coffee table shows a list of every sports channel real or imagined. Words escape you as you reach for the remote. A curious thing, this remote. For it only has four buttons. Power on. Power off. Channel up. Channel down. You ponder the oddity and shrug. It's time to light this candle. You stretch out on the couch and turn on the TV.
But wait. The initial joy you felt surfing through every channel you ever dreamed begins to fade as you notice something you overlooked a moment ago.There is no volume button on the remote. There is no way to mute or subdue the realization that every game and every channel is controlled by the worst human beings to ever hold a microphone.
Though each channel spews voices coming from a variety of names and faces, this Underworld cast can easily be labeled as the five broadcasting categories of Hades. To watch a game is to listen to every damn word they have to say. The power off button beckons you. You see it now. The eternal conundrum.