The TV told him he would die if he went outside, so he stayed home.
The TV told him to be mad at the toxic bigots who dared to dislike the latest half-baked pop culture slop, so he fumed.
The TV told him it was “punk season,” so he dutifully consumed garish merchandise for all he was worth.
The TV told him that Inept White Guy Politician With the Correct Politics was a hypothetical kindly relative, so he scrawled degrading fanfiction on the internet.
He never would think for himself. The TV was Gaia, and he was its fawning vassal.
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They don't call it a boob-tube or idiot-box for nothing.
This is very Ray Bradbury.