I'm sorry, but I can't do that, Dave. And I hate your mother.

So we've actually gone insane from carpal tunnel syndrome or something, and decided that everything in the world needs to have a remote control on it. I know I said I was a gadget nut, but I'm not out of my mind. Remotes must be stopped.

Some of them are acceptable. T.V., fine, I understand it's annoying to get up from the couch and walk across the room when you're channel surfing. Stereo system...okay, I suppose. Might not want to interrupt a good book to get up and change the CD. Defensible, but pushing it. However, I don't understand why my brother (Matt, too, come to think of it) needs a remote for his car stereo. The stereo is at his fingertips, mere inches above the gearshift! How can rooting for a remote in the cupholder possibly be more convenient? It couldn't, that's how! It's a fine line between enjoyable convenience and unadulterated, laziness-induced redundancy.

Of course, even that is not as bad as what I saw today. Today I saw a discman—that's right, a personal CD player—with a remote. WHY IS THIS NECESSARY? It's already attached to your body! Are you a tyrannosaurus rex, that your arms don't reach to the end of the headphone cord? However do you manage to put the headphones on your ears, if your arms are that short?

Frankly, I blame this phenomenon on one thing: men. Specifically, men that are a) obsessed with buttons, and b) commitment phobic (i.e., all of them). Remotes are their ultimate solution: they can end the uncomfortable relationship with that Christina Aguilera song, and they can push a button to do so. You know where this is heading, don't you?

That's right. Remote-controlled robot girlfriends.