Prime-Time Press

Strolled up the woven couch throw to scout a VIP evening box. Found the TV remote lying flat on the cushion like an oversized stadium catwalk. Stepped onto the rubber power button with total finesse. Heard a neat little click beneath my boot, but nothing flashed on the screen. Kept my cool, of course. Leaned casually against the sleek curve of the volume rocker, crossed one ankle over the other, and tucked the donut under my arm. Even when prime-time doesn't boot up on cue, you hold court with style.