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The Times
  • Jeff Vrabel: How much DVR storage space does the average human require?

  •  Most Sundays we're watching football, a game that takes place between instances of Peyton Manning telling me about products and services he enjoys. Because we watch football, we watch commercials, which means mostly that I either see Clay Matthews every three or four minutes or marvel as trucks perform...
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    Most Sundays we're watching football, a game that takes place between instances of Peyton Manning telling me about products and services he enjoys. Because we watch football, we watch commercials, which means mostly that I either see Clay Matthews every three or four minutes or marvel as trucks perform amazing feats of strength, including one that can evidently motor up a swirling Transformer while dramatic jets of fire erupt all around it on its climb to greatness. This last one naturally looks awesome, and will come in handy when I'm attempting to escape the zombie apocalypse by hastily driving to the top of a flaming parking garage.
    But in between these hours of commercials that feature brutally manly trucks and wisened, inordinately successful men with gray temples, sunburnt laugh lines and monster erectile dysfunction problems (which never get less amusing to explain to an 8-year-old), there's a commercial for this family with cable problems, very serious cable problems, pertaining mostly to their inability to record 35 television shows at a time.
    The first such commercial — and I'm not naming the company here or advertising reasons, and also because I do not remember it — finds a woman emerging from her shower to find a giant TV screen floating in her bathroom, which is the size you might expect if she a former or current Egyptian goddess. It's never really explained why the TV is floating betwixt her and her doofus husband, nor why the Mysterious Floating TV has chosen that moment to tell her that it isn't recording someone's show.
    This is bizarre enough, that that this Egyptian queen and her dingus husband are using the benefits of the most technologically advanced society to ever roam the Earth to record true-crime shows while they shower, but OK. The problem is that apparently the queen's shows can't record at the same time as the dingus' shows, which seems, if I might be so bold, NOT THAT BIG OF A PROBLEM. The commercial ends with the gangly husband lamenting the infrequency with which he sees his way-out-his-league-wife naked, which is an unusual punchline for a TV ad, but on the other hand at least he's not suffering from erectile dysfunction
    Happily there's now a follow-up commercial, featuring the same cast. In the second commercial the Dingus is paternally assuring his near-sleeping son that his DVR does indeed contain the four hundred thousand gigs needed for the entire family to spend the precious gift of life — which has been granted them through insanely astronomical genetic odds, and the even greater blessing of living in a time and country where their problems can actually involve the inability to record two simultaneous episodes of that show where Neil Patrick Harris makes sex jokes — doing nothing but showering, making naked jokes and watching TV until they die.
    Page 2 of 2 - I should mention that we have a DVR in the house, though we don't use it for much more than a containment device for a show about lively Lego ninjas, and I'm not actually sure how much memory is on it. So my question is this: How much storage does the average human non-Dingus-Egyptian-queen-husband need? Because if you're the kind of person who needs to record five shows at a time, you're going to die quick in the zombie apocalypse.
    Jeff Vrabel trusts Peyton Manning with all of his purchasing decisions. He can be reached at http://jeff vrabel.com and followed at http://twitter.com/jeffvrabel.

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