“Sir, is this your vehicle?”
“May I come in?”
“Sir, I’ve gotten a complaint that you’re using this vehicle to send messages to microchips implanted in the brains of residents around here. Got any ID?”
“Ma’am, I work at an Atlanta TV station. This is a satellite truck.”
“Satellite truck? What’s that?”
“It sends a signal to a satellite 22,000 miles in orbit, which then sends it back to earth.”
“…And then into the chips implanted in the brains of our residents? Sir, step out of the vehicle, please.”
“This is television. We send the signals into outer space, then the TV station receives them, then sends them to a transmitter or a cable company, which then sends the picture to TV sets in homes across north Georgia.”
“So you expect me to believe that you send a signal 44,000 miles in order to get it to my TV set just up the road?
“Whatever you say, pal. What are all these other trucks doing here?”
“You know, my iphone sends a live video picture to another iphone. I don’t need a truck or satellites or outer space. ”
“But that’s a phone. This is television.”
“Right. Turn around, hands behind your back.”
“You can’t arrest me for committing acts of television.”
“Tell it to the judge, spaceman.”
OK. So, the cops really ventured into our sat truck to tell us we needed to move it to another piece of property, which wasn’t very interesting.