I am convinced my wife is trying to kill me. She is trying to bore me to death.

It started a few weeks back when she took control of the remote and got to watching some Netflix series called “The Crown.” Night after night, I am trapped helpless in my recliner with no choice but to watch it with her. When I complain, she suggests I go in the back bedroom and watch television. Not one for thinking things through, she fails to suggest how I am supposed to move my recliner to the back bedroom. Enduring The Crown is my only option. If she would just poison my coffee or file the brake linings on my truck it would be far more merciful, but death by “The Crown” is cruel even for someone as insensitive as her.

“The Crown” is a series about Queen Elizabeth and the royal family. From what I can tell from the episodes that don’t render me completely catatonic, I – a working-class slob with kids and a mortgage – am supposed to feel bad for a bunch of super-privileged zillionaires who never worked a day in their lives and live existences of incredible luxury all for doing nothing more than drawing breathe.

No kidding, they can’t even be bothered to dress themselves. Someone else does it for them. It would probably kill one of them to fry an egg. Their hardest activity of the day is ringing the bell to summon a servant. Speaking of servants, in one particularly heart-rending moment, the queen herself came dangerously close to actually thanking one. Can you imagine? The queen nearly expressing gratitude to a peasant. Fortunately, the servant was too busy groveling to notice.

In another episode the Queen’s sister is forced to choose between the man she loves versus maintaining her life as a princess. Would she choose love rather than face a lifetime of actually dressing herself? Who would come running when she rang her bell? My wife was transfixed to the screen. Me, I figured the worst that would happen is she’d sprain her ankle kicking sugar baby to the curb. Guess who was right?

“Would you have kicked me to the curb?” I asked Marianne.

“Shut up and watch the show,” she told me.

I actually have to give the writers of “The Crown” credit. I don’t know how they pull it off, but each episode somehow manages to be more boring than the previous episode. I am no physicist, but I predict that, eventually, the boredom nexus will collapse under its own weight, dragging “The Crown” and our planet into a black hole of oblivion which, believe me, is a much more merciful fate than being forced to continue watching the show.

The problem with “The Crown” is the same problem with most series Marianne likes, and I hate. Everyone in The Crown spends the entire time talking. It is episode after episode of talking. When they’re not talking, they’re looking pensive while tragic music plays. Nothing actually exciting happens. I’ve watched at least a dozen episodes so far and there has not been a single car chase or explosion. Even the sex stuff is boring. They could at least toss in a little gratuitous nudity here and there, but not The Crown. No one shucks their skivvy’s for any reason. Maybe the servant tasked with removing their closing is off on that day. You’d think for the sake of decency at least one of the young, attractive female cast members would show up in a bikini from time to time. It’s not like it would be hard to work it into the plot.

“Good Lord, Lucinda! Why ever are to showing up at the State banquet in a bikini?” the Royal Mother cries.

Lucinda responds (demurely) “It is hot out, Your Grace, and my servant who dresses me had the day off. This bikini was all I could manage.”

Why even have young, attractive female cast members if they aren’t going to show up in the occasional bikini?

I have survived Season One of The Crown, but my understanding is there are four more to go. Each episode of Season Two is getting more difficult to handle. Any day now, I expect one of the male characters to get in touch with his feelings.

“People are supposed to watch this trash?” I scream at the television.

Marianne ignores me and turns up the volume.