A scenario in which one can reasonably assume that the dead can interact with the living, but can’t get ESPN.
Me: Whoa! Oh, hey.
Bob: Isn’t it a little early for a beer?
Me: It’s uh…I don’t think…I mean
Bob: (laughs uproariously, in surround sound)
Me: (laughs uproariously)
Bob: So, how are our beloved White Sox doing? How do they look this year?
Bob: Well, that’s great! They must have gotten some powerful lumber-wielders and slick leather-slingers to complement their already fearful coterie of flamethrowers.
Me: Well…actually, it’s about a 14-yr-old boy.
Bob: I assume he’s some kind of phenom? A Griffey-esque prodigy who the suits at MLB won’t let play, due to some kind of rules against taking kids too early- a policy, by the way, about which I’ve been meaning to complain to Management, that we don’t have here.
Me: Nope. Just a kid whose dad wants him in the locker room all the time. It’s sort of tearing the team apart. It’s all anyone can talk about. So yeah, big news. Big, big news.
Bob: I gotta go. I’m having dinner with Groucho.
Me: Oh, tell him I said hi!