Hindsight

Our thoughts have two directions: backward and forward. We're either looking behind us or looking ahead of us. Even when we assume we're thinking about the current moment, the moment we're thinking about already happened and is now in the past by the time we're thinking about it, even if by only a couple nanoseconds. Deep, I know.

Additionally, these backward and forward thoughts can be broken down into two sub-directions: if we're looking ahead, we're either planning or worrying; conversely, if we're looking behind, we're either reflecting or regretting.

There's nothing really comical about looking ahead. Foresight hasn't occurred yet, so there's nothing to laugh about or shake your ahead in disgrace over. Hindsight, however, provides all the entertainment your mind can handle.

Here is what's so hilarious about hindsight: Whatever you're doing now, whatever you're wearing now, whatever you're saying now, whatever you're listening to now... it's all going to be humorous or just plain embarrassing somewhere down the road when looking back at this moment (well, that moment a couple nanoseconds ago) –- most likely embarrassing. One day I'll look back at my "Takes on Life" and my checkered, button-down shirt and my expressions I've subconsciously extracted from various media in pop culture and my headphones’ audio emissions, and I'll think, "Claude, what was going on in your head, buddy?"

See, I already know this. I know that what I'm doing with myself everyday will be laughable in the foreseeable future. Around the clock, I'm sporting hairstyles and picking hobbies and parading idiosyncrasies that I'll only be able to recall and discuss with a self-deprecating chuckle, despite how seriously I do these things right now. All that we consider "cool" now will inevitably be "uncool" upon some future regard. That goes for you, too. We're writing our own comedy, if I may momentarily be profound. Unfortunately, by the time we've aged enough to have a full life of funnies and bloopers upon which to both reflect and regret, our brains are too old to remember half of them.

But it's all about living in the moment. The one that happened a couple nanoseconds ago. And that one. And that one. And that one.

Hand Washing

It shames me to even have to write this, as plain sense as it is now, but, for the love of God, can everyone just make it a habit to stop by the sink and scrub a little soap on the hands before leaving the restroom? Honestly, nothing blows my mind like seeing people -- good God-fearing people -- still forgo this quick, simplistic, and decent ritual.

I don't know what it is, but some people despise this. Some folks just effin' loathe pausing by the faucet and soap dispenser and doing their duty after their doody. Listen to me, please -- it couldn't be any easier now. Science has been blasting away with enhancing technology that fights the spreading of germs while hastening and elementaryschoolifying the act of washing hands. Stand in the general vicinity of the faucet now and it turns on. Stand in the general vicinity of the paper towel dispenser now and it unrolls. The soap even pumps out in a pre-lathered foam for you! You have no excuse anymore -- other than you're just repulsive.

And if you don't do it for your health and your self-respect, then do it for me and my health. And my peace of mind. I deserve that.

Truly, I can’t help but wonder if you don’t wash your hands after using the restroom, do you ever wash your hands for any reason? Is there a circumstance in which you'll wash your hands? I'd think visiting the toilet would constitute as plenty reason to introduce yourself to the ol' soap and water.

So, here's what I'm asking of you, Mr./Ms. I-Just-Touched-Myself: Next time you’re vacating the bathroom stall or your similar friendly confines at home, take a good, hard look at that sink. Gaze into that ovular, sculpted recess in the counter just below the mirror and think that this -- this -- could be the moment, the seized opportunity, in which you prove to yourself and to everyone whom you hug, shake hands with, pat on the back, high-five, or touch the face of that you have not only embraced the germ-free life but chosen dignity and courtesy over sharing your last encounter with your unmentionables.

You may now go back to licking that snack's salt and grease from your fingers.

Bug Spray

Well, I've got ants (and, no, not in my pants, but thanks for asking). It seems colder weather has compelled them to find warmer locations, like various corners of my home, which in turn has compelled me to load up on various chemicals and mechanisms for exterminating these millimeter nomads.

It was as I scavenged through my own random, forgotten bottles of poisonous compounds and then fervently yet meticulously read the labels of each product Wal-Mart offered in its bug extermination aisle that I realized how surprisingly vicious and bitter we've become with unwanted pests. If you haven't ventured down this aisle in some time, allow me to share some taglines and guarantees proudly displayed on the products found there:

"Kills on contact!"

"Destroy the entire colony!"

"They enter to eat, they leave to die!"

Kill. Destroy. Die. Man, are we pissed or what? I felt suddenly enraged at these ants for daring to set their little appendages on my bathroom floor. I mean, literally, it's not enough that we disable the insect -- God no, we want to bring them death. And not just them but their whole family -- sister ant, brother ant, mother ant, father ant, aunt ant (pardon the pun) -- and their friends and their neighbors and their mayor and their whole colony. This isn't simply getting rid of the pest, folks; this is delivering an insect holocaust -- with a smile, no less.

And then my inward cheers to "kill, kill, kill" transitioned to wonderings of why it's socially acceptable for us to instantly and vilely annihilate a whole clan of creatures with a spray, but it's criminal to kick a dog. ...I guess this is where I'm supposed to give a disclaimer that I don't promote cruel treatment of animals -- but maybe I do. I mean, I am massacring an entire population within my household and wherever else they drag the chemical disease as they "leave to die."

Not that I decided against spraying the holy crap out of my plumbing and moulding...

E-mail

Life without e-mail is hard to imagine. Modern society absolutely would crumble without it. This doesn't mean, though, that e-mail is without its pain points and just plain silliness.

For example, I think we all have moments where slapping a red-painted exclamation point to denote immediate, urgent review on our outgoing e-mail is a substantiated action. (It should be noted, however, that this "high importance" e-mail selection should substitute the 17 exclamation points and caps lock in the subject line otherwise used. No need to use all of the above.) I just can't quite wrap my head around this "low importance" option in my Outlook.

What situation calls for a low importance signifier? I mean, aren't regular e-mails -- those with no selected level of importance -- basically of low importance? Or is there an even lower level of importance than that? If it's not flagged by a red exclamation point, I figure it's not hostage-situation important, so I'll get to it when I get to it. But an e-mail with "low importance"... I mean, I'm throwing that sucker so far on the backburner, I might read that this calendar year, might not. Essentially, I guess it doesn't really even matter if I ever read it, does it? You, the messenger of this information, regard this data as so low of importance that you've intentionally gone out of your way to connote it as such. Think of it this way: If I were to sort my inbox by levels of importance, your e-mail would be listed lower on the electronic message totem pole than forwarded chain e-mails with jokes degrading blondes, rednecks, lawyers, and anyone of an orientation not of the forwarder's and attempted phishing scams from pseudo financial corporations.

Since we've now brought up forwarded chain e-mails... how about omitting these blessings and curses at the conclusion of the e-mail that outline my fate depending upon whether or not I forward this Laffy Taffy joke or inspirational story to seven people I know? I'm tired of reading e-mails that come with blackmail demands and unexpected repercussions. You know, here I am taking the time to open your e-mail and read it, and suddenly I have an assignment to send it on to avoid a drastic pitfall ranging anywhere from unhappiness in life to the death of my first born. I don't recall signing up for eWitchcraft.

Old Woman Perfume

Anyone who knows me knows I love old people. Senior citizens are to be respected, commended even, for living so long and enduring so much. They have defied death over the years to get to their age and left their footprints behind in history in some fashion, magnificently or otherwise. It's a remarkable feat to reach that golden age. Go ahead, be kooky, act crazy, say what you want, hold back for no one -- you deserve it.

It's just that old woman perfume that I question. It's a curious, pungent potion these mature ladies choose to mist or pat on themselves. It borderlines intolerable. But what's comical is that they all wear it. There's some age -- I guess upon your first $1.50 age-related movie ticket discount -- that a woman's cooking skyrockets into greatness and perfume preference is solely and unapologetically "that old woman perfume."

Old woman perfume wouldn't be so bad if it didn't smell like old woman perfume. Not really sure what sort of floral, berry, and antiseptic concoction comprises that liquid scent, but it just smells old. It's about two moth balls and a filled bedpan away from smelling like a "Matlock" night in the den of a retirement home.

These ladies sure don't mind dabbing a few extra drops here and a few extra drops there -- and, heck, just turning that princess-cut, glass perfume vase upside down over their muumuu-garnished bodies. As they walk by, you can be literally overcome with the trail of scent. You can feel your lungs reaching for the panic button as they're trying to make sense of this sudden inhalation of epidermal potpourri and somehow find and absorb any sparse molecules of oxygen.

Makes you wonder how the young key grips and light technicians daily handled being on the set for "Golden Girls" all those years. I guess putting a human being's olfaction in a full nelson for an entire season would build the proper immunity.

B-sides, vol. 1

Various "Takes on Life" quickies not worthy of a full version:

• If you want to know how dumb of a human race we're becoming, go buy a magazine now. I used to purchase magazines to read articles. What happened? Where'd the words go? Magazines are now 85% pictures, advertisements, and scents. The reading is gone. Full in-depth articles have been whittled down to paragraph synopses or just fragmented captions underneath pictures. I guess all that reading required too much effort. The plus side here is I can now know what Angelina Jolie has been up to this month in a matter of six words.


• What's up with every cosmetologist looking like a freak of nature? Is turning yourself into a science experiment really a good marketing tool for your business? Probably not. Nothing could be more ironic than seeking to achieve personal beautification from someone who looks as if she drove to work from a Barnum & Bailey tent in a clown car.


• What are Pixie Sticks? Sugar-flavored sugar?


• Can't believe parents are still buying their kids trampolines. As much fun as they are, they're death traps. I grew up playing on a neighbor's trampoline against my parents' wishes. But you're just asking for it, really. We all know of a trampoline horror story, whether it's a biographical or autobiographical one. Injuries abound by (1) bouncing into someone else, (2) getting your foot caught in or between the springs, (3) falling off or unintentionally jumping off, (4) landing awkwardly, or (5) bouncing into someone, causing you to fall off or unintentionally jump off and then landing awkwardly with one foot somehow caught in or between the springs. "Quit playing video games, Jimmy, and go outside and challenge gravity head-on!"


• Can TV stations please stop airing Viagra and Vagisil commercials during the hours of dinner time? Seriously.


• There are a few grocery items I feel uncomfortable buying purely because of the large doses of estrogen injected into the products' packaging and advertisement. Their commercials will show a woman sensually consuming the product naked in a tub surrounded by candles. Their packaging displays a woman in '80s leotards and a headband who seems to be working out to an Olivia Newton-John mix. And, though philanthropic, apparently the only disease whose cure is worth donating a portion of the products' sales to is breast cancer. Well, sorry that I occasionally yearn for a cup of Yoplait, or I routinely like to start my day with a bowl of Special K, or I periodically need a Dove chocolate fix, or I enjoy the lasting comfort and assurance of an Always maxi pad with wings. ...Wait, scratch that last one.

Tip Jars

Man, are the tip jars getting out of hand or what?

Look, tips are fine and dandy and, in the right situation, much deserved. I was a server at Applebee's for a few months in college, so I get it. Some employees' sole income is reliant on customer gratuity. Cool, I can hang. And when I tip, I tip well. But nearly all businesses have taken the idea of tipping way too far. Tipping used to be a gracious gesture; now, it's not just expected, it's demanded. Putting a tip jar in your face proves it. The tip jar is now separating you the customer from them the service providers.

I'm just not going to throw tips around. I'm not a supporter of giving a tip to someone for doing the job expected, especially when you've paid for the job -- unless the service is given on a gold platter, in which case I might throw a couple Washingtons your way. We need to think about the outlandish placements of these tip jars, seriously.

Here's what I mean:

Fast food: Suddenly, a great wave of tip jars have landed on the cash register counters of fast food joints all over. No, no tip. It's fast food, folks, who are you kidding? You get no tip from me for reaching around and grabbing the burger someone else made. Besides, there's a reason you have a 99-cent menu -- your customers are cheap. And I'm one of them.

Bathroom attendants: So, let me get this straight: you want a dollar or two for wearing a suit and handing me a paper towel? Okay. Wipe my butt for me, and we'll talk. In the mean time, I believe I can handle the arduous task of grabbing my own paper towel to dry my hands, thanks. Kind of creepy that you're there in the bathroom with me just staring and waiting to assist. Please leave.

Car washes: There might not be a tip jar, but those folks wiping down the car sure deliver all the body language that scream "Tip me!" as you get in your car. Well, thank you, car-wiper-downer, for doing your portion of the service for which I paid your manager. Your tip is somewhere in that $29.95.

Anywhere there's beer: Please take care of your bartenders. They work hard dealing with specific drink orders, open tabs, and loud, annoying drunk people. But I'm not asking for a shaken martini with two olives and a shot of love -- I just want a beer. A beer they're not brewing. A beer they're merely grabbing and opening. That action doesn't warrant a dollar from me. Tell you what, just give me the beer, and I'll open it. That'll free you up enough to clean up that girl's vomit.

Checkout Lanes

Since grocery shopping isn't frustrating enough, between weaving and drifting around other shoppers' carts and trying to hunt down that new product you saw on TV, grocery stores have taken the liberty of upgrading your levels of aggravation to maximum capacity just upon your exit, ensuring the rolling of your eyes, the pulling of your hair, and the cursing of your mouth before you go on with your merry life.

They accomplish this extraordinary feat via the checkout lanes. Here you'll find some of the most outrageous, thoughtless, inexperienced-in-societal-habitation human beings on the planet.

Sadly, as we undergo an economic recession, we simultaneously face a second recession: a recession in common sense. (Perhaps the two correlate somewhere down the line of cause of their existence?) Look at the customer with an overflowing shopping cart in the express lane for evidence. Or observe your cashier's handiwork -- now, I very well could be overestimating the inclusiveness of the definition of "common sense," but apparently today's definition does not include not bagging raw meat and dishwasher detergent together. (This happened to me recently.) Either that or the cashier's an idiot. My money's on the latter.

And how about that "express lane"? That's a hoax, isn't it? Even though the lane clearly states "20 items or less" [grammatical side note: it should state "fewer"], the cashiers will reject no one. I love the people who come up there asking, "I have 20 items, plus 30 -- do I qualify?" Sure, come on through.

I do applaud the "U-Scan" express lanes, as Kroger calls them, where you're basically entrusted to scan your own items, bag your own items, pay for your own items, and not steal anything. This seems like an ingenious means to expedite the checkout experience; unfortunately, through my innumerable hours waiting in these lanes, I can safely say that more than half of the "U-Scan" users cannot text message, much less independently work a touch-screen computer with a dozen pair of eyes watching and waiting.

There's also an extraordinary amount of closeness in customer proximity in checkout lanes. Frequently I'm feeling mounting pressure from the customer behind me in line. If her stack of shopping selections isn't toppling over onto mine without the appropriate space between our piles, then her shopping cart is on my heels with each progression I make up the lane. I think we all need to take a deep breath in the checkout lane and step back about two paces. I mean, really, we're not getting any closer to checking out by dry-humping each other in line.

Expiration Dates

As Kryptonite is to Superman, so is an expiration date to us common folk. An expiration date can determine your limits, weaken your intent, and stymie your actions. It's that powerful. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure Superman himself is insusceptible to the effects of an expiration date. I'll bet even the Man of Steel would have to hold up his hands in refusal on a glass of one-day-expired milk.

You can find expiration dates on virtually any product sold nowadays. Food, medicine, cleaning supplies, water (water, for crying out loud!) -- you name it. We're a society obsessed with expiration dates. We want it on everything now. We demand it because we don't like guessing games. We want an expiration date established for our driver's license, club membership, elevator inspection, and military conflict. Even if it's a made-up date, just say it so that we can live according to it.

I struggle with the expiration date. Admittedly, I have no earthly idea what it means. All I know is that someone who was trusted enough to assign expiration dates to products for a living calculated and officially declared this product "invalid" as of this given date. Talk about a powerful position... And it's a very specific date. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. This is the day. This is when it happens. Heed this date. Someone is confident in that particular date enough to sear it on the product, right in your face. You know what, you got me -- I'm heeding.

The ambiguity of that expiration date deepens, however, when you try to understand just what that date signifies -- does this product's world come crashing down on this date, or is this product's final day of credibility this date? Do I have this date's 24-hour period, or should I trash it prior to this date? Some expiration dates will give you a very hazy preposition before the date, like "expired on March 26" or "expired by March 26." These could be translated either way. But what's worse is what most products do: Here's the date, no preposition, figure it out yourself. Good luck.

To play it safe, I usually toss the product a couple days before the expiration date. I can't take chances. I don't know what happens on that date, and I am certainly not interested in finding out.

Quite honestly, I'm surprised that they haven't nailed it down to the expiration hour yet. That would help immensely. There goes any doubt or reservations I have with your blue ink timestamp.

Starch

I like to think I'm not a complete moron. But in 26 years of wonderment and critical thinking, I have still failed to understand why anyone would voluntarily use starch in their clothes. Makes zero sense to me.

I'll confess that I like clean clothes. A lot. I'll also confess that I despise wrinkled clothes, probably more than I like clean clothes. And throwing all my cards of honesty out on the table here, I'll confess that I'm an avid ironer. I like my clothes fresh and ironed. They don't have to be pressed necessarily, just tolerably clean and wrinkle-free. No big deal.

Perhaps this further muddies my perplexity with the usage of starch. Spraying starch on your clothes inevitably results in wrinkles, usually within 10 minutes after getting dressed. This especially pertains to a morning commute. Why starch your shirt when you're about to sit in your car and drive to work? Open door, get in, sit back, buckle up, wrinkle shirt. And not just sort of wrinkled -- terrain-map-of-the-Appalachians wrinkled.

"Ironing your shirt and then getting in your car is the same thing. So, why iron?" Not exactly the same thing, dude. Wearing clothes for any given length of time is going to result in some wrinkles. Just the way it is. Ironing removes ungodly, unnatural wrinkles and gives you a fresh look throughout the day. Starching stiffens your clothes and exacerbates any natural wrinkling, guaranteeing you a messy, wadded ensemble by lunch. Not to mention that it feels like wearing a pizza box.

Much to my chagrin, there are some real dedicated shirt-starchers out there. My dad is one of them. Starches every buttoned shirt, no questions asked. It astounds me. Where's the advantage? What are you gaining? You're morphing your shirt into construction paper, only to ultimately maximize the wrinkling capability of every woven thread in that shirt. Come on, Dad...

"Star Wars"

This is where you'll probably get offended.

Ever since marketing was proven to be an effective tool for selling a product, the approach has been to advertise the holy crap out of something until people are compelled to purchase that something. Yet, more often than not, that something isn't really even that great of a something. But eventually you fall prey to the marketing ploy usually for at least one of three reasons: (1) You were convinced into thinking the something was legitimately good. (2) You felt pressured into thinking the something was legitimately good. (3) You were hoping that purchasing the something would shut up the rampant marketing campaign. (Hint: #3 never works, trust me.)

Enter "Star Wars," stage left.

This trilogy was way ahead of its time in the realm of special effects, cinematography, and storytelling. So, agreed, it was interesting and entertaining. But, folks, let's be real here, it was a mammoth-budget, sci-fi B-movie trisected into three long installments for maximum bang. And because it contained more than a shred of fantasy and mysticism, it caught wildfire within the nerd community, catapulting lonely, socially awkward males within the age range of 9 to 52 from their blanket forts and the confines of their retired parents' basements, past the singles bars and real world jobs, into the streets with their Star Wars shirts, figurines, and plastic lightsabers.

That was "Star Wars'" downfall -- the empire that struck back, if you will. The nerds. Because they built more than an appreciation, more than a fan base -- they built a religion. Not a cult following, but an actual cult. A cult where Earth is simply another rock floating around in the heavens' battlefield and undying adoration lifts any saber-equipped human or otherwise hairy creature intolerant of "the dark side" into polytheistic idolism.

And then marketing took over and made sure you'd never forget about this trilogy.

Sure, the geeks and the ensuring marketing made it a massive success, but in doing so they ruined it for everyone else. Same issue with "The Lord of the Rings" or "The Matrix." These could all be great epics, but loners and the marketing that capitalizes on loners stifled any potential energy these cinematic works held. I now hate "Star Wars" because its marketing has inflated into sensory overload. The trilogy wasn't enough. Now it's ballooned into action figures, costumes, Legos, cereals, posters, video games, spin-off shows, spin-off cartoons, another trilogy, etc. etc. etc. Every month for the past 30+ years, it's something else with that confounded "Star Wars" logo on it. And it's only getting worse. I can't buy shampoo at Wal-Mart without being bombarded by "Star Wars" marketing.

Somewhere a Scientologist is probably burning a vigil or sacrificing a lamb to George Lucas right now.

Postal Service

I'm convinced there isn't a happy postal service worker in the world, certainly not in the United States. If there is, he's in the back of the post office somewhere sorting mail, away from the public eye, because I haven't bought a stamp from him. If you're thinking it would seem a bit backwards not putting your more amiable employees on the frontline, you're right -- but what's customer service to an operation whose business services can't be rejected by its customers? Sort of like the DMV -- or really any other government-run organization that we loathe but can't refuse. Postal service workers know we'll always have to mail crap, regardless of how advanced our technology grows, so why smile to bring us back when they know we'll be back anyway, satisfied or not?

This is why the post office harbors endless amounts of bitterness, resentment, and suicidal tendencies. There isn't a more depressing line to stand in (but, again, there’s the DMV). Look at everyone in there next time you pop in to say hello to your postmaster. The post office is everyone's chore, everyone's errand. No one's just "hanging out" at the post office -- not too many "No Loitering" signs around the building. No one is excited to be there -- they're mailing money for bills; they're sending gifts to and unfortunately for someone else; they're realizing that their final price isn't just a flat-rate shipping cost anymore -- it's $1.59 for mail insurance and $2.20 for a receipt upon delivery and $2.12 for a signature confirmation. Matter of fact, the only exciting noun in a post office is bubble wrap, but it's bundled and taped up in a box about to be shipped out.

And let's not forget the ultimate price gouging, the price gouging oil corporations, Starbucks, and Chick-fil-A's gallon of lemonade unanimously tip their hats to: all the different speeds you can select by which your mail can reach its destination. You can have that package on its recipient's doorstep by (A) tomorrow or (B) in about 14 business days. This kills me. Basically, the postal service knows it can get mail anywhere domestically in 48 hours or less, but if you want it mailed simply with lickable American flag stamps, the mailmen are purposefully letting it age in a mysterious mail delivery limbo. Yes, there is actually a caste system in the shipment of mail.

And here we are still confidently writing "Fragile" and "Do Not Bend" on our outgoing mail.

Elevators

Elisha Otis is often dubiously credited with inventing the elevator in the mid-19th century. Whether the actual inventor or simply a "practicalizer," Otis probably had no idea how awkward he just made everyone's business day. But what do you expect cramming a sealed chamber with various personalities and mannerisms?

Being cooped up in an elevator with a handful of strangers is so uncomfortably entertaining. What's about to take place during the ascension up floors is so predictable that it's hilarious. Have no doubt, you will have one or more of the following people: (1) someone clutching everything she owns for dear life right there as she stares abashedly at the floor from a corner of the elevator; (2) an "important" person sifting through absolutely nothing on his Blackberry in order to maintain said adjective of rank; (3) a fool continuing her phone call throughout the entire course of the ride as if she just walked into a soundproof pod separate from all other riders; (4) an older man whistling and playing with keys or loose change in his pockets; (5) a perpetual complainer who, when asked how his weekend was, un-wittily replies with a variation of "Not long enough"; (6) any of the above standing psychopathically close to you.

Those are the exceptions. The other folks are just staring dead ahead at the door, the floor, the changing numbers representing levels. You'll find me in this group. We're just pausing our lives, waiting to get off and continue on, hoping that the elevator experiences zero issues and that no one tries to make fake, breath-wasting conversation to pass time.

One way I entertain myself nearly every elevator ride is imagining, if this tin can got stuck in the shaft right now, which of my current fellow passengers would be the first to just snap and scream uncontrollably, lighting all the buttons with drum-rolling fists in desperation? I naturally like to single out the yacht club member in the Jos. A. Bank pinstripes. But I find that this usually requires very little imagination.

Discomfort and cheap entertainment aside, think about if we didn't have elevators. We would have no tall buildings, no skyscrapers -- just a bunch of two- and three-story buildings everywhere. Corporations would be spread out like college campuses, and cities would be 12 times the size for it. Which means more driving to get to your destination. Which means more gas and earlier wake-up calls. Which means tighter budgets and less sleep. All because of no elevator.

I guess the gains within that microcosm of gauche behaviors make it all worth it. Thanks, Otis.

Air Mattresses

My number one fear when staying at someone's house is that he unrolls an air mattress for me. There's no saving grace there. I just know there's a spinal cord in the shape of a cursive 'F' waiting on me in the morning. There simply isn't enough food in the fridge to balance out that trade off. Just give me a pillow and the bath tub, and I'll be good.

I almost feel bad not liking air mattresses. At the very least, when offered in an overnight stay, it's a token of hospitality -- which I appreciate, don't get me wrong. I'm not ungrateful, just uncomfortable. See, the thing is, you know when you're at your friend's place, and he says, "Make yourself at home"? Well, sleeping on an air mattress is the complete opposite of making myself at home. I don't own an air mattress. I don't enjoy an air mattress. I can't sleep on an air mattress. I'm not at home when I'm on an air mattress. Matter of fact, I feel closer to Vietnamese torture barracks on an air mattress than I do to home. Nothing about an air mattress says, "Home sweet home."

Ever taken a good look at the packaging an air mattress comes in? Isn't there always a picture of someone laying on that air mattress, turned on her side, hands pressed together and tucked underneath her cheek, and smiling away in her sleep? Advertising has never been so false. What's really happening in that picture is something totally different. You're actually witnessing a human being hating herself. Right there in front of you, a single moment of bitterness and self-abhorrence locked in time forever by a UPC-emblazoned photograph.

The people who say taking an air mattress on a camping trip isn't really "roughing it" have obviously never slept on one. You're probably more of a pussy if you slept naked on a gravel floor and a single pine cone in a cave with a bear family.

So far we've tried two of the four elements in our mattresses: water and air. For those scoring at home, that makes it 0 for 2. Can't say earth would be all that comfortable, though a stitched-up rectangle of soil would certainly provide more firmness than water or air underneath those vertebrae. And let's just hope Craftmatic never explores fire.

Police Chases

Nothing unites commonly disassociating people quite like a live telecast of a police chase. It's in that one unfiltered, uncensored moment that wars, economies, and political and religious friction find a seat on the backburner as the eyes of all races, colors, and creeds are congruously fixated on the Michael-Bay-meets-reality visuals of a breakaway renegade eluding an entire county's finest.

Cars swerve. Tires skid. Tensions -- and ratings -- rise. Outside of those speedily traversed roads in that one insignificant portion of Earth, the world's population pauses to unanimously put one arm around his brethren while the other arm convulses into a fist pump.

And I'm pretty sure we're all thinking the same thing: "Man, how free it must feel to be that guy right now just driving 100+ mph with the whole world watching." This is just before the getaway car's tires explode on the barricade of spikes laid out. Suddenly no one wants to be that guy. In a matter of a few minutes and a pair of handcuffs, we go from thinking this guy is amazing enough to get his face on a T-shirt to thinking this is the biggest jackass on the planet.

You kind of have to root for the guy behind the wheel because he has, intentionally or not (most likely not), landed himself in a situation that we have all dreamt to be but are too sensible to actually do. It straddles that fine line between audacity and stupidity. Somehow, though, we faithfully honor the action each and every time it breaks out -- so much so that when the fleeing man inevitably parks the car and tries to make a foot race out of it, we all cast out a big groan, followed by a rambling, profane list of synonyms for "moron," and then openly discuss what an amateur, poorly devised move that was and how we could have easily done better.

It's all one big win-win situation for the viewer. If the criminal gets away, we go, "Yeah! Escaped from the swift arms of the law! Defeated the government and all that it stands for! Stickin' it to the man -- right here on national TV! ...Well, that's that. What's for dinner?" Yet if the criminal gets caught, we say, "Yeah! That's what you get, idiot! Way to be a douche. ...Well, that's that. What's for dinner?" I think we watch so adamantly because we know, whatever the outcome there, nothing changes here.

And then back to the rat cage we go.

Home Fitness

Bowflex. Nordic Track. Total Gym. And anything with Chuck Norris's face and/or signature on it. All losers.

Don't get me wrong, they're all great successes and marketing ploys with most likely good intentions, but all monumental tragedies and bear traps to the consumer'’s finances, good credit, and New Year's resolutions.

Personally I love exercise. Makes me feel good, rejuvenated, accomplished. And that's why I go to the gym. Not home, the gym. I go. Go out. Go out of my house and go to the gym. Leave my place of cushiony relaxation and a smorgasbord of fatty culinary delights and surround myself with sweaty people in an atmosphere conducive to physical fitness. Because when I get home from work, that's all, folks. I'm on vacation until the next day of business. No strenuous tasks for me, like turning on the TV without the remote -- never mind blasting my pecs or running in place for a "Cosby Show" episode's span of time.

You see, the problem with purchasing home fitness machines and attempting to turn that guest room into a Gold's Gym is that, although it initially sounds like a good idea, you're trying to run a 10K and do a thousand crunches within a 15-foot radius of your food pantry where the doughnuts and Oreos are. Let's be honest, it's really only a matter of days before that monstrous, metallic mold of muscle machinery is reduced to a drying rack for your XL T-shirts.

Workout videos aren't much better. Just Wal-Mart impulse buys: Look at the cover of that video case with the blonde bombshell and her bodacious buns of steel in that tri-colored leotard. Put the Pepperidge Farm cake back, honey, because your wife's gonna look like this in six weeks!

Now, how many times are you actually going to watch that same aerobic VHS tape with the same instructor yelling out the same buzzwords of motivation and performing the same exercises? My guess is four. And that fourth time will be from your couch while you're dunking those aforementioned Oreos with your feet propped up on the coffee table.

Truthfully, I'm not 100% positive the human body is really even capable of circumflexing itself into any of those pretzel twists portrayed by the video aerobic and yoga instructors. As they bend and contort their bodies, I can't help but think that, yes, if my childhood memory serves me correctly, this appears to be the point at which my Batman figure's leg would snap off.

Customer Service

Pardon my I-remember-when-gas-was-a-quarter moment, but remember when customer service was actually a service to the customer? Employees would wait on you hand and foot to ensure everything's fine. There was a phone line connected specifically for your concerns and disagreements -- a phone line that went directly to a representative. There was a money-back-guarantee policy sans the red tape.

It's all one gigantic customer disservice now. If you want them, come find them. If their phone number's in the phone book, it's a guessing game which one of 32 given numbers will lead you to the correct department for your specific need. Or you can grab your sleuth hat and magnifying glass and try locating that diminishing "Contact us" link on their website that's so small, it's obvious they don't want to be reached. And forget the operator if you do stumble upon a phone number -- it's a digital scavenger hunt trying to push the right series of touch-tone keys to finally reach your destination. And then... wait. Wait for five minutes. Wait for 20 minutes. Wait for the next available representative your call will be taken in the order in which it was placed thank you for holding please have your account and invoice number ready this call may be recorded or monitored we apologize for your inconvenience.

Let's just quit apologizing for the inconvenience, CSR's. Quit reading the "I’m sorry" statement teleprompted on your computer screen. No one's taking you seriously or forgivingly. Just save that energy and put it towards a means of rectifying my issue.

I miss the days of old. The representative who spoke in my native tongue. The store clerk who willingly assisted me regardless of whether or not that was her department. The realization that people don’t stick their receipts on their fridge by a Psalm 23 magnet but can and do misplace them.

I'll always remember customer service. She was a good friend. The way she spoke, the way she smiled, the way she bagged my groceries for me. It's too bad -- such a sudden yet quiet death. We can bury her next to her cousin, the defunct "The customer is always right" unwritten policy.

Bluetooth Devices

As Moses stood up to Pharaoh and demanded liberation for his people, and as Martin Luther King Jr. stood up to racist tyrants and hatemongers to denounce segregation and welcome equality, so will I stand up to Bluetooth hands-free headset owners and declare these words of truth, justice, and... more truth: If you own and wear one of those small ear-stationed devices with a blinking blue light for your cell phone, you're a douche.

I could save us all some reading time and just end the roasting here because their appearance alone, loyally and undyingly fixated to a person's ear, is so ridiculous that my declaration really needs no justification, but I know you want more. You want to know every reason why I would ever have the audacity to slam such a popular advancement in technology, a fad so widespread that you can't even go to Dollar Tree to pick up an expired 5-lb. carton of rejected rainbow-colored Goldfish crackers without seeing it in use. Yet we all harmoniously abhor Crocs, don't we...

Nevertheless, I'll elaborate. Because, so help me God, the first time I came across one of these things, I laughed. Laughed hard. In a someone-punch-that-guy-please-because-he-looks-so-preposterous way. But, you see, that feeling hasn't subsided yet. And that was some years ago. And what's with that blue light, as if you needed to look even more outlandish with an oversized hearing aide strapped around your ear? Glad it's blinking so that more attention can be brought to your shrewd purchase of a clip-on tie for your ear. "Look at me, everyone, notice my sleek, techie ear accessory on which I spent some of my excess of unwanted cash!"

Adding to its silliness is the appearance that you're talking to yourself while using it. It's not until you turn around that anyone can tell you're actually on the phone (or rather the phone is on you). Talking to these Bluetooth-bearers is beyond frustrating since they can suddenly and seamlessly break into a phone call without forewarning mid-discussion. How many phone calls is a person getting anyway? Does everyone who wears these things like jewelry have to stay on-call around the clock? "Excuse me, folks, I have to stay on-call all day. A call could break out. Gotta be ready. Better safe than sorry. The President could call at any mo--hello? Oh, hi, Mom. Yeah, I've got the gallon of milk in my hands right now."

And I love it when people try to rationalize their Bluetooth headset by explaining that holding a cell phone while driving is distracting and dangerous. They want to be more alert, pay more attention. Besides, that free hand needs to be able to select a song from their iPod or operate their GPS navigation tool or hold a cheeseburger.

Energy Products

When your Monster, Rockstar, and Red Bull cans run dry, don’t worry.

Gas stations are now serving coffee with energy. Energy coffee. Apparently plain coffee was too wussy. Either hundreds of millions of coffee drinkers worldwide have been wide-eyed and buzzing from a placebo all these years, or some manufacturer of concentrated energy just invented a cheaper, legal methamphetamine. Besides, doesn’t injecting coffee with additional doses of stimulant run within the same boundary of common sense as dipping bullets in poison?

Sadly the energizing of foods hasn’t stopped with coffee enhancement. The cola powers-that-be have pumped more caffeine into their soft drinks. Take for example Diet Pepsi Max -- you know, for those of us who don’t want to consume those unhealthy grams of sugar but do thirst for monumental amounts of caffeine.

Candy bars are loading up, too. Check your local convenience store for the Snickers Charged bar, which, despite its ionized name and packaging, contains about as many B vitamins as a Big Mac has any vitamins.

I’ve seen our planet’s future -- and that future is unnaturally chemically energized. Give us about, oh, eight more years and we’ll be purchasing ginseng, taurine, and every B vitamin imaginable in a liquid state to mix into our steamed vegetables, casseroles, and desserts. We’ll be dressing our salads with thousand island and guarana and marinating our ribs in honey barbecue and ginkgo biloba.

One day Parker Brothers will include a plastic bottle of liquid energy as a possible means of death in their board game Clue.

Let the headaches and insomnia begin.

Laser Jet Ink Printers

There I was, kicking it like "Office Space" by the printer, awaiting my warm, Microsoft Word-ed, tree-sliced emission, when I suddenly realized what kind of technology we’re dealing with today: Fast. How fast? Laser jet fast.

I love it that the hardware companies have christened their printers as "laser jet ink printers." Could they have picked any faster two-word combo than "laser jet" to market the speed at which documents are produced by their merchandise? I have to laugh when I think about it. I mean, lasers are fast. I don't believe I've been in direct contact with any since my last youth group trip to Laser Tag, but from what I remember, the results were darn near immediate. And jets don't F around, either. So, really, with those two words together, you're banking on one heckuva guarantee. At "laser jet" speed, that paper should be flying -- literally -- right outta there. It should be printed off in a pre-folded paper airplane, just shooting out at people. I would think at the preliminary board meeting for this new printer, the execs had to be asking each other, "Good God, do we need to include a backstop with each purchase?"

I can't wait for the day employees look at each other around the chrome, space-age water cooler and reminisce, "Remember those 'laser jet ink printers'? Oh, man, weren't those a joke! Sure glad we now got that 'telekinetic light year Speedy Gonzalez atom-splitting Mexican-restaurant-dinner 5000 printer!'"