I recently had a back-and-forth with a friend about movie trailers and how simply preposterously they've evolved. I'm not referring to the 30-second commercial spots that just show spliced segments of emotions and explosions; I'm talking about the full-blown mini-movies shown prior to your cinematic feature presentation on the silver screen.
I realize I may be coming across as if I don't enjoy movie trailers. False. I actually thoroughly enjoy them. Even more, I look forward to them and am immensely disappointed if I miss any. But I think I enjoy them for the same, ironic reason that they're problematic: Most of them are essentially a condensed version of the movie.
Let's see, they introduce the characters, reveal the plot, explain the ups and downs, unveil the special effects, and unload all the best scenes and quotes; and from there I can pretty much surmise the obligatory plot twist and conclusion in my head. All in two and a half minutes, or roughly 2% of the two-hour flick. Perfect! I mean, what's left to see in the movie? The unnecessary characters, the plot filler, the expanded edition of the ups and downs, the much less interesting special effects, and all the other scene moments and chiefly forgettable quotes that reinforce the good scene moments and funny/dynamic quotes divulged in the trailer.
You can view this through two different lenses: (1) Well, that movie is spoiled -- thanks. Or, my personal recommendation, (2) I more or less just watched six other movies at no additional cost -- I'm really efficient and shrewd!
And while some movie trailers are blatantly forthcoming about the content and script details, they seem to omit one important, specific item: the friggin' release date.
"In theaters this fall." "Coming Summer 2011."
What am I supposed to do with this info? Am I supposed to run home and start circling entire months on the calendar as a reminder and round up friends a year in advance? Should I set up a notification on my Outlook application to start looking for this movie beginning that season's solstice?
If I could crush grapes and let the juices age into wine in the span of time between the release of a movie trailer and the release of the actual movie, perhaps that's too much of a notice. Decide on a date and give me a two- or three-week heads-up. The least of my concerns right now is if that comic book movie's sequel is due in June or July of 2012.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Shop Class
I often look back at high school and just laugh. The laundry list of reasons why could fill your grade school Trapper Keeper. Scholastically, one class stands out: shop class.
What is the good expected from shop class? What is a student supposed to walk away with at the end of the semester? That wood can be cut and carved and filed and stained and -- yes, the rumors are true -- burned? That a hammer will drive a nail into wood, that a saw will cut a board in two, and that disciplining a student with detention in the same room as a hammer and a saw is pretty much a bad idea?
I don't want to say that the public school system failed me with shop class, but... the public school system failed me with shop class. I literally learned nothing. It's not that I was unwilling to learn and showed up to class daily with a bad attitude; it's that nothing was taught. It always made me laugh when my shop class teacher tried to give a written test, as if that was supposed to imply that there was actual teaching going on. C'mon, a test? You mean, with paper and a pencil? Who are you kidding, man -- shop class is recess with tools.
P.E. teachers are often classified as the easiest occupations and the laughingstock of education, but shop class teachers can’t be too far behind. Really, how strenuous is setting out some boards and a box of screws and ensuring that the power tools are returned at the end of the period? Is there a lot of lesson plan preparation to such a curriculum?
The only recollections I can recall with precision from shop class are throwing chunks of wood as hard as possible at a wall, skipping class at least once a week to play pick-up ball in the gym, classmates dipping and smoking outside the classroom's back doors, lots of Carhartt jackets, and actually making a heart-shaped coin bank with a scroll saw.
Unfortunately, I've not technically needed to recall any of this information in any life situations. Yet. I'm still awaiting the moment where my experience with launching wood blocks at painted brickwork at overhand high speeds falls to my advantage.
What is the good expected from shop class? What is a student supposed to walk away with at the end of the semester? That wood can be cut and carved and filed and stained and -- yes, the rumors are true -- burned? That a hammer will drive a nail into wood, that a saw will cut a board in two, and that disciplining a student with detention in the same room as a hammer and a saw is pretty much a bad idea?
I don't want to say that the public school system failed me with shop class, but... the public school system failed me with shop class. I literally learned nothing. It's not that I was unwilling to learn and showed up to class daily with a bad attitude; it's that nothing was taught. It always made me laugh when my shop class teacher tried to give a written test, as if that was supposed to imply that there was actual teaching going on. C'mon, a test? You mean, with paper and a pencil? Who are you kidding, man -- shop class is recess with tools.
P.E. teachers are often classified as the easiest occupations and the laughingstock of education, but shop class teachers can’t be too far behind. Really, how strenuous is setting out some boards and a box of screws and ensuring that the power tools are returned at the end of the period? Is there a lot of lesson plan preparation to such a curriculum?
The only recollections I can recall with precision from shop class are throwing chunks of wood as hard as possible at a wall, skipping class at least once a week to play pick-up ball in the gym, classmates dipping and smoking outside the classroom's back doors, lots of Carhartt jackets, and actually making a heart-shaped coin bank with a scroll saw.
Unfortunately, I've not technically needed to recall any of this information in any life situations. Yet. I'm still awaiting the moment where my experience with launching wood blocks at painted brickwork at overhand high speeds falls to my advantage.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Drive-Thru Windows
Convenience can sometimes be really inconvenient.
Having a dry cleaners right by your house that starches everything regardless of your vocalized preference: conveniently located, inconveniently inattentive. Having a tee time that meets the schedule of everyone in your foursome but is directly behind a group of very amateur old women: conveniently available, inconveniently slow. Having a drive-thru window at your eatery of choice, but hating yourself for a plethora of reasons once in it: conveniently accessible, inconveniently... well, inconvenient.
And, boy, can that plethora of reasons run far and deep.
Yes, the drive-thru window: America's fat, lazy answer to fat, lazy people who want fat, lazy food without having to stop being fat and lazy. I include myself in that less-than-elite source of demand. And why not? The drive-thru window is actually a really good idea. Sometimes the weather isn't cooperative, making the dash inside overwhelmingly undesirable. Or you have kids in the car, and getting them out of the car and into the store and back into the car is hair-pullingly frustrating. Or, again, you're just fat and/or lazy. I have no problem with any of those.
What I do have a problem with are people who act like complete, selfish d-bags in the drive-thru. It takes one drive-thru order to see how people really are -- when friends, coworkers, and fellow church members aren't around -- when it's just them and Ralph with the drive-thru headset and crooked nametag.
What several drive-thru customers fail to realize is that not knowing Ralph or the other folks in line behind you by no means permits you to act like a turd. Whether it's placing four separate orders, or ordering the entire left side of the menu, or rifling off your barely discernible order in a fashion that's somewhere between a militaristic command and an auctioneer's blabbering, consider the employees and the other customers who are trying to use the drive-thru service for what it was intended: a service by which you drive "thru" -- not park and place a complicated order and park again and inch up and park some more and get your food and go and park to check the bag and... Just go inside and let me get my Value Menu sandwich already.
Having a dry cleaners right by your house that starches everything regardless of your vocalized preference: conveniently located, inconveniently inattentive. Having a tee time that meets the schedule of everyone in your foursome but is directly behind a group of very amateur old women: conveniently available, inconveniently slow. Having a drive-thru window at your eatery of choice, but hating yourself for a plethora of reasons once in it: conveniently accessible, inconveniently... well, inconvenient.
And, boy, can that plethora of reasons run far and deep.
Yes, the drive-thru window: America's fat, lazy answer to fat, lazy people who want fat, lazy food without having to stop being fat and lazy. I include myself in that less-than-elite source of demand. And why not? The drive-thru window is actually a really good idea. Sometimes the weather isn't cooperative, making the dash inside overwhelmingly undesirable. Or you have kids in the car, and getting them out of the car and into the store and back into the car is hair-pullingly frustrating. Or, again, you're just fat and/or lazy. I have no problem with any of those.
What I do have a problem with are people who act like complete, selfish d-bags in the drive-thru. It takes one drive-thru order to see how people really are -- when friends, coworkers, and fellow church members aren't around -- when it's just them and Ralph with the drive-thru headset and crooked nametag.
What several drive-thru customers fail to realize is that not knowing Ralph or the other folks in line behind you by no means permits you to act like a turd. Whether it's placing four separate orders, or ordering the entire left side of the menu, or rifling off your barely discernible order in a fashion that's somewhere between a militaristic command and an auctioneer's blabbering, consider the employees and the other customers who are trying to use the drive-thru service for what it was intended: a service by which you drive "thru" -- not park and place a complicated order and park again and inch up and park some more and get your food and go and park to check the bag and... Just go inside and let me get my Value Menu sandwich already.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Snow Delays
There is no disappointment in the world like looking out your window and seeing serene, unwrinkled blankets of snow and ice and then reading "one-hour delay" or "two-hour delay" adjacent to your county, college, or employer on the news ticker at the bottom of your TV screen. For crying out loud... talk about anticlimactic.
Albeit I'm no meteorologist, or any other -ologist whose salaried and leisure time is dedicated to the study and advancement of a science that touches the stratosphere or the molecular activity within accumulated moisture, but I can't possibly rationalize the benefit of a snow delay. What in the world is one hour going to do? One measly hour? Two measly hours ain't gonna accomplish much more. Is the temperature rising 25 degrees in that 60- or 120-minute span, unearthing the roads and sidewalks from its wintry layers enough to suddenly declare them "travelable"? If it was too dangerous a soap opera episode ago, aren't you still running the risk of hitting areas that aren’t clear enough for safe passage now? It's absurd to me.
These snow delays only screw up schedules and throw your whole day off kilter, trying to make up five minutes here and eight minutes there, simply so that you could wait around long enough for the visible ice to melt down to black ice. And the false benefit to a snow delay is the implied "extra sleep." Bold face lie. Perhaps if you knew about this delay the night before, but c'mon now... You gotta examine the situation outside, check the TV, wait for your county or institution to appear, and by then you hardly have enough time to get back in bed and fall asleep. And if you're like me, once you're up, you're up.
Snow delays are like those low-carb, lettuce-wrapped Thickburgers from Hardee's: You think slicing off a bit is going to make a difference when it's really not any more beneficial to you -- plus it's not even as enjoyable -- so just say "F it" and go all out.
Albeit I'm no meteorologist, or any other -ologist whose salaried and leisure time is dedicated to the study and advancement of a science that touches the stratosphere or the molecular activity within accumulated moisture, but I can't possibly rationalize the benefit of a snow delay. What in the world is one hour going to do? One measly hour? Two measly hours ain't gonna accomplish much more. Is the temperature rising 25 degrees in that 60- or 120-minute span, unearthing the roads and sidewalks from its wintry layers enough to suddenly declare them "travelable"? If it was too dangerous a soap opera episode ago, aren't you still running the risk of hitting areas that aren’t clear enough for safe passage now? It's absurd to me.
These snow delays only screw up schedules and throw your whole day off kilter, trying to make up five minutes here and eight minutes there, simply so that you could wait around long enough for the visible ice to melt down to black ice. And the false benefit to a snow delay is the implied "extra sleep." Bold face lie. Perhaps if you knew about this delay the night before, but c'mon now... You gotta examine the situation outside, check the TV, wait for your county or institution to appear, and by then you hardly have enough time to get back in bed and fall asleep. And if you're like me, once you're up, you're up.
Snow delays are like those low-carb, lettuce-wrapped Thickburgers from Hardee's: You think slicing off a bit is going to make a difference when it's really not any more beneficial to you -- plus it's not even as enjoyable -- so just say "F it" and go all out.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Magic Eye
I've always been a fan of puzzles and optical illusions. What growing boy hasn't stood in awe, mouth agape, at a card trick or a vanishing act of some sort? Something about the challenge of figuring out the hows and whys behind a tangible or visual conundrum have intrigued the holy crap out of me for as far back as my feeble memory recalls.
It's why I fell head-over-heels for Magic Eye pictures. Remember those bad boys? You know, the sinfully tacky color arrangements that contained a 3-D image somewhere within its pattern. Staring and crossing your eyes at the illustration long enough produced an obscure, shadowy shape -- in retrospect, a rather weak reward for the life wasted staring inanimately at a hideous spread of graphic art.
Was that a Tyrannosaurus Rex eating an ascending Pterodactyl or two koala bears performing an indecent act? No one really knew. But that didn't really matter. What mattered is that you were one of the few who could claim, "Ooh, I see it! I see it!" and then ridicule those who ogled the picture for seven minutes with head shaking and shoulders shrugged in frustration and despair. That's all any of us were really after.
You always kind of felt like an idiot staring at those illustrations, didn't you? I did. But it was like a bowl of M&M's: if it's there, I'm partaking -- you can't just walk by without indulging your senses. Arms folded, posture bent, eyes squinting, head slightly tilted, all in the name of feeding curiosity. And what did we gain in the end? Nothing. Usually disappointment in (a) our failure or (b) its lameness.
The real humor in Magic Eye is that so many people actually had the posters framed and hung in their house or office as if it was serious art. The designs, collages of repeated graphics or intersecting squiggly lines immersed in multicolored computer vomit, were undeniably repulsive -- too ugly to exist on the face of the earth for any other reason than, hey, inside it somewhere is a fighter jet in mid-combat.
And now Magic Eye is nowhere to be seen -- unless you look hard enough. Rather self-prophesying, wasn't it?
It's why I fell head-over-heels for Magic Eye pictures. Remember those bad boys? You know, the sinfully tacky color arrangements that contained a 3-D image somewhere within its pattern. Staring and crossing your eyes at the illustration long enough produced an obscure, shadowy shape -- in retrospect, a rather weak reward for the life wasted staring inanimately at a hideous spread of graphic art.
Was that a Tyrannosaurus Rex eating an ascending Pterodactyl or two koala bears performing an indecent act? No one really knew. But that didn't really matter. What mattered is that you were one of the few who could claim, "Ooh, I see it! I see it!" and then ridicule those who ogled the picture for seven minutes with head shaking and shoulders shrugged in frustration and despair. That's all any of us were really after.
You always kind of felt like an idiot staring at those illustrations, didn't you? I did. But it was like a bowl of M&M's: if it's there, I'm partaking -- you can't just walk by without indulging your senses. Arms folded, posture bent, eyes squinting, head slightly tilted, all in the name of feeding curiosity. And what did we gain in the end? Nothing. Usually disappointment in (a) our failure or (b) its lameness.
The real humor in Magic Eye is that so many people actually had the posters framed and hung in their house or office as if it was serious art. The designs, collages of repeated graphics or intersecting squiggly lines immersed in multicolored computer vomit, were undeniably repulsive -- too ugly to exist on the face of the earth for any other reason than, hey, inside it somewhere is a fighter jet in mid-combat.
And now Magic Eye is nowhere to be seen -- unless you look hard enough. Rather self-prophesying, wasn't it?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Office Refrigerators
Although I'd rather have one than not have one, a community refrigerator, like the one found at your office, screams disaster. It's where culinary packaging, social responsibility, and enzymatic browning all collide within a shared setting. It's where your evolved bad habits of uncleanliness and failure to timetable your expiration dates taint the sanctity of all other brown-bag brunches and leftover lunches. Simply put, it's where your mess is everyone's mess.
These refrigerators don't have to be like this. They can run and cool and preserve without the presence of vomit-inducing sights and odors. The problem is such refrigerators don't seem to exist in any office break room.
Every office refrigerator contains undiscovered horrors, where fruits and vegetables that once donned vibrant hues of red and yellow and orange have waned to greens and browns that Crayola has yet to name. Food textures have altered and grown fuzzier, with their cores and surfaces hardening where soft and softening where hard. And somewhere in the corner, behind that half-eaten office birthday cake and the bottle of lemon juice no one knows who originally brought in lies a small, cubed Rubbermaid container enclosing a now unidentifiable dessert with a questionable glaze and 5 o'clock shadow. Some of the dishes, beverages, and condiments have been imprisoned within the walls of the fridge for so long, for so many consecutive weeks, that they have better office attendance than their owners.
With just a few months of dedicated collective ignorance and rudeness, the office refrigerator successfully transforms from a temperature-controlled safe house for snacks and meals-for-one into a 24.9-cubit foot Petri dish. God knows what's festering on the surface of that chicken salad sandwich that’s been enclosed in a baggie since Labor Day.
If you're going to use the office refrigerator, use it like it's your own at home. And if you use your own at home the same disgusting way, then think about changing your fridge habits, or just scrapping the idea of owning a fridge altogether and relying on take-out nightly. No one wants to see or smell today what you brought in for lunch four months ago.
These refrigerators don't have to be like this. They can run and cool and preserve without the presence of vomit-inducing sights and odors. The problem is such refrigerators don't seem to exist in any office break room.
Every office refrigerator contains undiscovered horrors, where fruits and vegetables that once donned vibrant hues of red and yellow and orange have waned to greens and browns that Crayola has yet to name. Food textures have altered and grown fuzzier, with their cores and surfaces hardening where soft and softening where hard. And somewhere in the corner, behind that half-eaten office birthday cake and the bottle of lemon juice no one knows who originally brought in lies a small, cubed Rubbermaid container enclosing a now unidentifiable dessert with a questionable glaze and 5 o'clock shadow. Some of the dishes, beverages, and condiments have been imprisoned within the walls of the fridge for so long, for so many consecutive weeks, that they have better office attendance than their owners.
With just a few months of dedicated collective ignorance and rudeness, the office refrigerator successfully transforms from a temperature-controlled safe house for snacks and meals-for-one into a 24.9-cubit foot Petri dish. God knows what's festering on the surface of that chicken salad sandwich that’s been enclosed in a baggie since Labor Day.
If you're going to use the office refrigerator, use it like it's your own at home. And if you use your own at home the same disgusting way, then think about changing your fridge habits, or just scrapping the idea of owning a fridge altogether and relying on take-out nightly. No one wants to see or smell today what you brought in for lunch four months ago.
Monday, December 22, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, December 15, 2008
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...
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...
Thursday, December 4, 2008
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.
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.
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