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.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, July 28, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, January 28, 2008
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!'"
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!'"
Monday, September 10, 2007
Interstate Billboards
Driving on interstates may feel as intellectually stimulating as a polka record, but I think there are innumerable points of interest along the way. Take the interstate billboards, for example. Just when you considered steering your car into the median wall upon the next site of an evergreen tree, a completely wacky billboard appears in the far distance, refreshing the trip with a breath of wonderment and sheer perplexity.
I don't know if, in any state that legalizes fireworks, there's a stretch of 15 interstate miles out there without a billboard advertising fireworks. And every fireworks store is a "superstore" -- usually owned by a Dave. It appears to me that every mother naming their son David is giving him a 1-in-3 shot at owning a fireworks outlet. A congratulations to all the Daves who have defied their occupational predestination odds and found success elsewhere in a non-fireworks-related vocation.
Is there a fireworks store that doesn't claim to be the largest in the world? Along the same lines, is there a mom and pop's diner that doesn't swear they have the coldest beer in town? These billboard writers are probably the authors of the same Wikipedia articles you used in your research paper. Some occasional fact-checking on the billboards would be nice.
On a side note, I'd hate to be the sap who bought his fireworks that one day of the year there wasn’t a "buy one, get one free" fireworks sale. Sucks to be you, Mr. Screwed Out Of Double The Fireworks Guy.
I do think it's absolutely hilarious that some businesses will tell you everything there is to know about them on their billboard, while others will simply say, "Roasted Almonds -- Exit Now!" It's with the latter that I always hear this old woman in my head yelling at me, "Look, do you like roasted almonds or not? Then what are you waiting for?? Cross those four lanes and EXIT NOW!!"
I actually saw a billboard recently that said, "Food, Fuel, and Flowbees -- Exit Now." I thought to myself, finally, a pit stop worth making -- a pit stop offering the three essentials in life: nutrition, energy, and a haircut from a vacuum cleaner extension.
I don't know if, in any state that legalizes fireworks, there's a stretch of 15 interstate miles out there without a billboard advertising fireworks. And every fireworks store is a "superstore" -- usually owned by a Dave. It appears to me that every mother naming their son David is giving him a 1-in-3 shot at owning a fireworks outlet. A congratulations to all the Daves who have defied their occupational predestination odds and found success elsewhere in a non-fireworks-related vocation.
Is there a fireworks store that doesn't claim to be the largest in the world? Along the same lines, is there a mom and pop's diner that doesn't swear they have the coldest beer in town? These billboard writers are probably the authors of the same Wikipedia articles you used in your research paper. Some occasional fact-checking on the billboards would be nice.
On a side note, I'd hate to be the sap who bought his fireworks that one day of the year there wasn’t a "buy one, get one free" fireworks sale. Sucks to be you, Mr. Screwed Out Of Double The Fireworks Guy.
I do think it's absolutely hilarious that some businesses will tell you everything there is to know about them on their billboard, while others will simply say, "Roasted Almonds -- Exit Now!" It's with the latter that I always hear this old woman in my head yelling at me, "Look, do you like roasted almonds or not? Then what are you waiting for?? Cross those four lanes and EXIT NOW!!"
I actually saw a billboard recently that said, "Food, Fuel, and Flowbees -- Exit Now." I thought to myself, finally, a pit stop worth making -- a pit stop offering the three essentials in life: nutrition, energy, and a haircut from a vacuum cleaner extension.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Baby Talk
Someone needs to explain to me what this baby talking is all about. Where did this come from, and who thought it was necessary? In other words, who deserves to be punched?
It goes without saying that baby talk is annoying, and it should go without saying that baby talk is nonsensical -- but it obviously needs to be said because every grown man and woman feels compelled to replace all L's and R's with W's whenever an infant is in the room. Do you honestly think the baby's comprehension of the everyday vernacular is magnified by your insistence to communicate with a faux speech impediment? Is he really thinking, "What's this 'precious little boy' stuff? Oh, 'pweh-shus wittul bwoy,' gotcha..."?
You are dumbing the child down, man, do you hear me? You are slowing his education down. Think about how accelerated his language growth would be if you would talk to him like a normal person. I'm guessing you're putting that child behind linguistically a good 12-18 months. Oddly enough, you talk to your dog the same way -- which means you equate your baby with a hairy mutt.
And then you wanna play Baby Mozart for your child to enhance his intelligence? Now that’s irony. Stimulate his mind with classical music and then talk to him like an idiot. Nice parenting. Maybe you should be the one listening to a Wolfgang Xylophone Sonata on the SpongeBob boombox.
It goes without saying that baby talk is annoying, and it should go without saying that baby talk is nonsensical -- but it obviously needs to be said because every grown man and woman feels compelled to replace all L's and R's with W's whenever an infant is in the room. Do you honestly think the baby's comprehension of the everyday vernacular is magnified by your insistence to communicate with a faux speech impediment? Is he really thinking, "What's this 'precious little boy' stuff? Oh, 'pweh-shus wittul bwoy,' gotcha..."?
You are dumbing the child down, man, do you hear me? You are slowing his education down. Think about how accelerated his language growth would be if you would talk to him like a normal person. I'm guessing you're putting that child behind linguistically a good 12-18 months. Oddly enough, you talk to your dog the same way -- which means you equate your baby with a hairy mutt.
And then you wanna play Baby Mozart for your child to enhance his intelligence? Now that’s irony. Stimulate his mind with classical music and then talk to him like an idiot. Nice parenting. Maybe you should be the one listening to a Wolfgang Xylophone Sonata on the SpongeBob boombox.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Urinals
I've been experiencing some problems in the bathroom at work lately. (No, my stream of urine is flowing just fine, but thank you for your concern.) It's this sudden movement taking my whole workplace bathroom by storm: urinal talk. Redefining the words "awkward" and "uncomfortable," a few co-workers have started feeling like there's no better place to engage in a conversation than at the urinal. Inappropriate? Yes, but I was thinking more along the lines of unnervingly, opprobriously, call-a-psychiatrist vile.
I’ve actually been using a urinal while someone was looking at me, talking to me, doing nothing that couldn't be done anywhere else in the office, a parking lot, or your mom's living room. No #1, no #2, no washing of the hands... Just standing there, staring at me, and talking. As if it's perfectly normal.
It's not a water cooler, people. And, I'm sorry, I don't think my workplace ensemble resembles a Catholic altar boy. So, seriously, let's turn the creepiness down a notch or two and take this "socially acceptable" concept into consideration next time you have the urge to tell me about your extracurricular activities while I'm fulfilling my duties as a bladder bearer. Do you think you can hold off your complaint of having to mow your lawn today about 19 more seconds while I finish up here?
Women have it a lot better, so it's much more understanding. Sitting in a closed stall, you've pretty much got your own little office there. Talk away, ladies. But usually when my fly's open, my belt's unbuckled, and I'm fully exposed for all the urinal to see, I'm not thinking of an icebreaker for the dude doing the same thing next to me.
I’ve actually been using a urinal while someone was looking at me, talking to me, doing nothing that couldn't be done anywhere else in the office, a parking lot, or your mom's living room. No #1, no #2, no washing of the hands... Just standing there, staring at me, and talking. As if it's perfectly normal.
It's not a water cooler, people. And, I'm sorry, I don't think my workplace ensemble resembles a Catholic altar boy. So, seriously, let's turn the creepiness down a notch or two and take this "socially acceptable" concept into consideration next time you have the urge to tell me about your extracurricular activities while I'm fulfilling my duties as a bladder bearer. Do you think you can hold off your complaint of having to mow your lawn today about 19 more seconds while I finish up here?
Women have it a lot better, so it's much more understanding. Sitting in a closed stall, you've pretty much got your own little office there. Talk away, ladies. But usually when my fly's open, my belt's unbuckled, and I'm fully exposed for all the urinal to see, I'm not thinking of an icebreaker for the dude doing the same thing next to me.
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