I am going to talk a little bit today about awareness and the lack thereof in today's society, or at least in the retail place I work for. Maybe I just have a Lovecraftian horror living under the store, draining the intelligence of those foolish enough to enter, causing near instantaneous transformations into gibbering idiots. I sort of doubt this, as it has yet to happen to me, I am the only sane one, it's everyone else who's crazy! My preferred belief is that modern civilization is full of people who are naturally stupid, and not that there is a nameless beast doing nefarious deeds in general.
Today I was in the bathroom doing the things one typically does in a bathroom, when the door handle commences to jigglin' from outside. Okay, this happens occasionally when one uses a public bathroom, no need to panic, a simple "Occupied" later and the person will stop, muttering a short apology which generally trails off into cursing your terrible luck at having to wait for someone else while nature continues to insist that things be taken care of immediately. Well the first one didn't take, so I said it again. Continuation of attempts to unlock door. I yelled it this time, loudly, and finally the person backed off. I finish my business, wash my hands as per company policy okay I did it please don't fire me boss who somehow found this. As I came out of the bathroom, I see a kid, probably in the range of ten to twelve, but could just as easily have been eight or fourteen because I am a terrible judge of age. He says to me "Sorry, I thought you said hockey puck." Without going into what relevance the phrase hockey puck could possibly have in the context of what was going on, what difference does it make what I said? You grabbed the door handle, mysterious words emanated from inside, so what's your next step? A person capable of critical thought might think "Oh, someone's in there, I have no idea why they said hockey puck, but I should definitely not go in there because there is clearly someone inside!"
Now don't worry, I didn't make this post just to rag on some dumb kid. It is merely an example, the most recent, of things that happen that make me fear for the general public. For another example, at the store, we have recently put our carts outside, by the door. They used to be inside, so I realize people aren't quite used to the idea yet, however, they are around three feet from the door. If you were to walk outside the store and somehow immediately trip and fall to your right, you would hit your head on the carts, or if you had the wherewithal you might catch yourself with a hand on them. You can open the door and reach over and touch the carts without closing the door or taking a step. As you go into the store, the carts are right there to your left. They are a very bright yellow, a color I don't personally like, but it fits with the motif of our store's logo colors. I say all that to say this: since we have put the carts out there, we get easily a dozen people per day asking us where the carts are.
There's an old saying I never really use, "If it were a snake it would have bit you." This saying has never been more true than today. These are the people who, five thousand years ago, would have been mauled to death by a saber-toothed tiger, or eaten a strange mushroom or poisonous berries and died horking their guts out on the jungle floor. Today, however, they are allowed to survive by a society that coddles them and allows them to live in personal microverses that contain only a single entity, themselves. Tiny bubbles of self absorbed existence that are only occasionally pierced when they ram into your car with theirs, or run over your foot with a rascal in a grocery store, or they have to interact with an actual human being while they stand in front of you in line at a restaurant, staring agape at the nearly double digit combo meal options. Greater minds than mine have wrung out the comedy potential in the dozens of warning labels all over every single thing these days, so I won't belabor those points or try to retrace their material other than to say one thing. Isn't it possible that by constantly flashing signs in people's faces to tell them they shouldn't do things or that other things are dangerous, that we, as a society, are actually training the skill of critical thought out of people? We no longer have to think about whether something might hurt us, we never have to look around for something dangerous around the corner. No one pays attention to their surroundings anymore. If you take an average person today and toss them into a wild, untamed jungle, or throw them directly into a heated battle, they would be dead without ever understanding what happened to them, simply because they don't pay attention. So there you have it folks, yet another screed against modern life. All things considered it isn't terribly original, but these are the thoughts that have been in my head.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Like My Dog
Lately I have had to listen to country music, since other people at work are weirdos for whom listening to Freebird at least twice a day is not a pleasurable experience. I will not mince words: I hate country and western. Except Taylor Swift. She can stay. I also dislike most dogs for various reasons, so the song "Like My Dog" by Billy Currington is a perfect storm of annoying music and terrible lyrics. Here's the first verse and what I assume is the chorus, since he repeats that part a couple more times in the rest of the song.
He never tells me that he's sick of this house
He never says why don't you get off that couch?
He dont cost me nothin when he wants to go out
I want you to love me like my dog
He never says I need a new attitude
Him and my sister ain't always in a feud
When I leave the seat up he don't think that it's rude
I want you to love me like my dog does Baby
When I come home, I want you to just go crazy
He never looks at me like he might hate me
I want you to love me like my dog
On the surface, this seems like a wistful song desiring the unconditional love only a dog can give. Who doesn't feel special when you come home and there's the faithful mutt wagging his tail in delirious joy at your mere presence? But let's look deeper, since that's what I do when I'm bored at work. Dogs cannot talk, which seems a pretty obvious statement to make, really. While we're at it, water is wet, and the Olsen twins didn't quite turn out the way people expected. But in several lines throughout, Billy feels it necessary to point out that a dog doesn't say things, so here we are. Okay, so your wife or girlfriend complains about things, that's an aspect of humanity not exactly unique to the women you know, or even women in general. Yet, Currington wants a girl who will act like a dog, and not complain. What's the message here? You want a mute girlfriend? Seems a little odd, but hey, the vocally challenged (is that the right nomenclature?) need love too.
Let's look at the line "When I come home, want you to just go crazy." A dog does not understand the concepts of time and other places that it cannot immediately see. When you leave the house, a dog assumes you are gone forever. Whether you're gone for five minutes or five days, the dog literally believes that you will never return. So when you make your magical return, the dog is ecstatic that you haven't been mysteriously erased from existence. No matter how many times you repeat this process, the dog will continue the cycle of missing you and being insanely happy to see you again. This is because dogs are stupid. They will eat their own feces, left unattended. So, Billy Currington, you want a girl who is so unintelligent, she thinks you disappear for hours at a time and then magically re-enter her life, allowing her to "go crazy." So you want a dumb mute girl? Getting a little creepy, dude.
The very first line of the song begins on a pretty bad note. Any person will get sick of any location if they stay there long enough, be it a house, the backyard, or even Disneyland. (I'd sure get tired of Disneyland after the dozenth time having to buy a single Exedrin pill for five dollars to get rid of the dehydration headaches I would get after vomiting up the six dollar hot dogs and only drinking four dollar sodas). So if your wife is sick of the house, take her places! Oh but then you whine that when you go out it costs money. But hey, all it takes to keep a dog happy is stopping at the corner store on the way home and grabbing some dog treats, which you'll only give out after it stands up or rolls over or some other silly trick that amuses you.
So to recap, Billy Currington wants a girl who can't talk, is dumb as Paris Hilton after a lobotomy, is easily amused, requires very little effort to keep content, and never challenges his authority (actually, a dog may occasionally challenge you, but hey, you can hit a dog!) It ain't a good look, Billy. And let's not get into the other role reversals this particular comparison invites, such as loving your dog the way you love your wife. Although a song about loving you like a cat might be interesting. Only wants attention for a random two hour segment of time per week, treats you like a servant, sleeps at all hours of the day and runs rampaging through the house at 2 am. Eh, maybe that one doesn't work either.
He never tells me that he's sick of this house
He never says why don't you get off that couch?
He dont cost me nothin when he wants to go out
I want you to love me like my dog
He never says I need a new attitude
Him and my sister ain't always in a feud
When I leave the seat up he don't think that it's rude
I want you to love me like my dog does Baby
When I come home, I want you to just go crazy
He never looks at me like he might hate me
I want you to love me like my dog
On the surface, this seems like a wistful song desiring the unconditional love only a dog can give. Who doesn't feel special when you come home and there's the faithful mutt wagging his tail in delirious joy at your mere presence? But let's look deeper, since that's what I do when I'm bored at work. Dogs cannot talk, which seems a pretty obvious statement to make, really. While we're at it, water is wet, and the Olsen twins didn't quite turn out the way people expected. But in several lines throughout, Billy feels it necessary to point out that a dog doesn't say things, so here we are. Okay, so your wife or girlfriend complains about things, that's an aspect of humanity not exactly unique to the women you know, or even women in general. Yet, Currington wants a girl who will act like a dog, and not complain. What's the message here? You want a mute girlfriend? Seems a little odd, but hey, the vocally challenged (is that the right nomenclature?) need love too.
Let's look at the line "When I come home, want you to just go crazy." A dog does not understand the concepts of time and other places that it cannot immediately see. When you leave the house, a dog assumes you are gone forever. Whether you're gone for five minutes or five days, the dog literally believes that you will never return. So when you make your magical return, the dog is ecstatic that you haven't been mysteriously erased from existence. No matter how many times you repeat this process, the dog will continue the cycle of missing you and being insanely happy to see you again. This is because dogs are stupid. They will eat their own feces, left unattended. So, Billy Currington, you want a girl who is so unintelligent, she thinks you disappear for hours at a time and then magically re-enter her life, allowing her to "go crazy." So you want a dumb mute girl? Getting a little creepy, dude.
The very first line of the song begins on a pretty bad note. Any person will get sick of any location if they stay there long enough, be it a house, the backyard, or even Disneyland. (I'd sure get tired of Disneyland after the dozenth time having to buy a single Exedrin pill for five dollars to get rid of the dehydration headaches I would get after vomiting up the six dollar hot dogs and only drinking four dollar sodas). So if your wife is sick of the house, take her places! Oh but then you whine that when you go out it costs money. But hey, all it takes to keep a dog happy is stopping at the corner store on the way home and grabbing some dog treats, which you'll only give out after it stands up or rolls over or some other silly trick that amuses you.
So to recap, Billy Currington wants a girl who can't talk, is dumb as Paris Hilton after a lobotomy, is easily amused, requires very little effort to keep content, and never challenges his authority (actually, a dog may occasionally challenge you, but hey, you can hit a dog!) It ain't a good look, Billy. And let's not get into the other role reversals this particular comparison invites, such as loving your dog the way you love your wife. Although a song about loving you like a cat might be interesting. Only wants attention for a random two hour segment of time per week, treats you like a servant, sleeps at all hours of the day and runs rampaging through the house at 2 am. Eh, maybe that one doesn't work either.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
A Plea From The Future
This is Lieutenant Ken Donaldson, Fourth Scout Division. Our primary mission objective has failed, and only I am left to try to finish the secondary. Someone has to stop him. I hope I'm sending this to the right time coordinates. If I have, then in about five or six years from your time, a horrible event will occur. You have to stop it if you can. A secret scientific project discovered a way to transfer consciousness to a digital format. George Lucas was the first man rich enough to undergo the procedure. At 1400 hours on March 14th, 2017, George Lucas will transfer his brain into a robot body. Shortly thereafter, he hired mercenaries to destroy the facility and its research, ensuring he would be the only one in a robot body. At 0000, July 2nd, 2018, all six Star Wars movies were rereleased in 3D with even more upgrades. Judgement Day. It's about fifty years later, we think. You can't imagine it. Lucas has released his movies over and over in various formats. There's a version with an "artsy" black and white color scheme. There's the Twi'lek Saga, a version where this green skinned girl dances in the corner of the screen the whole time. He even digitally altered all the actor's faces to have pointed canine teeth and blood dripping from their mouths for Vampire Star Wars.
I'm not sure how we've even survived. No one can stop Lucas. Millions are chained into seats in movie theaters, massive, miles long buildings that stretch across the sun baked land of every country. These mammoth monuments to Lucas' power are so tall they blot out the sun for acres and acres around them. Millions of pairs of eyes are wrenched open by the Lucas' Vision Appreciation Chairs, viewing cut after cut of Star Wars, as Lucas strives over and over to perfect his ultimate vision of the Star Wars universe.
He's- oh god, it's so hard to even say this. He invented time travel. In a way, it could be a blessing, as this is the only way we can get the message out to you. But he wants to use it to- to destroy the Artifacts. The only way we've been able to resist him is to watch the Original Theatrical Version, in cold, dark, underground theaters. They're small and only seat a few people at a time, and someone stuck gum on one of the seats and it's really caked in there so no one can clean it off. But we can watch the Originals, the way they were first released. It gives us hope. But he wants to destroy them. He's going to send drones back to remove old copies, so only his latest perfect vision will exist. We don't know what kind of effect it will have on our timeline, but please. You have to stop him. Kill George Lucas before he gets his indestructible robot body. I think they've found me. I can hear metal footsteps in the hall. I don't have any more time. Stop him, please! For the future's sake!
I'm not sure how we've even survived. No one can stop Lucas. Millions are chained into seats in movie theaters, massive, miles long buildings that stretch across the sun baked land of every country. These mammoth monuments to Lucas' power are so tall they blot out the sun for acres and acres around them. Millions of pairs of eyes are wrenched open by the Lucas' Vision Appreciation Chairs, viewing cut after cut of Star Wars, as Lucas strives over and over to perfect his ultimate vision of the Star Wars universe.
He's- oh god, it's so hard to even say this. He invented time travel. In a way, it could be a blessing, as this is the only way we can get the message out to you. But he wants to use it to- to destroy the Artifacts. The only way we've been able to resist him is to watch the Original Theatrical Version, in cold, dark, underground theaters. They're small and only seat a few people at a time, and someone stuck gum on one of the seats and it's really caked in there so no one can clean it off. But we can watch the Originals, the way they were first released. It gives us hope. But he wants to destroy them. He's going to send drones back to remove old copies, so only his latest perfect vision will exist. We don't know what kind of effect it will have on our timeline, but please. You have to stop him. Kill George Lucas before he gets his indestructible robot body. I think they've found me. I can hear metal footsteps in the hall. I don't have any more time. Stop him, please! For the future's sake!
Sunday, February 5, 2012
I Am An Alien
Because I have no idea when inspiration will hit next, and in the interest of having something on here that's not introductory nonsense, here's the facebook post I made about the gross hairy boob lady. If you're familiar with Lewis Black enough to read this in his voice, I feel it will enhance your experience.
I decided today that i am an alien. This lady of tremendous girth comes into the store today wearing a pretty lowcut top. Nothing unusual about that, bad diet and bad fashion have a habit of showing up in pairs like a couple of unwanted wedding crashers looking to score marraige desperate singles. The real horror didnt become evident until she came to check out. As her ominous cleavage hove into view, i began to notice small, curly black hairs all over her chest, some right on her boobs. I am not from this planet. I cant possibly fathom a series of decisions and lifestyle choices that would lead to me leaving the house like that. And yet, this woman did. We cannot be the same species, i refuse to believe it. So i just want to say, if i am an alien subconsciously broadcasting information to my home planet for an invasion, i am sorry. I actually do like some of you.
I decided today that i am an alien. This lady of tremendous girth comes into the store today wearing a pretty lowcut top. Nothing unusual about that, bad diet and bad fashion have a habit of showing up in pairs like a couple of unwanted wedding crashers looking to score marraige desperate singles. The real horror didnt become evident until she came to check out. As her ominous cleavage hove into view, i began to notice small, curly black hairs all over her chest, some right on her boobs. I am not from this planet. I cant possibly fathom a series of decisions and lifestyle choices that would lead to me leaving the house like that. And yet, this woman did. We cannot be the same species, i refuse to believe it. So i just want to say, if i am an alien subconsciously broadcasting information to my home planet for an invasion, i am sorry. I actually do like some of you.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Lame Title Denoting The Beginning Of A Blog
I work in retail. More specifically, (but still vague because "the views expressed in the commentary section of this DVD are not necessarily those of the company" blah blah blah, you get the picture) I work in a small store that is in a smallish city, that gets enough business to not get harangued constantly by higher ups, but not enough to keep me completely occupied for entire shifts. Add to that lunch breaks, and you can see how I might start to get bored. Simply put, I have a lot of time to think, especially considering I've been at the job over four years and could do it all in my sleep. I've amused myself by posting things on facebook, silly rants that probably sound more angry than I actually am, about things that happen in my daily work life. Whether it's whining about a woman's insufficiently covered hairy bosom, or decrying the decline of civilization and grammar, no subject goes un-barbed by my barbie-like wit. Wait, that didn't come out right. At any rate, my rantings seem to have drawn a small crowd, like a street performer on Santa Monica Boulevard, and people tell me they would read my blog. Well, here it is.
I believe words and actions are important. They say a lot about someone. The slump in a construction worker's shoulders as he grabs milk, eggs and diapers tells you he would like nothing more to be home catching the end of the game, but his wife called and asked him to grab a few things on the way home. Don't worry, I'm not going to wax poetic about the common man's struggles against the mountain of honey-dos and file-this. I'm more of a life critic, who takes specific, slightly unusual events and over-analyzes the crap out of em. I used the phrase "life critic" specifically to invoke the idea of a movie critic, or music critic, someone who uses a lot of words, some would argue more than is necessary, to say that they liked or didn't like something. A movie critic will drone on endlessly about the cinematography and the scene direction, things which a lot of people are barely aware of and may not care about until it's pointed out to them, but when they put it into words and go into detail, you realize that part of why you love that movie is because it was shot so well, and the actors had chemistry, or any number of things that "you don't notice, but your brain does." (Plinkett) So I may drone on a little too long when I see someone reacting strongly to a story in a tabloid and compare all of society to the human immune system; just think of me as a longwinded life critic.
I also believe grammar is important, so I try to use it well. Not because I think I'm superior to you, or anyone, but because that's all I got. I've thrown exactly one punch in my life, and it was in defense of my glasses. Anyone who grew up wearing glasses knows that "Don't you dare break these, you take care of these, we can't afford new ones, if you break these I will kill you and send you to your room with no dessert, possibly not even in that order!" Anyway, the punch was not followed through on well, was not aimed well (I hit something, but in the heat of the moment I couldn't tell you what) and the fight was subsequently immediately interrupted by my mother. Oh and it was a girl. Sorry ladies, I was (I think?) thirteen at the time and she had my glasses! I have a clean record since then, I swear I haven't even illegally downloaded a Chris Brown album! Tangent aside, I use words as my weapon against the annoyances of life, and I feel that using good grammar and flavorful language adds a lot to what would otherwise be a pretty stupid complaint. I mean some of the crap I say boils down to "omg sum stupid b!tch came 2 my stor 2day and her tits were totally hairy & gross plus she was wearin this tiny shirt wtf" Oof, that physically hurt to type like that, you see the sacrifices I make to entertain you?
So enjoy my blog crammed with six dollar words and three dollar opinions! I hope my big words and large blocks of text, containing more references than Dennis Miller commentating a chess match spectated by a Mensa convention, will convince you, not of my intelligence, but that "boy, he sure does talk a lot!" (oh god I hope this wasn't boring I'm better when I get mad at stupid things you're losing them already you idiot)
I believe words and actions are important. They say a lot about someone. The slump in a construction worker's shoulders as he grabs milk, eggs and diapers tells you he would like nothing more to be home catching the end of the game, but his wife called and asked him to grab a few things on the way home. Don't worry, I'm not going to wax poetic about the common man's struggles against the mountain of honey-dos and file-this. I'm more of a life critic, who takes specific, slightly unusual events and over-analyzes the crap out of em. I used the phrase "life critic" specifically to invoke the idea of a movie critic, or music critic, someone who uses a lot of words, some would argue more than is necessary, to say that they liked or didn't like something. A movie critic will drone on endlessly about the cinematography and the scene direction, things which a lot of people are barely aware of and may not care about until it's pointed out to them, but when they put it into words and go into detail, you realize that part of why you love that movie is because it was shot so well, and the actors had chemistry, or any number of things that "you don't notice, but your brain does." (Plinkett) So I may drone on a little too long when I see someone reacting strongly to a story in a tabloid and compare all of society to the human immune system; just think of me as a longwinded life critic.
I also believe grammar is important, so I try to use it well. Not because I think I'm superior to you, or anyone, but because that's all I got. I've thrown exactly one punch in my life, and it was in defense of my glasses. Anyone who grew up wearing glasses knows that "Don't you dare break these, you take care of these, we can't afford new ones, if you break these I will kill you and send you to your room with no dessert, possibly not even in that order!" Anyway, the punch was not followed through on well, was not aimed well (I hit something, but in the heat of the moment I couldn't tell you what) and the fight was subsequently immediately interrupted by my mother. Oh and it was a girl. Sorry ladies, I was (I think?) thirteen at the time and she had my glasses! I have a clean record since then, I swear I haven't even illegally downloaded a Chris Brown album! Tangent aside, I use words as my weapon against the annoyances of life, and I feel that using good grammar and flavorful language adds a lot to what would otherwise be a pretty stupid complaint. I mean some of the crap I say boils down to "omg sum stupid b!tch came 2 my stor 2day and her tits were totally hairy & gross plus she was wearin this tiny shirt wtf" Oof, that physically hurt to type like that, you see the sacrifices I make to entertain you?
So enjoy my blog crammed with six dollar words and three dollar opinions! I hope my big words and large blocks of text, containing more references than Dennis Miller commentating a chess match spectated by a Mensa convention, will convince you, not of my intelligence, but that "boy, he sure does talk a lot!" (oh god I hope this wasn't boring I'm better when I get mad at stupid things you're losing them already you idiot)
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