Your Bumper Sticker Hurts My Brain

I know I should not let stupid people enrage me.  When I'm confronted with this type of person, I should simply allow myself to smile and think, "Oh, well...another stupid person," or, "Tra la la...look - a squirrel!" or just think nothing at all, like most people seem to do.


However, some stupid people insist on flagrantly displaying their mental deficiencies in the form of bumper stickers so infuriating that I must use every anger management skill I've ever learned, taught, and/or heard of to keep from ramming the offender's car.


Example #1:  THANK GOD YOUR MOTHER WAS PRO-LIFE


Um...excuse me?  My mother is pro-choice, thank you very much, and she CHOSE to have me.   [Good choice, Mom!]  


Oh, and by the way, fuck you.  People as dumb as you have no right to talk about my mom.


Example #2:  ABORT OBAMA


Abort...Obama?  What?  Okay, I'm going to go ahead and assume that this guy (I know he's a guy, because I saw him) is a right-wing, "pro-life"/pro-war & pro-death-penalty Obama-hater.  But must he also reveal himself as a complete ignoramus with no understanding of human biology?  Abort Obama indeed.  This guy probably also believes that oral sex can lead to pregnancy.

Lately, as I've been driving around noticing incredibly stupid bumper stickers plastered on the stupid cars of stupid people, I've begun dreaming up my own equally stupid bumper stickers to enter the fray.  Here is but a small selection:


SAVE THE MOSQUITOS


The Earth Is Mine To Destroy


My Other Car Is A Team of Slave Children


LIFE CAUSES CANCER


Spotted Owls Can Suck It


Jesus Would Want You To Abort That Thing


Not All Who Wander Are Interesting


Reading Is For People Who Can't Get Laid


God Is An Asshole


Support Your Local Meth Dealer


Beelzebub Is My Co-pilot


Casey Anthony Was Framed


Please feel free to add any of these lovely slogans to the rear of your car.  Doing so would certainly be a great way to end up with one of these:

Resolution Devolution

The New Me

Every year since the 7th grade, I have owned, meticulously updated, and carefully followed a daily planner.  In these planners, I've written all educational, professional and personal tasks & appointments in obsessive detail.  Over the past 20+ years, I've often wondered how my life would proceed if my planner were ever lost, destroyed, or stolen.


Several weeks ago, I was headed to an appointment in downtown Portland, and I put my planner in my bag.  The following day, my bag was stolen out of my car.  Because I was (a) completely freaked out about potential financial repercussions, and therefore focused on debit/credit cards & my cell phone, and (b) on summer break, with very few appointments/responsibilities to keep track of, it took several days for me to remember that the planner had also been in the bag.


When I realized that fact, my soul morphed into this:

LIFE NOW ENDS

However, after approximately 38 hours of completely freaking out (and failing to locate a replacement planner that was acceptable, with each day broken down into 15-minute increments), I realized that I had been granted an opportunity to make a change in the way I manage my life.  I determined that I would not purchase a replacement planner, and, more importantly, I made a resolution to be less organized.

An excellent point!

This is one example in my recent trend of making devolutionary resolutions.  Lately, I have decided that it is not in my best interest to be a with-it, helpful, positive, contributing human being.  Therefore, I am now striving to be more of a schlub.  This seems like a much more rational and convenient approach towards life.


Organization is something I've been painstakingly dedicated to for the majority of my conscious existence.  And after 36 years, I have found that being obsessively organized has had no truly positive effect on my life.  I suppose one could extrapolate from the well known patience maxim, inserting a different virtue, and determine that "organization is its own reward," but in reality, organization simply leads inevitably to the curse of competence.  For those of you unfamiliar with that phenomenon, it manifests itself much like this:


Competent Person:  I'm going to do my job well.  I'm going to meet all of the conditions of my job description and do the best I can at all things at all times.  I'm going to have impeccable follow-through and make sure to do everything I say I'll do.


Competent Person's Coworker:  Really?  Sweet!  Here - do all of my work, too!


Competent Person's Supervisor:  Woo hoo!  Someone to pick up all of my slack!  I can start working 20-hour weeks!


[5 years later]


(Written on gravestone)
R.I.P. Competent Person
You Tried Your Best
Sucker


The thing is, folks, being overly organized and conscientious simply does not pay off.  At all.  Ever. It doesn't win you any bonus prizes, early retirement, super cool friends, amazing sex, or luxury vacations.  Essentially what being organized earns you is additional work, most often other people's.  Therefore, I'm giving it up.  I'm ready to show up late, double book, and overlook tasks I've previously committed to.  Oh, and I am also looking forward to passing the buck.  I haven't tried that out before, and it sounds pretty awesome.

Here I am practicing

Another devolutionary resolution I've been working on lately is doing what I want without bothering to explain myself.  This is a tough one, primarily because of how I was raised and the resultant internalized mechanisms of personal accountability, but also because I live on the West Coast, where people are wicked fucking sensitive.  When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me I was too sensitive.  However, compared to the inner workings of West Coast folks, I believe my childhood emotional state was forged from solid steel.


The difference between East and West Coasters became apparent to me when I had my first supervisory position (in California) and needed to intervene with an employee who wasn't meeting his job responsibilities.  My supervisor explained to me how to talk to him about his deficiencies in a way that wouldn't hurt his feelings, and for the first time I learned about a technique that I now refer to as "sandwich supervision."  

No, don't eat it.  Supervise it.

Sandwich supervision is when you take your critique of a person, which is the whole reason you've initiated a conversation with said person in the first place, and sandwich it snugly between two points of praise.  The hope is that the person being reprimanded, after receiving two confidence-boosting declarations, will be able to hear and learn from the strategically inserted point of criticism without becoming defensive and shutting down. 


Here is an example of sandwich supervision:  "David, I really appreciate your highly professional hygiene.  You smell great!  I also need to let you know that smoking crack with your clients...well, it's probably not a good idea.  You know, since you're their addiction intervention counselor and all.  So maybe try to work on that piece.  Oh, and I also wanted to let you know that you were very punctual last Tuesday!  Nice job!"


I am so done with that bullshit.  Sorry, folks, but from now on, I'm just telling it like it is.  No more sandwich supervision or sugarcoating anything.  In the future, all Davids are gonna get it, just like this:


"David, you smoke crack with the clients.  You are fucked.  I'm calling the cops.  Oh, and I have a gun."


So despite the fact that this devolutionary resolution does not mesh with West Coast functioning at all, I have still resolved to stop making excuses or providing explanations when I just don't feel like doing something, like attending a random party or going to get drinks with people I hardly know.  The fact is this:  I am antisocial.  Over the past few years, I've become comfortable with that, despite the fact that a friend once told me that I'm an asshole for feeling that way.  Well...fine.  I'm an asshole.  At least I'm honest about it.

I don't wanna play with you.  Get over it.

In the past, when attempting to avoid a social gathering, I would create elaborate explanations like, "Oh, I'm sorry, but I've had a really tough week at work, and my sister's having problems with her new house and needs me to call her tonight, and the pets are sick, and blah dee flur dee floo," but now when I don't want to do something, I just say, "No, thanks."  Whew!  It's so liberating!  I've also taken to leaving parties "French-style," which means leaving without saying goodbye to anyone.  It rules.


In conclusion, guys and gallies, I must admit that I am enjoying the prospect of devolving as a human being.  However, I suppose there is some concern that, by the age of 50, I will greet people at the door by punching them square in the face.  When that happens, I ask that you please remember the 35 years when I chose to rise above the fray, and consider posting my bail.  


Thanking you in advance...

Aw, fuck it.  Where's that blue dye??

Combos of Doom

Recently I thought back on why I started writing this blog in the first place, and when I remembered the intentions were to decrease my weirdness (i.e., talking to myself) and increase my magnanimity, I actually burst out laughing.  As far as talking to myself is concerned, I'm doing it as much as, if not more than, ever before.  And clearly, if you've been reading these posts, you have realized that my attempts at being magnanimous have been subtle at best, and completely nonexistent in reality.


So I have returned to the place I frequently come to whenever I make some attempt at self-improvement, which is simply accepting who I am.  I am a crazy, talking-to-myself, evil person who enjoys picking humanity apart in order to point out all of the imperfections and laugh at them mercilessly.


That being said, this post will be devoted to what I have identified as three of the most unfortunate human personality trait combinations.  If you can help it, try your best to avoid people who match these descriptions.  And if you are one of these people, please feel free to enlist in the Space Pod Relocation Program as quickly as possible.

Just to get you in the mood for unfortunate combinations...

#1 Narcissism + Anarchy = The Narcichist

"No rules!  Except mine!"

Oh, yes, we have all met this blowhard jerkoff.  The Narcichist is anti-everything except for his (or her, I suppose, although let's face it - this dude is usually a dude) particularly rigid way of doing things.  He has figured out how everything in the world works, based on his singular experience, and has now generalized his personal mode of operation to apply to every other human being alive.  


If you don't subscribe to the rigid credo of his particular brand of "anarchy," then you are considered a submissive follower, a square, and a loser (since another sign of his brazen lawlessness is labeling and openly mocking anyone who doesn't agree with him).  This guy will also try to mask his cruel comments by stating he's "just being honest."  Look, Pal - do not equate being judgmental and rude with being honest.  Honestly is a virtue.  You're just a dick.


#2 Stupidity + Arrogance = The Stupogant

In spite of the fact that they are complete idiots, Stupogants believe they have the right to be in charge of everything.  They also have no doubt that their opinions, as ludicrous, short-sighted and illogical as they may be, are actually tried-and-true facts.  Most commonly due to patterns of structural privilege and social dominance, these folks have had the world handed to them on a silver platter to do with as they wish, and they believe this has occurred because they are superior beings, or God has chosen them, or some other such nonsense.


When this unfortunate combination is coupled with any sort of real or perceived power (e.g., a Stupogant is elected to office), the consequences are especially hellish.  The Stupogant is incapable of self-reflection or long-term thinking, shuns research and education, and believes that smirking, mocking, yelling, name-calling, and bombing are sufficient and appropriate rebuttals when faced with any form of opposition.  


You can thank this combo for the majority of human-on-human acts of violence.


#3 Pretension + Pathetically Low Self-Esteem = The Prethetic

"Worst.  Post.  Ever."

Imagine plodding your way through life, experiencing no successes or positive regard, and consistently wallowing in self-pity, angst, worthlessness, and despair.  After years of this plodding & wallowing, you determine that everyone hates you, and that they probably have a point.


Now picture that you discover one particular subject area in which you possess some sort of innate talent.  You study this subject obsessively.  After establishing a level of expertise, you then decide, for the sake of creating an initial shred of ego strength, that said subject area is the only important thing in the world.  [Examples of these areas of proficiency might include:  computer technology; French philosophy; video games; modern art; organic gardening; or show dogs.]  


This is not to say that there's anything wrong with mastering any particular subject.  However, when extreme proficiency is matched with cripplingly low self-esteem, that's when the pretension factor rears its ugly head.  When a person's fragile sense of self is completely tied to the public's acknowledgement of his or her expertise in a particular area, you will find that he or she will gleefully shower contemptuous condescension and general snarkiness all over anyone who demonstrates less mastery in that area.

Where Prethetics send the next generation to be trained

Woe to the poor Narcichist, Stupogant, and Prethetic, and woe to you if you happen to end up engaged in a debate with any of these folks, because it may last for hours.  If you find yourself in this situation, your best course of action may be to fake a seizure.


Or just pull one of these:

Things At Which I Suck

Lately I've been thinking a lot about writing and feeling grateful for the fact that I'm comfortable as a writer.  I know that lots of people feel utterly frustrated and inept when they write, and I'm happy that I feel more...um...ept in that arena.


However, thinking about what I'm good at doing has also gotten me thinking about the many ways in which I totally fail at life, such as:


1.  Bowling

This is what doesn't happen when I bowl.

I hate bowling.  In my experience, bowling alleys are loud, stuffy, smelly, and full of pale, puffy people.  But mostly I hate bowling because I am so very bad at it.  I'm the only person I've ever heard of who managed to throw a ball into the gutter while the gutter bumpers were up.  I also don't know how to release the ball properly, so I frequently disengage my fingers too late (causing my fingernails to bend backwards) and throw the ball up in the air, which inevitably (eff you, gravity) causes said ball to come crashing down on the floor with a loud BANG!  [Cue angry stares from the pale, puffy hoards.]


On the rare occasion when I am bowling and people tell me it's my turn, I boo.  I hate my turn.


I even suck at Wii bowling.  The first and last time I Wii bowled, I accidentally punched a dog in the face with my controller.  Honestly.  Who does that?


2.  Thinking In Three Dimensions


The inability to think in three dimensions has all sort of fun repercussions, like the possession of laughable drawing skills and no sense of direction whatsoever.  Let's examine these topics individually.

• Laughable Drawing Skills

I could never draw something this good.

Two memories stick out for me when I think about this particular failure.  One is from high school physics class.  My lab partner and I were writing notes back and forth, and in one of them I tried to draw a picture of a classmate - in stick figure form - running.  I don't remember why.  What I do remember is the look of utter befuddlement on my lab partner's face when she saw the picture.  She responded with:


He's sitting and sweating?


To which I replied:  No - he's running!


And she wrote back:  He's...running?  WHAT?


She then took about 2.5 seconds to demonstrate the simple process for drawing a running stick figure, which made perfect sense to me after I saw it.  However, having no 3D thinking inhibits the ability to do those sorts of simple tasks!  Now I know how to draw a running stick figure.  I also know how to draw a smiley face wearing a little hat.  And that is the extent of my drawing repertoire.


Also in high school, I was playing Pictionary with a group of friends, and my task was to draw a frog.  Easy, right?  Well...not so much for poor Al.  I wish I still had the picture I drew.  I don't know what the hell it looked like, but it certainly didn't look anything like this:

Apparently it looked more like this:

or this:

because my poor Pictionary partner guessed both "wolverine" and "wildebeest" based on my stellar drawing, but never mentioned anything about a frog.

• No Sense of Direction

Until my maternal grandmother was in her 80s, she thought that North meant:  "Up, out of the ground, towards the sky."  It is now my honor to carry on her proud legacy when it comes to directional abilities.  What that means is this:  I lack cognitive maps.  My brain has no sense of how things exist physically in relation to other things, which creates a complete inability to maneuver from one place to another.  Suffice it to say that if you plunked me down in the center of my hometown and asked me to lead us to my family home, where I lived for 15 years, we'd end up in Canada.

This is how I feel in a restaurant, trying to get from the bathroom back to my table.

When I was in my early-20s, my mother tried to give me verbal directions somewhere, and about halfway through the process, she stopped.  She said, "Usually I think of you as a very intelligent person, but when I try to give you directions, I swear I can see into your eyes, straight through your head, and all the way to the back of your skull."  It's true.  When people try to tell me directions, I think my brain takes a field trip into my butt.

She gets it.  She would never try to give me directions.

There are many, many, many other things at which I suck, but I think I'll just briefly tackle one more, which is:


3.  Listening To People Talk About Their Corporate Jobs

Please don't tell me what you do.

Small talk is difficult enough without having to endure listening to some rando explain the bullshit minutia of his or her corporate job.  If your answer to, "And what do you do?" is something like:  "I do PR for a marketing firm," or, "I do marketing for a PR firm, " or can be translated as:  "I move money between (uber-giant corporation(s)/wealthy people) and (uber-giant corporation(s)/wealthy people)," please, folks - spare me the excruciating details.  Just say, "I'm a suit," and go get me a drink.  I'm already on the verge of slipping into a fucking coma.

Let's Do This

I've decided to write a book.


If you Google "write a book," what you will discover is that all humans and their grandmothers' hairdressers are planning to write, or are in the processing of writing, a fucking book. It's like blogging. There are something like 12 trillion blogs being written right now, which means that every person on the planet is writing approximately 1700 blogs. That's a lot of blogging! And it's also discouraging, because I see blogs like: "Hi! This blog is about my cat Roofikins Squashpants and his adventures in the backyard!" and they have over 100,000 views. My blog has like 6 views per day. And now I'm planning to write a book. Sheesh.


I've felt compelled to write for as long as I can remember and created my first story before I had mastered the physical act of writing. I had to utilize the writing skills of older people like my mother, sister, and grandmother, who graciously took dictation for  me. The first story I "wrote" in this fashion was called The Ugly Duckling (not to be confused with the famous children's story of the same name). It was about a duckling who was so ugly that he decorated a colorful box and wore it over his head. This made it difficult for him to see anything and easy for him to be duped by thieves who tricked him into robbing a bank for them. He thought they wanted him to be their friend. Sad story. I didn't finish it.

I cannot believe I just found this picture.

Throughout my childhood, I started several books. Every single one began with the line: "Hi!  My name is..." What each of my stories had in common was the same first line (inserted with a different, snazzy protagonist's name), lots of yelling (I have no idea why; there was no yelling in my life outside of these stories), and a length of about five pages before halting abruptly, sometimes mid-sentence.


I wrote throughout my youth and into college - short stories; book beginnings; songs; screenplays - avoiding only poetry because poetry blows (or maybe I just don't get it). I clung to the idea that I wanted to be a professional fiction writer, despite being discouraged from that path on a regular basis by most anyone who had my best interests in mind. Finally, during my senior year of college, I decided to speak to a career counselor about becoming a writer. I sat with a woman in the counseling center and poured out my soul to her, explaining how I'd been creating stories since before I could write, loved nothing more than developing characters and their lives, and felt like being a writer was my one true destiny.


The counselor listened patiently to my thorough disclosure and then informed me that being a fiction writer would be an impossible career path. She suggested that, since I loved writing so much, I try one of the following alternatives:

• writing for an advertising firm
• writing for a management consulting firm
• writing for a venture capital firm

Thanks for the advice, jerk.

At that point, I decided to give up the idea of being a fiction writer. I'd received enough messages clearly informing me that it wouldn't work, so I looked for alternatives. Since I was interested in human beings and the way they function in the world, I studied psychology, which led me into the social service field. This career path has been quite perfect for me. Social service work is consistently interesting and profoundly rewarding, albeit sometimes exhausting and soul-crushingly painful as well. I have been satisfied with this type of work for almost 15 years now, which is a big deal for me. Usually, individual ventures hold my attention for about 2-6 months. Granted, I've worked in seven different settings, but all have been in social services, and it's all been pretty positive.


A few weeks ago, I went back east to visit family and friends. I spent one night with my friend Laura, a woman I've been friends with since we were 8 years old. [Laura is also the friend featured in the post about my most embarrassing moment.] We stayed up late chatting, and at one point during our conversation, she told me her sister-in-law is writing a book. Then she said, "You should write a book. Really. You need to return to your roots."


Old friends are amazing like that. They've watched you age and seen how you have become the person you are. You cannot hide or recreate yourself with old friends; they remember your past and your dreams, and they hold you accountable for all of it. If you still have people in your life who you've known since you were a kid, I recommend you hold onto them.

This will be Laura and me in 50 years.

Laura's advice and encouragement allowed me to take an honest look at the unsettled, frustrated part of me that has been nestled in the back of my consciousness for years. After examining it for a little while, I came to the conclusion that, yes, I do need to write a book, and I'm going to do so.


The most difficult thing about starting the process of writing a book isn't writer's block or a lack of ideas. The most difficult thing is that I wrote a couple of stories in the past, submitted them for publication, and had them rejected.  


OH MY GOD, I HATE BEING REJECTED SO MUCH! IT MAKES ME WANT TO KILL EVERYONE ON EARTH!  


Ahem. Please excuse me. I had a psychotic Leo moment there.

Curse you, pointy finger!  I hate you!

But what I need to remember is this (and you have no idea, unless you are a Leo, how difficult this is for a Leo): rejection is part of being a writer. As in all things in life, some people will like what I do, and other people won't. This is because some people are smart and cool, and others are buttheads.

Okay, so here I go. I'm thinking of starting the book this way:


Hi! My name is Roofikins Squashpants, and this is my story.


Just kidding. I'm sure I'll think of another method of introduction. Somehow.

Here I am, gazing confidently in the direction of my dreams. :)

The Worry Gene

At the end of this week, I will fly back east for my grandfather's 90th birthday party, and a few days later, my mom, sister and I will embark on a road trip to Canada.  Approximately three months ago, I awakened at 2 a.m. in a panicked state, worried that I would forget to bring my passport along on this trip.  I then kept myself awake for hours, worrying incessantly about this easily-preventable, probably-won't-happen circumstance.


These prolonged and unwelcome awakenings have occurred several times between that first incident in mid-March and now.  About a month ago, I confessed to my sister that this was going on, and her response was:  "Worrying about forgetting your passport is indeed a good use of your energy."  The reason that my sister can understand this needless, insomnia-causing behavior is the same reason that my mother sent me an email last week with the subject line "PASSPORT! PASSPORT! PASSPORT!"  That reason is that every female member of my family possesses the Worry Gene.

The fact that obsessive worrying has been passed down through generations in my family helps me to feel less like a total weirdo.  For example, for many years I have known that my maternal grandmother sits and watches the national weather reports daily so that she will be able to track potentially devastating storms that may affect her relatives, friends, relatives of friends, or anyone she's ever heard of.  And when I say "potentially devastating storms," think of your average rainstorm, because that's the level of weather disturbance that will cause my grandmother to enter a state of incapacitating anxiety about someone's well being...especially if that person is thinking about driving somewhere.

...because this is what happens if you decide to drive in the rain.

In my family, we realize that, when contemplating the Worry Gene, there's really no need to wonder about the Nature vs. Nurture factor.  All we know is that, when it comes to our anxiety levels, Nature + Nurture = Bad News.  Our heightened sense of general alarm causes us to be very careful to avoid creating anxiety in our fellow Worry Gene carriers, even if that involves lying.  


Here is an example:  a few summers ago, one of the wildfires that was blazing out of control in California came very close to the house where my husband and I were living.  At one point during day two of the fire, I received a phone call from my father.


Dad:  You need to call your grandmother and tell her that you're safe and the fire's nowhere near you.


Me:  But the fire is near us.  I'm looking at it through my window.  There's ash and flaming debris raining down all around us.


Dad:  Oh.  Do you have an evacuation plan?


Me:  Yes.


Dad:  Do you have all of your critical documents?


Me:  Yes.


Dad:  Okay, good.  Now you need to call your grandmother and tell her you're safe and the fire's nowhere near you.


Me:  Okay.


So I proceeded to do just that.  I stood in the yard, breathing in ash-filled air, watching the fire pour down over the mountain behind my house, and informed my grandmother that we were fine and the fire wasn't affecting us at all.  The sound of the relief in her voice was practically palpable.

"Oh, yes, Grandma, we're not even in the evacuation zone..."

Corrie ten Boom has a beautiful quote about worrying:  "Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength."  How wise, logical, and totally not a member of my family she was!  If I had a dollar for every minute of my life I have wasted through the act of worrying, I would be able to make a shitload of super-generous donations.  Local nonprofit organizations would be beside themselves.  


Honestly, it wasn't until I was 25 years old that I realized (through someone else pointing it out) that worrying is optional.  This occurred in the aftermath of my kitty running away.  I told my housemate that I was panicking, and he inquired what I'd done about the situation.  I explained that I'd patrolled the neighborhood, talked to the neighbors, hung up posters, and visited all of the local animal shelters.  He agreed that I'd done what I could, and I informed him that I was still freaking out.  He responded by chiding, in a completely deadpan voice, "Yes.  By all means, worry."  


That really took me aback.  It was not until that very moment that I realized it is not a necessity to collapse oneself into a state of overwhelming anxiety in the face of any real or imagined stressful situation.  That was a good moment.  So good, in fact, that I ended up marrying him.

Thank you, my dear, for saving me from my evil inner workings.

Speaking of my husband, and worrying, here is a final story.  Several years ago, my husband drove me to the airport in a horrible, blinding rainstorm over treacherous, mountain roads.  He dropped me off at about 6 a.m., and then I flew across the country to visit my parents.  When I landed, I tried to call him, but the call went straight to voicemail.  I left a message letting him know I'd arrived safely and asking him to call back.  That evening, having not heard from him, I called again, and again the call went straight to voicemail.


Then the panic set in.  I felt my heartbeat quicken, my skin break out in a cold sweat, and my brain begin to concoct the most horrific scenario possible.  After said scenario was fully constructed, I rushed to my mom in the kitchen, told her about the two calls that had gone to voicemail, and then informed her of the following:


"So here's what I think happened.  The driving conditions were so bad going home that he drove off the road, his car flew off a cliff, and no one can see it from the road.  Our friends don't know he was taking me to the airport, so they won't know he's gone missing.  If the car is found, they won't be able to identify him because he left his wallet at home, so no one will be able to notify me about what happened.  And the cats are going to starve to death in the house because no one realizes he's not coming home!"

Oops...I went crazy.

Instead of running and calling the paramedics, my mother, who fully comprehends the Worry Gene, and has also trained and nurtured it throughout my life, looked at me knowingly, smiled, and said, "Well, my work here is done!"


[In case you're wondering, he was alive.  It turns out that his cell phone had died, and he'd gone to a friend's house to watch football all day and hadn't gotten home to charge the phone until late that night.  When I told him the scenario I'd created about his demise, he was pretty horrified.  People who don't have the Worry Gene just don't get it!  Doesn't he realize that there are countless things that haven't happened, and won't happen, that can be fretted over obsessively?!  Duh.]

Poop On A Plate

A couple of years ago I was playing the game Loaded Questions with my family and the following question was asked:  "What should never be considered art?"  The players wrote down their responses and handed them to my cousin, who then had the distinct honor of reading our answers:

1. Poop on a plate
2. Poop in a jar
3. My midriff
4. Shit

I hope the artist was paid big for this fine example of poop on a plate

The phrase "poop on a plate" has really resonated with me.  In a more global or generalized way, I now think of poop on a plate whenever I am faced with something that I am expected to accept, despite the fact that it is absolutely absurd.  When thought of this way, poop on a plate is a concept much like "the Emperor's new clothes," except that it is way more fun to say.


Right now I'm watching the NBA Finals with my husband.  I very rarely watch television, and whenever I do, I remember why.  However, this experience is giving me an opportunity to view many fine examples of poop on a plate.  Here are a select few:

• Drinking a particular kind of soda will cause models to burst into a spontaneous roller skate dance party all around you
• Certain body sprays will cause hordes of gorgeous women to lose their minds and want nothing more than to fuck you immediately, even if you are the biggest tool on Earth
• Everyone should sincerely give a shit what lycopene is
• "Comfort" is actually a material thing, so the claim "Now Coated With 25% More Comfort" totally makes sense
• There is nothing more exciting to a woman than wiping down a kitchen counter with a super-effective new antibacterial cleaner
• If you are not connected to the internet via some glowing rectangular device at all times, your life is probably not worth living
• Feeding your child food from McDonald's is a really good idea
• Minivans can be cool
• You don't have to be mindful of your overall nutrition or exercise regularly to be healthy; you only have to eat or drink very specific items that will overhaul your whole system.  How awesome is that??

"Pomegranate juice:  An excellent alternative to suicide"

American news media also contains copious examples of poop on a plate.  Cases in point:

• 367 hours of royal wedding coverage
• Endless, relentless pundit jibber jabber
• PTSD-inducing 24/7 coverage of national and international catastrophes.  This usually goes on for about 4 days, and then the event is completely, conveniently forgotten by everyone who doesn't live within 20 miles of the disaster site.
• Rush Limbaugh.  Rush Limbaugh is the embodiment of poop on a  plate.  Sarah Palin is as well.  They are two big, fat plate poops.
• Headlines like:  "Jennifer Lopez Stunning In Red Satin."  Actually, entertainment news as a whole is poop on a plate.  We've all seen countless headlines offering to reveal celebrities' hair, diet, fashion, and exercise "secrets."  You really want to know the secret?  Here it is, folks:  thousands of people are paid millions of dollars to get celebrities to look that way...and then they're airbrushed.  Okay?  Mystery solved.  Jesus Christ.  Anything having to do with celebrity homes, legal problems, "baby bumps," marital issues, or anything else about their lives is also poop on a plate.

I DON'T CARE!

In conclusion, I encourage all of you, as consumers of resources and information, to avoid consuming poop on a plate, because...well, that's just gross.  Just because someone shows you a pile of poop on a plate and tells you it's worth 20 million dollars doesn't mean you have to believe it, much less purchase it.  You should feel free simply to smile sweetly and respond, "You can't fool me.  That's a bunch of crap."

Look - even this guy is laughing at us