Miscellany

I prefer Euro-American.

Can you singularize “data”?
Can you verbify singularize?
But can you verbify verbify?

People at laundromats eye their underwear like someone is actually going to steal it. They pace back and forth in front of the washer, glancing at the suspicious newcomers, or maybe just sit in the corner, a hawks-eye-view. No one is going to steal those clothes and underwear. Even if I were a burglar and happened upon an unguarded dryer of someone else's clothing, why would I steal that? What use would I have for it? On the off chance they were my size and gender-appropriate, would I actually steal it and wear it? The only situations I can see someone actually stealing someone's clothes is 1-A homeless schizophrenic happens by on his rounds, or 2-A character in a zany predicament who finds himself embarrassingly without clothes and late for, perhaps, his wedding runs through and grabs what he needs with a rushed apology. That's it. The chances of either of those happening is slim. So quit staring holes into that over-sized, large-load dryer.

Number 2:

I hate pink. I have personal, deep-seeded loathing for the color itself. It's not “I hate what you're doing,” it's “I hate you. I hate you for who you are.” I'm sure this utter distaste for the color is somewhat rooted in what it stands for. The “I'm a girl, so I just loooove pink. I can't get enough of it. My phone is pink, my laptop is pink, my back pack is pink, my cute l'il cheeks are pink, and my Daddy's plastic credit card is pink, just for me. A heh!” has indeed probably contributed to my souring, but is not solely responsible. It's the very color. That hot, bright pink—it burns my eyes out of their sockets and leaves me wanting to punch puppies. Pink has even begun infecting other colors, like purple. Some purples have contracted pink and are left scarred monsters to be puked on. Now granted, a subtle salmon, or classy mauve is fine in moderation. And some people ,like Whitney, who is perfectly normal, but just has a psychological pink disorder, are fine, upstanding people. But this epidemic, this disease of pink prevalence has got to be stopped. Banned perhaps. Like red and the commies, anyone wearing this atrocity should be ostracized by the community, clapped into high security prisons, and placed in a pink room of solitude until the end of their sad little pink lives.

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Probably the worst time to get a major arm or leg injury is April Fools Day. Expect hardy pats.

Number 3:

If I were the type of person who got genuinely chapped by people saying “Merry Christmas,” that it should be “Happy non-denominational season of winter to you”--if I were this type of person, I think that those politically correct public displays on Main Street all decked out in holly and wreathes saying “Seasons greetings” or “Happy holidays” would only enrage me further.



Why is it that whenever someone makes a statement about a fear of hers, the automatic reaction of the person listening is tell some gruesome story relating to that exact fear? Did the phobic not just admit an aversion to said fear? What would possess someone to think that she could POSSIBLY want to hear your story about a gargantuan spider you saw in your shoe this morning?? A girl in class today says she's ridiculously scared of sharks. The teacher says, “Well, boy, do I have a story for you,” and proceeds to enlighten us as to the murderous nature of a shark that nearly tore him in two. WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO HEAR THAT? She doesn't. She thought she made that perfectly clear when she said, “I'm scared of sharks.” Don't tell me about your horrific spider tales. I don't want to hear them. Ever.

Outrage of the Week:

Did they think we wouldn't notice what happened to show and tell? Did they think we'd just let it slide and forget about it? No, no. The Show and Tell Phase Out of Generation Z did not go unnoticed.
Ok, so we have kindergarten. We've been ripped away from our dear mummies, but not to worry, that void was replaced with “educational listening time,” “recess,” and, of course, show-and-tell. It was a consolation to be able to bring worthless objects from home to show the class. Your new fake sponge-rock, your shark jaws, your newborn little sister—things no one would be interested in—it was the highlight of a dreary day of fractions. So here we come to 1st grade, and our show-and-tell time was set back to every other day. Ok, not too much of a set back, I didn't really care that you had a new sister anyway. Second grade, we move to once a week. The much anticipated day was what got me through. Third grade, maybe once a month. And you know what happened in fourth grade? Show-and-tell was stripped away from us entirely. Nothing to look forward to now but times tables and Utah history. How did I even manage to get through grade school?
I propose that show-and-tell be reconstituted. The professors could use the break. And I'm sure that as college students, we'd come up with something a little more creative than bringing babies to show the class. This would really help me to stomach the demands of college and I think we'd see a rise in the graduation rate. Because for that moment, you have the spotlight, and it doesn't matter how useless and boring your item is, that audience is captive.