Cacophony of Silence. This post is on doctors.

Medical personnel have no senses of humor. Is it smugness at the fact that you're the one sitting there getting pricked while they sport awe-inspiring, white lab coats? Or did those arduous years of medical training wring the funny from them? Because if they ask, “So what brought you in to donate blood today?” And you answer, “Peer pressure. I do drugs now too.” And then they blow things out of proportion—something traumatic must have happened to them, right? Right?? My opinion: those white coats have gone straight to their heads. I saw one wearing a name tag saying, “Hello, my name is Dr. Stacy Puffington, a doctor, I'm a doctor, and now that I've earned this coat, I'm on an elevated plane from you riffraff ruffians, and while I'm here, you all should probably be relocated to internment camps, where I may or may not grace you with my presence to administer flu vaccinations or any other number of antidotes you would know nothing about.” This may be too long for a name tag, but I'm sure with all the money they make, they can buy jumbo name tags.

Life is too short for fun-sized Snickers...This post is on PROCRASTINATION.

Let's reflect for a moment on procrastination. I always figured my abnormalities would come in the form of something more obvious--a second pinky toe, a strong aversion to...something generally loved, an obsession with country music--something interesting..but no, my major idiosyncrasy is that I don't procrastinate. This quirk of doing things when they need to be done, of turning papers in on time, of being to class on time, washing a dish when I'm done eating off of it, etc--these activities are generally viewed as strange behavior, nerdy habits even. I'M the crazy one for getting an assignment, doing that assignment, and then turning that assignment in for full credit. And when the masses of procrastinators all get together, "cute" little ironic quips about their "unfortunate condition" and smart little mottos like "Why do today what can be done tomorrow" evoke a "har har har" from the followers, and they all have a jolly time sharing amongst themselves in that moment of camaraderie and passing around of slogan buttons. "Procrastinators Unite!...Tomorrow..." Yes, I see the wise crack, and no, I'm not "in" on this. All the procrastinators, (probably 98-99% of any population) seem to think all others are like them.
Teachers will ask of a class in a sarcastic, all-knowing way, "Now who here never procrastinates?" She'll puff herself out and look around, eyeing each of us, basking in the nervous giggles and mild snickers; a confirmation of her suspicions. But no. I say no. No more of this passive approval. These people are telling us between the lines that "Hey, it's cool to procrastinate. Who does things when they should to avoid problems piling up shortly down the road, culminating, culminating, a sudden spark here, then an explosion there, and tasks and obligations implode on themselves leaving you under the rubble, smeared across the desk you needed to fix days ago, and with no procrastinator friends, because what? ah yes, they've all gone out for beer--who does that? Schmoes. So let's be cool and not do stuff until it ruins our lives when it finally does come due. Let's have our little "har har hars" and bathe in our unfinished papers, overdue bills, and lawsuit threats. Yeah, go for it. Don't be a schmoe like me who has even a sliver of foresight and an appreciation for consequences here in the real world.

Solution: I propose all procrastinators, lazy, shapeless people be required to wear paper bags over their heads . Don't worry, I'll draw the picture on the front that will be an accurate depiction of what I deem as their inner beauty. Also, a button, because they so adore buttons, that will say, "Procrastinators Unite!...Today at 4pm at the pillory."

On Death

I'm one stabbing, one biting, one drowning, one infection, one virus, one poisoning, one shove, one severe paper cut, one electrocution, one accidental Listerine gulp, one axe murder away from death. That's pretty close for comfort. Do I think about death all the time? No. Only some of the time. There are just too many ways for it to happen to put my focus on one in particular. Sure, if I ever came face to face with a shark, Larry would probably eat my face off, but do I dwell on this? Not at all. The fact of the matter is, there probably aren't any sharks in any place I would ever swim. Especially in the middle of Utah. Perhaps I might become possessed by a clown-cleaner fish and find myself with an uncontrollable urge to take a dip in the shark tank at the zoo. One can never overlook these possibilities, but statistically speaking, there are far more likely ways for me to come to an unfortunate demise. Tripping face first into the knife drawer for instance. Or something as simple and poetic as slipping in the shower. Yet another reason I take baths.
Other people raise the chances I'll meet an untimely death. It's kind of like an ice skating rink. I do just fine by myself in the middle of a big frozen pond, but add pre-teens and Kamikaze klutzes, and my mortality skyrockets.
Same goes for any public setting. Scenario: me walking down the hallway to grab a drink of water vs me threading through hoards of people to grab that drink; I'm much more likely to get bumped out a window or trampled to death in the latter.
Other people are also murderers. Probably not most of them, but who really knows, after all, when murder-vision camera work is coming up behind you. You wouldn't. Until you're dead. And if you're walking outside at night, by yourself and you hear a strange noise? Don't look around like a wounded doe and ask feebly, "Is anyone there?" If someone is there and he's going to kill you, he'll kill you anyway and revel in your stupidity for clearly giving away your position. If it's not a murderer, he probably would have already shown himself. So maybe run. Or accept your fate and face him/it like a man.
And if people say a house if haunted, it probably is. So being skeptical is just going to give you the first ticket for the gruesome death. And when a little girl beckons you towards the dark looming woods, it's probably a good idea just not to go. So just don't.
And you never know if you're actually schizophrenic and killed your own dog and later your ex-wife and her boyfriend, so it's probably a good idea to get yourself checked out on a regular basis.
Finally, if a guy says he'll eat you, don't just brush that off. Take most threats seriously. Things like, "You're so cute I could just squeeze you to death," are not to be taken lightly. Or "I'd kill for a donut." Just run and take your donut with you.

Sharky Malarky

Alright, so a few people have been eaten by sharks. Yes, lions have maimed a couple safari members. And ok, Amazon snakes have swallowed several sleeping men whole. So these animals got the better of some of the more stupid homosapiens; so what? We were in their elements when these accidents happened. Man doesn’t belong in the ocean; if he did, he’d have disgusting gills…or at least require less equipment to get there. So, as it is unnatural for a man to be in the water, and as it is the shark’s thriving habitat, no wonder the sharks succeed in eating Billy, Poco, and One-Legged-Timmy. I’d like to see a shark flop into an office of cubicles and then we’ll see who takes who. Jason the Shark would get creamed; no doubt in my mind. Even if Jason had Land SCUBA gear; he’s going down. He’s not in his element. And he’s a stupid fish.
The same goes for the lion and the snake. If either were stupid enough to walk or slither into a Wal-Mart, they’d be muerto faster than the greeter could say hola.
This is why I propose we keep the humans on the land, the lions and snakes in the jungle, the greeters in the Wal-Mart, and the sharks in the sea. Yes, segregation for the safety of the less gifted of our race. The snakes would have separate drinking fountains and the lions would have non-air-conditioned buses. And who are they to rise up against it? A bloody coup perhaps? No. Not going to happen. Our brains are at least twice as big and on land, no animal can beat us. Plus, we have guns.
We’ve got incredible shark fruit snacks. We don’t need anything more real or delicious than that. I’m sick of stupid, smart-a$$ dolphins getting so much credit for being SO intelligent. WE’RE WAY SMARTER THAN ANY STUPID DOLPHIN. So let’s start living up to it. Let’s stay where we’re naturally supposed to stay. We’re smarter than this. The fish and the snakes think they are winning. I stand forthright and proclaim, “They are not.”
If you do find yourself in the ocean face to face with a ravenous shark, remember this: I am smarter than any fish. I ate one just like this for lunch today, right after my princess fruit snacks. My kind flew to the moon, split the atom, and invented the microwave burrito. I don’t see any sharks OR DOLPHINS advancing technology or trying to solve world hunger. This shark is tuna.
And with that, I suggest you bite that shark’s jugular before he bites yours. And if you go down, which you probably will because you weren’t supposed to be in the ocean in the first place, dummy, at least you’ve proved humans won’t go down without a fight. You’ve proved the dominance which is rightfully ours.

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.

A Few Morsels of Wisdom Teeth

Mem:

-A few bits of wisdom teeth are not as smart as you think.
-Don’t ever try to drown an Olympian diver—or if you’ve killed him some other way, don’t try to cover it up by saying he drowned. However, if the man you’ve killed is a groundskeeper, a maintenance man, or John Deere, “He fell into the wood chipper” might do just fine.
-A small skip from the truth might save you from having to hear an anecdote you’re sure will be boring anyway. “Have I told you that story about the time I lost my bookmark?” “Um, yes. I'm sure you have...”
-Shrieks of euphoria are usually not ok after 9 pm, even in the extenuating circumstances of your magical ring rolling back to you once again from the depths of a Kleenex heap and a sweet, sweet reunion in your sock drawer.
-Girls who like pink are a special breed. Is it nature or nurture? I suppose the soft sciences can never tell us…at least ethically…
-Lungs have the worst job ever. Worse than sewage divers, CD case makers, floor managers of tuna-dump factories, and flight attendants combined. Thankless seconds turn into thankless months, sometimes stretching for over 80 years. In-out-in-out-oxygen-carbon dioxide-ogygen-carbon dioxide. While I sympathize, I wouldn’t think lungs would be great conversationalists. Not much for breadth of knowledge.
-And like a deep, sweet breath after months of entrapment at the sewage-tuna-hair burning factory, Super Dell left us, with little grace and no dignity.