Who You Callin' Stupid?

Syntax has been, and always will be one of the defining factors of our kind. Regardless of your language or dialect, ability to arrange words in order to convey a message is a basic requirement to function in any society. The words you choose says a lot about you. Do you take the time to say things the way you understand them, or do you simply regurgitate what you are told in the manner in which they are presented?

I am by no means a linguistic, I have poor spelling and grammar, and make up more words than the average Nana in a Scrabble contest. I do however know that we have been listening to the same broken record of buzz words for a while now, and I’m waiting for someone to break the needle.

“New Economy”, “Economic Reinvestment”, “Stimulation”, and “American Recovery” are just a few words that have become more popular than fanny packs at an amusement park. It's almost as if using these words validates whatever action they have been linked to. In fact, just outside of our driveway there is a 5x5 blaze orange sign stating “Putting Americans to Work. Funded by the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act”. Ah, yes – the road project that was scheduled to start over 10 months ago will finally begin. I don’t know about you, but I’m glad the government paid for a giant sign to point out that they’ve been slacking, and will finally get started on their “honey-do” list. I makes me wonder how the neighbors would feel if we started leaving behind signs like “Making our Community Greener – One Poo Pile at a Time”. Or, maybe my boss would like “My Presence Here Stimulates the Economy”. Disagreeing could easily label you as an anti-environmentalist, or worse, anti-American.

While it is no secret that our nation is in what I would classify as a hot mess, these canned statements are nothing but focus group-selected verbs attempting to fog and simplify our thinking. Million dollar words thrown out in hopes to diffuse the situation, banking on the fact that we are all too lazy to look into them a little closer. You say “reinvestment” - at what point were we not invested? You say “stimulation” – aren’t some of our struggles due to “over stimulation”? You say “American Recovery” – aren’t we recovering from the irresponsible behavior of ourselves… fellow Americans?

At the end of the day, this is nothing but polishing turds. Yes, the massive pot holes down our street are finally going to be fixed - and they've dug up enough money to consider putting in a much needed traffic light. The real story however is that the project fell behind and now there's a little cash to get it started. A handful of guys will have a job - just long enough to show improvement for the next unemployment poll - where shortly after they will be laid off and left waiting for the next wave of stimulation.

But really... doesn't their way of phrasing it make you feel better??

Reduce, Reuse, Re-delagate your Responsibilities

Dear environmentally conscience neighbor:

I award you a green thumbs up for your continued efforts to soften your carbon footprint. However while you work to wisely sort your waste, I can’t help but notice you have overlooked a couple of minor details in your environmental movements. Every Wednesday morning you proudly display a cornucopia of recyclables. From large cardboard boxes, to Fiji water bottlers, you neatly arrange your tidy trash week after week.

What you have clearly over looked is the fact that your elegantly presented bin blows over about 14 minutes after you drive away. “Impossible!”, you say? Oh, quite the opposite. You see after letting the dog fertilize the lawn she proudly chases after your stray Gatorade bottles and crushed milk cartons for a few minutes. When the novelty wares thin, we pick up your recyclables and tuck them neatly in our trash can. Our unsorted, messy trash can.

Environmentally irresponsible? Maybe. Lazy? Likely. Polluters? Ahh… actually no. We’ll leave that ball in your court, Mrs. recycling lady. Yes your intentions are good, yet you are single handedly littering the neighborhood week after week. Much like a 5 year old's first attempt to use a hand mixer, there comes a point when even the most patient of mothers realizes their little helper is more of a mess than benefit. And you, our neighborhood litter bug, are a bigger mess than benefit. Your failed efforts make as much sense as an environmentally responsible light bulb...made out of toxic, hazardous materials.

So… next time you turn your nose up at our failure to recycle, or send a picture to the association to prove our dog takes a dookie in the grass – please take comfort in knowing we are doing our part too. Before her fresh environmental movement settles in the soil, we promptly seal it in a plastic bag, (which likely contains B2), and toss it in the trash right next to your meticulously sorted droppings.

Of course if you’d rather, we can put it on your doorstep – seeing that your party pizza box has found its way to ours….. You’re call.

Triple grande caramel mocha with a shot of self-esteem, please.

While passing out cups of java joy, I couldn’t help but notice you keep conversations brief and cordial for most customers – respecting their morning zombie-like haze. Yet, day after day you have delivered a shot of insults with my beverage. I don’t seem to recall asking for a tall-half-caf- vanilla-make-fun-of-my-hair- latte. Nor did I ask for a grande-criticize-my-outfit-mocha. What did I ever do to you mister Starbucks man. I apologize if I somehow managed to offend you with my order, but I find your vicious attacks are very unnecessary.

I’m willing to let a few insensitive comments pass before 7 a.m., but I must draw the line. Consider today your warning… the line has been drawn. Next time you stand there with your graying hair and expanding beer belly, be careful as you inform me that I that I look very old – old enough to be your mother. I also suggest that you choose your words wisely when telling me I would be lucky if I could ever find a boyfriend, and nobody would marry me. Once you hand over that cup, you’ve fueled a beast and I warn you – there’s no turning back. I can, and I will go Arabian Mocha Java on you, sir.

My sarcasm is typically intended for good humor, however you’re playing with fire. I’m fully prepared to unleash a flurry of hurtful jabs in your direction – Ralphie and Scutt Farcus style. So hand over that cup, and nobody will get hurt. One more poorly chosen line from you and I’ll show you why there is in fact a reason to cry over spilled milk.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi…

Oh mother dearest – please don’t worry about controlling that 3 foot beast running down the condiment isle. Seeing that you forgot to grab the child leash so charmingly disguised as a monkey, I’m sure you are feeling just a bit overwhelmed. After all, how does one expect a mother to manage a shopping cart and child without a Labrador-like restraining device? And yes, the high pitched screaming and tantrum throwing is perfectly acceptable considering the circumstances.

So, don’t mind us as we reach around your precious angel for a jar of Vlasic bread and butter chips. And as for the minor traffic jam your “little peanut” has created at the intersection of juice and crackers – no worries. We didn’t really have anything else to do today. We’ll just wait until you and all of the other parents finish counting to three before we scope out the Chex Mix inventory. That’s when something magical happens, right? Thank goodness you were bestowed the gift of counting to three slowly enough to create the illusion that your little terror mysteriously saw the light and adopted a socially acceptable demeanor.

If you would like, I’m happy to join in on the counting next time. Because let’s be realistic… we’re going to share this experience again once we hit the cookie isle. And as friendly warning, I may not be as patient if your little sweetie pie comes between me and the Double Stuff.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right – here I am.

Life is full of difficult decisions, and you often find yourself having to pick the lesser of two evils. Not out of laziness or lack of interest – but purely because all options simply suck. For example… you board the bus at 6 a.m. only to find that you’ve stepped into a chamber of bacteria, oozing out of parkas and wool mittens. You quickly assess the situation, hoping a golden beam of light will illuminate an open seat surrounded by sunshine, daisies, and a babbling brook. Instead, the flickering lights reveal your grim options of slush covered seats.

15 seconds to choose a bus mate… who do you go with? The man with the rattling phlegm filled hack? The woman that has already sneezed 5 times and is yet to cover her spray of snot? What about the lady you thought was safe last time, but turned out to be a flatulent culprit? Or, do you take your chances with the personal bubble invader, and hope she stays within her defined portion of the seat?

Of course, the bubble invader is the least offensive to the senses. So, congratulations Mrs. Space Invader. While your elbow and leg was rhythmically bouncing against mine through the entire ride, and you cracked open a bag of Doritos for a crunchy, (very crunchy), early morning snack… you have proven to be the least offensive person on the bus this morning. Take pride in this achievement. Walk into work - head held high as you welcome your coworkers with your recognizably Doritos aroma, knowing that even at your extra cheesiest, you were in fact chosen as the lesser of this morning’s evils.