Paint Me Puzzled

Bon jour friends, it’s time for yet another collection of wandering aimless ramblings from a guy who pretty much just likes to tell you what people are doing wrong. Yeah, it’s Tuesday and the world, despite numerous bold predictions from Colin, has not yet imploded onto itself. So why not take another trip down the tiny lane of my obscure psyche? For those of you who don’t know Colin, he is one of the wiser people you could meet in this fine country. If you could manage to, you would probably find him drunk on Irish whiskey, raving wildly into the nearest pale white ear about the ills of society, while banging madly on a set of drums in no particular rhythm, but not randomly either. Yes, he’s a curious fellow to know at first but over time you would find yourself helplessly compelled to simply ask him, “what’s on your mind?” And once you find yourself comfortable enough with him to ask that, you find him making much more sense. But to some he will always make as much sense as a gorilla grunting the local news while hurling feces at the television camera. But I digress. Today’s assorted ravings are simple, simply impossible. Allow me to describe to you six things that, after much inspection, leave me helplessly puzzled.

1 – Revolving door victims. Yes, the revolving door, a magnificent triumph of modern efficiency, seems to deal, in healthy doses, constant difficulty to some of the very dim-witted public it was designed to assist. Ponder, if for only one brief moment, just how tremendous the revolving door is at performing its basic function. An opening, a door if you will, to an interior that never is truly open, multiple patrons can use it at once and it never creates a breach in the cherished shell that is an indoor ventilation system. Imagine a home that doesn’t bleed air conditioning into the backyard. Imagine a subway turnstile that allows one man to exit and another to enter at the exact same time. This is the beautiful existence of the revolving door. Yet, some true dunces cannot seem to Get It Done. You have seen them over and over again. The most mentally crippled is the one who stands outside in the bone-chilling cold and watches as one, two, three, people exit the revolving glass chambers and then, only then, once there are no more people exiting, he enters. Message to the boob outside, “You may enter to the right just as someone exits to your left. This door, magically, allows energy to flow in both directions simultaneously. You will not cause any damage to the space-time-continuum, I assure you.” And if only to be topped by the truly insane, the stuttering one-at-a-time enterer is followed assuredly by the two hopeless chuckleheads who feel the undeniable need to enter one revolving chamber at the same time. Where does this thought process come from? I beg you, tell me. At what point do the following seem deadly appealing: stubbed toes, stuttering retarded footsteps that cause your entire body to wonder if it’s being jettisoned from a space vessel, the prospect of having an wrist or ankle severed in the revolving metal, and simply looking like a goddamn fool? The next time you see a pair getting set to perform this act of idiocy, which will without question steal seconds from your already cursedly short day, save them the trouble and give them a fully-wound open-palmed slap on the forehead. No sensible judge or jury in the country would hold you responsible.

2 – Where does the desire for super-skinny blue jeans come from? It is not the resurgence of the punk movement; that goes without question. Only an insane person would claim punk-rock status while flipping through Jessica Simpson songs on his or her iPod. No, this skinny jeans situation is pure madness. At what point does a young person wish to say to the world, “Behold my chicken-bone-frail calves that would crumble under the weight of a heavy stare!” Or worse, “Yee shall look, and stare in awe, at the frightening contrast between my hippopotamus-wide ass and my field mouse-size feet. Surely a stiff breeze broken from the diaper of an infant would send me tilting into an uncontrollable freefall.” Who invented this look? And where did that lunatic get the idea that the youth of the world were not being stunted by poor education and antiquated religious rules, but rather by the abundance of extra space around their legs? When you see these sullen individuals with their exposed rectal cleavage and denim stretched so tight it reveals the pattern of their pubic haircut feel free to rap them on the talus with something blunt, preferably something made of iron.

3 – Who among us does not sweat? … No one? … If that is the case and the good Lord has seen fit to give us a little stinky mist, then can we at least respect the limitations of good taste and not go over the deep-end of rationality when covering up this fact? Apparently not. For some inexplicable reason, there are those among us who feel the need to not only apply deodorant and/or antiperspirant but to apply so much of it, with so much reckless enthusiasm, that to be near them when they do so, is akin to standing defenseless on a tiny sand beach as a flowing ocean of Speed Stick crashes upon you like a hellion tidal wave birthed from a Duane Reade underworld of the beyond. These offenders come in many shapes and sizes, but often the act of olfactory criminality is perpetrated in the same ways. The 20 swipes with the liquid stick: yes, over and over and over until the squishing squashing sound of matted hair and gel travels for what seems like miles, and with it the potent fragrance that could kill a rhino dead. Or the lone ozone destroyer who can make an economy sized can of Right Guard barely last the week. Sure he leaves a frozen crust of cloudy whiteness on his scarred and chapped skin, but the best part is the veritable mushroom cloud of residue that permeates all materials around him. Winner. This man is clearly planning to dead-lift 325 pounds during his afternoon 3rd Quarter Summary meeting. He’s a go-getter. But seriously, what man or woman thinks he or she is such an uncontrollable secretor of bacterial moisture that a recommended application of industrially-produced chemicals simply isn’t enough?

4 – This guy. Are Americans in such a shortage of putrid jerks in their daily lives that they feel the need to import even more vile ones? This occurrence is thoroughly stupefying. Sure it is somewhat humorous to watch deluded talentless idiots sacrifice themselves on the altar of public criticism, but where does the need for a self-important, mildly effeminate, middle-aged British man come from? Are we not skilled enough at insulting people on our own? Someone bold needs to take a few days off from his surely important job, travel to Hollywood, and smack this oaf in the face with a salmon, preferably a long-since dead one.

5 – Allegra, Clairitin, Zyrtec, et al. Someone wealthy and worldly should please introduce me to the infinitely intelligent doctors and researchers who came up with not only the concept, but the execution for these products. For anyone who’s been living in a cave for the past decade, or doesn’t have a television, the most annoying trend in advertising since the dawn of the Oscar Meyer jingle has surfaced in the shape of literally as many brand-named pills as any one man could possibly come up with ailments to treat. And each is the very best miracle cure for that itchy-eye, twitchy-leg, burning-throat, rectal-stinging that has been keeping you from making your first million and marrying a Scandinavian super model. Yes Bubba, you too can pop one pill in the morning that will finally get you over the hump of perfection. Your life is ready to be fulfilled. Oh, but just one thing. On your yellow-brick road to Elysium remember to watch out for the abdominal pain, sudden muscle pain or weakness, diarrhea, dry-mouth, rash, and/or sexual dysfunction. Who would want to take this stuff, then go out and proudly declare, “Yes, I have conquered the demons of my dog-hair allergy and I can thoroughly enjoy life, except for the fact that my dick is about as useful as a Dixie cup of holy water in a Californian wild-fire!” Where is the disconnect? As a man, knowing that toward the end of my long belaboring saga of alcohol, tobacco, and bodily abuse, I can look forward to the loss of the one Holy, unquestionably positive, and truly self-owned thing that gives me more joy than can be measured, it could never possibly occur to me to voluntarily ingest a product that would accelerate that fate. But perhaps I am out of touch, and too obsessed with my… well you know.

6 – And finally, Women. What else can I say? I will likely never figure that one out.