Had the world ended in a cataclysmic inferno, chances are we’d all have been flipped off like a light switch, and frankly that seems boring. The children of earth have seen too much suffering, so we don’t need anymore of that, but there are some things to which I would’ve enjoyed wishing good riddance – possibly in the form of a meteor impact. I would’ve been okay with sacrificing some comfort, WiFi, and possible second-degree burns so I could shout, “So long!” to:
Emails and Facebook posts that end with, “Share this with 10 people and angels from heaven will blah blah blah.” These only succeed in triggering my intense desire to become Joe Pesci from either Casino or Goodfellas.
The complaint, “Californians can’t drive,” chirpped from non-native to non-native. Have you ever met a native Californian? No, you haven’t, so shut your face. We’re absurdly outnumbered by people who’ve moved here from places where it rains cars and appliances picked up from a block away. Shouldn’t these people be far more competent behind the wheel? I’ll go toe-to-toe with anyone over U.S. Census Bureau interstate migration statistics as related to traffic violation data – any day, any time.
Classic rock (or any commercial musical genre represented by a rotation or overuse of the same 23 songs). The baby boomer bludgeoning makes me groan when I hear Kiss, Steve Miller, or Aerosmith. I can’t listen to Floyd anymore, nor The Doors or Van Halen. I’ve grown to hate everything about the Beatles and Paul McCartney (with that face like an old lady’s bingo wing). Way too many creative and talented musicians who pushed boundaries and did some really cool stuff in their day have been made about as rote and compliant as an hour of Catholic Mass. How can fans ever be inspired to dig deeper into the catalogs and solo stuff when their music is being used to sell car insurance, shoes, and potato chips?
Lard. I cannot put into words how repulsive spreads, custards, and whipped creams are to me. If it’s white and creamy, whether I’m a guest in your home or not, sometimes it takes all of my strength not to run out of the room. My nightmares are made of mayonnaise. If and when the end of the earth does arrive, I’ll take satisfaction in knowing that meringue is going with it, and so are plastic containers of yogurt, hollandaise, and anything on the planet with the consistency or look of sun-warmed ranch dressing.
People who hang from their self-inflicted puncture holes. You’ll always be condescended to by those outside your worldview, and those within it will always be too driven by their own insecurities to do anything more than tell you what you want to hear. Spiritual Suspension Journey my ass: you’re right in there with the extreme Outer Court teachings of Neo-Wicca and the cranial deformation idiots.
Businesses that thrive on selling only the illusion of quality (a.k.a. never mind your satisfaction; we made a sale). Also falling into this category are people who want a job more than they want to do that job. For these folks, preposterous heights of narcissism have replaced all awareness of how one’s actions affect those around them.
Hiccups. Seriously, what’s the point there?
If you’re wondering about the countless other items I could’ve listed here, don’t. Apparently there’s time! Besides, I could go on and on about the things that would stop annoying us if the world ended, but I’d rather call attention to one item that’s not on my list: excuses.
Excuses, as annoying as they are, are needed. Without them, we can’t teach young people why they do us all such a disservice. Excuses are our best friend and our worst enemy. They’re great learning tools because we can’t see why we need to stop making ’em ’til we’ve made a few.
And since the world is still here (along with classic rock, hiccups, and sickening, creamy substances that give life to the word “slather”), we’re gonna need every tool we have to make some improvements.
So happy holidays folks; for now, our globe continues to spin.