Hey everyone. I feel somewhat lame reprinting an older post here, but I don't know that I am going to get a chance to post this week, and I wanted to post something.
The second podcast episode of Gettin Manorexic With Chad is up, however, and I strongly suggest you check it out.
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Everything's Remarkable
People on the whole don’t seem to enjoy speculating on the origins of words. Either that, or they just don’t seem to appreciate the manner in which I break down words and insist that mine is the one and only obvious and true assumption. Now, I have never taken Latin or done any of the simple research to determine the etymology of any words, but with some words you can just tell.
Take the word “embarrassed” for instance. I think it’s clear that the word was stitched together from em-bare-assed, in the sense that when you’re embarrassed, it is because you have been figuratively em-bare-assed. In fact, it may have originated when someone lost their pants at an inopportune yet historically significant moment, and what was the emotion he or she felt? “Why I believe we have no word for it!” the people exclaimed. “Let’s just call it what it is! Bareassification!” (Which, over the centuries, evolved from feeling “bareassified” to “embarrassed.”)
Impossibly, no one ever cares when I start talking about this. I can’t tell if they disagree or they just don’t think exploring it is worth the expended breath and vocal strain. For my part, I was pretty excited about my idea. Because if I’m right, then “embarrassed” is a very funny word indeed – and it’s even funnier to think that we all say it – we say the words em-bare-assed, yet we never even spare so much as a passing thought to what we are saying. Isn’t that funny? I guess not. It simply doesn’t shake people up the way it does me.
“Think about it. It comes from em-bare-assed. How could it not?” I say.
“Well, I’m sure the word has some etymology.” They reply, completely disregarding that my idea is, without a doubt, spot-on.
“Some? I just told you what it is. Em-bare-assed.”
“Be interesting to find out where it comes from.”
“Em-bare-assed. I just told you. Aren’t you listening?!”
“It’s probably Latin.”
Remarkable is another curious word, but this conversation actually tends to get on people’s nerves. As far as I’m concerned, the word “remarkable” means exactly what it says: Remark-able. Worthy of remark. And really, what isn’t?
“The lid on the Dunkin Donuts coffee is remarkable,” I will proclaim – admittedly throwing some bait out there to see if said person has an accurate understanding of what the word means or not.
“What? What’s so remarkable about it?”
“It’s different from most other coffee lids.”
“That doesn’t make it remarkable.”
“Sure it does. Remarkable. Worthy of remark.”
Hear them draw in a breath that suggests their patience was not equipped for this. “That’s not what remarkable means.”
“Oh yeah? Funny that that is literally how the word is spelled.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the connotation.” A little more fed-up now.
“Well maybe it’s time to change that.” I offer, trying to bridge the misunderstanding in a proactive way.
And that’s when they really get mad. Maybe it’s because they feel immediately self-conscious about the fact that they never noticed something so obvious before, and their reaction is an instinctual combative one that most of us experience when we see the error of our ways and it irritates us to no end. Or maybe it’s that they get nervous when I suggest that we should change the way people use the word “remarkable” – like I am talking some kind of dangerous revolutionary madness. But who’s to say we can’t do it? Sure, there is utterly no point, but nothing has any point when you look at it the right way. Everything is worthy of remark in some way, or almost everything at least. I say it’s time we gave remarkable back to everything, and saved “brilliant” for what we previously regarded as “remarkable.”
And when I do it, when I achieve my stupid goal, it will be a truly “remarkable” thing (as will basically everything in the world) and all the people who doubted me, who got so fed up with my nonsense will find themselves with an ass as bare as the first person to lose their pants so long ago.
They will be bareassified indeed.
The second podcast episode of Gettin Manorexic With Chad is up, however, and I strongly suggest you check it out.
--
Everything's Remarkable
People on the whole don’t seem to enjoy speculating on the origins of words. Either that, or they just don’t seem to appreciate the manner in which I break down words and insist that mine is the one and only obvious and true assumption. Now, I have never taken Latin or done any of the simple research to determine the etymology of any words, but with some words you can just tell.
Take the word “embarrassed” for instance. I think it’s clear that the word was stitched together from em-bare-assed, in the sense that when you’re embarrassed, it is because you have been figuratively em-bare-assed. In fact, it may have originated when someone lost their pants at an inopportune yet historically significant moment, and what was the emotion he or she felt? “Why I believe we have no word for it!” the people exclaimed. “Let’s just call it what it is! Bareassification!” (Which, over the centuries, evolved from feeling “bareassified” to “embarrassed.”)
Impossibly, no one ever cares when I start talking about this. I can’t tell if they disagree or they just don’t think exploring it is worth the expended breath and vocal strain. For my part, I was pretty excited about my idea. Because if I’m right, then “embarrassed” is a very funny word indeed – and it’s even funnier to think that we all say it – we say the words em-bare-assed, yet we never even spare so much as a passing thought to what we are saying. Isn’t that funny? I guess not. It simply doesn’t shake people up the way it does me.
“Think about it. It comes from em-bare-assed. How could it not?” I say.
“Well, I’m sure the word has some etymology.” They reply, completely disregarding that my idea is, without a doubt, spot-on.
“Some? I just told you what it is. Em-bare-assed.”
“Be interesting to find out where it comes from.”
“Em-bare-assed. I just told you. Aren’t you listening?!”
“It’s probably Latin.”
Remarkable is another curious word, but this conversation actually tends to get on people’s nerves. As far as I’m concerned, the word “remarkable” means exactly what it says: Remark-able. Worthy of remark. And really, what isn’t?
“The lid on the Dunkin Donuts coffee is remarkable,” I will proclaim – admittedly throwing some bait out there to see if said person has an accurate understanding of what the word means or not.
“What? What’s so remarkable about it?”
“It’s different from most other coffee lids.”
“That doesn’t make it remarkable.”
“Sure it does. Remarkable. Worthy of remark.”
Hear them draw in a breath that suggests their patience was not equipped for this. “That’s not what remarkable means.”
“Oh yeah? Funny that that is literally how the word is spelled.”
“Yeah, but that’s not the connotation.” A little more fed-up now.
“Well maybe it’s time to change that.” I offer, trying to bridge the misunderstanding in a proactive way.
And that’s when they really get mad. Maybe it’s because they feel immediately self-conscious about the fact that they never noticed something so obvious before, and their reaction is an instinctual combative one that most of us experience when we see the error of our ways and it irritates us to no end. Or maybe it’s that they get nervous when I suggest that we should change the way people use the word “remarkable” – like I am talking some kind of dangerous revolutionary madness. But who’s to say we can’t do it? Sure, there is utterly no point, but nothing has any point when you look at it the right way. Everything is worthy of remark in some way, or almost everything at least. I say it’s time we gave remarkable back to everything, and saved “brilliant” for what we previously regarded as “remarkable.”
And when I do it, when I achieve my stupid goal, it will be a truly “remarkable” thing (as will basically everything in the world) and all the people who doubted me, who got so fed up with my nonsense will find themselves with an ass as bare as the first person to lose their pants so long ago.
They will be bareassified indeed.
(I'm totally going to make a banner for this, but we just released a podcast feature and I wanted all of you to know about it.)
“Aren’t you going to do the dishes?”
“What do you mean?”
“You ate my guacamole now you have to do the dishes.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“I only had one bite.”
“And a fateful bite it was.”
“I hardly put any on.”
“You should have made it worth your dishes. There’s a lot of them.”
“I’m not doing your idiot dishes.”
“Betrayal!”
“Be quiet.”
“No, betrayal.”
“Be quiet!”
“Those are different words!”
“Be quiet!”
“Betrayal like a cinderblock pillow.”
“I keep telling you, it’s better to sleep on cinderblock than on pillow.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes, it’s like when you sleep on a board, how it’s better for you if you do that. It doesn’t make sense but it does.”
“It’s kooky!”
“Maybe, I don’t think of it in those terms, but it is better for you.”
“Have they done tests?”
“I think so.”
“Have you done tests?”
“I did my dissertation on it! You know that. I just completed three years of research.”
“…”
“For my dissertation.”
“…”
“On using cinderblocks for pillows.”
“oh…dizertatium, right. So that’s why you slept all the time!”
“Some of the time. It was hard to sleep on those damned cinderblocks.”
“And I thought you had mono!”
“Yeah, that was conveniently timed.”
“Oh, you actually did have mono?”
“No, I mean the lie I told everyone about getting mono.”
“You were really adamant about it.”
“Well, I had to keep a good cover story.”
“Oh, was it top-secret research?”
“No, but I was preparing for a time when it might be. If you never think big, you’ll never get big. You’ll just stay small forever. Small and low. Like you and me.”
“I’m not small.”
“You’re small.”
“No I’m not.”
“Trust me.”
“Success depends on how you feel about yourself.”
“No it doesn’t. You’re a crummy little nothing.”
“Not if I feel good about myself!”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you feel good about yourself?”
“What do you mean, good?”
“Fulfilled?”
“No.”
“Successful?”
“Oh, no.”
“Happy?”
“No, not happy.”
“Down?”
“You mean like sad and unfulfilled?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s more along the lines of how I feel.”
“So, in other words, not good.”
“Oh, no, god no, not good, no.”
“That’s because you’re not sleeping on cinderblocks. Your rest is all screwed up.”
“What were the results of your tests?”
“Inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive?”
“Inconclusive.”
“How can that be after three years of research?”
“Well, I’m still alive. Think about it – how could we possibly know what’s good or bad for me until after I’m dead and they’ve done the appropriate tests on me to determine?”
“Will we have to wait for those other scientists to die before we get the results of the tests they did on you?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Science is really tedious.”
“We’re learning as we go!”
“Well, at least you’re doing important work. Necessary work.”
“I’ve wasted my life.”
“That’s no way to talk.”
“I’ve wasted my life and all I’ve got to show for it is a severely misaligned spine stemming from consistent contortion of the base of my neck.”
“Do you think that’s related to the work you’re doing for your dissertation?”
“I have no idea. It’s too early to tell.”
“When will we know?”
“When my dissertation comes out long after I and the scientists who tested on me have passed.”
“I thought you said it was finished.”
“No, that’s just an expression. My dissertation is finished. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Old Mother Hubbard and all that.”
“That’s my favorite expression!”
“Old Mother Hubbard, sat on her cupboard, eating her curds and whey.”
“I feel like a kid again! Do another!”
“I don’t know any more.”
“You have to think something up. If was very wonderful to feel like a kid again and I would like to repeat the experience.”
“Okay. How about…hey kid. Hey stinky. Hey weakling. What are you laughing at, pussy?”
“Oh, that old one!”
“You want to die?”
“Oooh! That’s a bad one, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to put my finger up your ass, kid.”
“Rodney Peiffer. You’re my old school bully Rodney Peiffer to a T!”
“I’m going to stick my whole fist up your ass.”
“Whoa, fast-forward. Now we’re in college.”
“Those were the best years.”
“They really were.”
“Shame about all the years since.”
“Or before, for that matter.”
“During too.”
“Yes, during was the worst.”
“Shame about a lot.”
“Shame – what? Knows your name.”
“Shame knows your name.”
“Knows you through and through. Like an old lover.”
“Shame is an old lover that you hate and it eats at your soul that shame knows you as well as it does.”
“Best not to get involved with shame. It’ll only result in more shame, which will only keep you coming back to shame.”
“We should warn people about shame.”
“Quiet down about that.”
“No, we have to tell people to steer clear of shame!”
“For the last time, shut up.”
“Why should I? I’m right!”
“I know that, but you can’t just run around preaching your no-shame kook-mongering.”
“Sure I can! There’s a whole world of kooks out there for me to monger!”
“You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“This is shame country.”
“Shame country?”
"Shame country.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ate my guacamole now you have to do the dishes.”
“No.”
“Yes!”
“I only had one bite.”
“And a fateful bite it was.”
“I hardly put any on.”
“You should have made it worth your dishes. There’s a lot of them.”
“I’m not doing your idiot dishes.”
“Betrayal!”
“Be quiet.”
“No, betrayal.”
“Be quiet!”
“Those are different words!”
“Be quiet!”
“Betrayal like a cinderblock pillow.”
“I keep telling you, it’s better to sleep on cinderblock than on pillow.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Yes, it’s like when you sleep on a board, how it’s better for you if you do that. It doesn’t make sense but it does.”
“It’s kooky!”
“Maybe, I don’t think of it in those terms, but it is better for you.”
“Have they done tests?”
“I think so.”
“Have you done tests?”
“I did my dissertation on it! You know that. I just completed three years of research.”
“…”
“For my dissertation.”
“…”
“On using cinderblocks for pillows.”
“oh…dizertatium, right. So that’s why you slept all the time!”
“Some of the time. It was hard to sleep on those damned cinderblocks.”
“And I thought you had mono!”
“Yeah, that was conveniently timed.”
“Oh, you actually did have mono?”
“No, I mean the lie I told everyone about getting mono.”
“You were really adamant about it.”
“Well, I had to keep a good cover story.”
“Oh, was it top-secret research?”
“No, but I was preparing for a time when it might be. If you never think big, you’ll never get big. You’ll just stay small forever. Small and low. Like you and me.”
“I’m not small.”
“You’re small.”
“No I’m not.”
“Trust me.”
“Success depends on how you feel about yourself.”
“No it doesn’t. You’re a crummy little nothing.”
“Not if I feel good about myself!”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you feel good about yourself?”
“What do you mean, good?”
“Fulfilled?”
“No.”
“Successful?”
“Oh, no.”
“Happy?”
“No, not happy.”
“Down?”
“You mean like sad and unfulfilled?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s more along the lines of how I feel.”
“So, in other words, not good.”
“Oh, no, god no, not good, no.”
“That’s because you’re not sleeping on cinderblocks. Your rest is all screwed up.”
“What were the results of your tests?”
“Inconclusive.”
“Inconclusive?”
“Inconclusive.”
“How can that be after three years of research?”
“Well, I’m still alive. Think about it – how could we possibly know what’s good or bad for me until after I’m dead and they’ve done the appropriate tests on me to determine?”
“Will we have to wait for those other scientists to die before we get the results of the tests they did on you?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Science is really tedious.”
“We’re learning as we go!”
“Well, at least you’re doing important work. Necessary work.”
“I’ve wasted my life.”
“That’s no way to talk.”
“I’ve wasted my life and all I’ve got to show for it is a severely misaligned spine stemming from consistent contortion of the base of my neck.”
“Do you think that’s related to the work you’re doing for your dissertation?”
“I have no idea. It’s too early to tell.”
“When will we know?”
“When my dissertation comes out long after I and the scientists who tested on me have passed.”
“I thought you said it was finished.”
“No, that’s just an expression. My dissertation is finished. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Old Mother Hubbard and all that.”
“That’s my favorite expression!”
“Old Mother Hubbard, sat on her cupboard, eating her curds and whey.”
“I feel like a kid again! Do another!”
“I don’t know any more.”
“You have to think something up. If was very wonderful to feel like a kid again and I would like to repeat the experience.”
“Okay. How about…hey kid. Hey stinky. Hey weakling. What are you laughing at, pussy?”
“Oh, that old one!”
“You want to die?”
“Oooh! That’s a bad one, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to put my finger up your ass, kid.”
“Rodney Peiffer. You’re my old school bully Rodney Peiffer to a T!”
“I’m going to stick my whole fist up your ass.”
“Whoa, fast-forward. Now we’re in college.”
“Those were the best years.”
“They really were.”
“Shame about all the years since.”
“Or before, for that matter.”
“During too.”
“Yes, during was the worst.”
“Shame about a lot.”
“Shame – what? Knows your name.”
“Shame knows your name.”
“Knows you through and through. Like an old lover.”
“Shame is an old lover that you hate and it eats at your soul that shame knows you as well as it does.”
“Best not to get involved with shame. It’ll only result in more shame, which will only keep you coming back to shame.”
“We should warn people about shame.”
“Quiet down about that.”
“No, we have to tell people to steer clear of shame!”
“For the last time, shut up.”
“Why should I? I’m right!”
“I know that, but you can’t just run around preaching your no-shame kook-mongering.”
“Sure I can! There’s a whole world of kooks out there for me to monger!”
“You just don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“This is shame country.”
“Shame country?”
"Shame country.”
I go to the pizza place near my house a bunch of times per week because I’m perpetually broke, too lazy to make real food (or even shop for it), and ever since I started trying to wean myself off of solid foods in favor of blended foods, I have had a persistent, you might say constant, desire to eat anything other than non-blended foods. Especially if it’s bad for me.
I realize that blended foods imply a lot of fruit and not much else, but don’t think I’ve fallen for that trap. These are shakes, not smoothies. I’ll be damned if I’m drinking smoothies. I know it is not advisable to eat only fruits. Which is why I add soy protein/ spirulina powder and yogurt to all my shakes (sometimes carrots too!) Take those shakes plus vitamins and flax oil, and I figured if my body needed more than that, I’d eat my hat.
Well, after a shake at lunch, I would eat my hat, provided someone sprinkled it with sugar or cheese, because I find I can’t go more than 30 minutes without sprinting to the nearby Indian restaurant or pizza place, just so I can eat something good and goddamned saturated.
But not so saturated that I will eat the puddles of standing grease that abound on basically any slice of pizzeria pizza. If for no other reason than standing puddles of anything are something to steer clear of. I mean, if mosquitoes are born in standing puddles of water, then what do you suppose might be born in standing puddles of grease? Mosquitoes with clogged arteries, that’s what.
So, because I’m averse to consuming both mosquito larvae and puddles of pure fat, I can’t help but blot my pizza before eating it, mopping up the hideous grease, napkin after yellow heavy napkin, and what a satisfying thing it is! To healthen up a slice with a minimum of effort, napkin after napkin. Of course, I don’t usually go beyond 4 or 5 rounds, because anything beyond that seems a bit excessive.
Or if not excessive, then perhaps the slightest bit insulting, which is what I worry about every time I go in there. See, it’s a small place and I always get it to go, so I have to mop it right in front of the people who work there and it’s always the same guys.
I wonder, do people who work in pizzerias take offense when customers mop up their pizza-grease? I guess it would depend on how much of their heart and soul they pour into each pizza, and whether or not they consider the puddles of grease to be part of the composition rather than an unfortunate side effect of using bulk mozzarella. But if they didn’t consider the grease to be part of the pizza, wouldn’t they remove it? Maybe not if they’re lazy like me!
In any case, I always worry that I’m insulting them (even though I’m in there so much it’s clear that I am a fan of their work) and so I adopt this smiling idiot persona every time I speak to them, in an over compensatory attempt to make them like me. But I won’t get started on smiling too much like a wilting whitebred wuss. For more on that, go here.
But there is another layer to being nice to them in that they’re kind of big guys, like macho guys, and one of my friends loves big guys best, and he never shuts up about them. He’ll see them in public and get all tragic about it until they are out of sight. How amazingly big and mean they look and isn’t that so hot? At first I resisted this behavior and made jokes about the big ugly guys he was attracted to. Eventually, however, I discovered that it is fun to go kamikaze crush on hot people all day long (and all night long, for that matter). It really adds urgency of hotness to a day in a satisfying and momentary way. Because once they’re gone, that’s it, they’re gone, and they were so completely hot that it’s all you can do to remain standing as you bemoan your loss. And some parts of town, some trains, it’s possible to maintain 3 or 4 of these convulsions of passion simultaneously.
So when I see big macho guys, I can’t help but think of my friend, I wonder what he would think of that guy, would he like him or not like him, and if so, what’s the reason? He does this with me too, I swear, and he errs on the side of perky cute girls, which I can only tolerate for so long. I tend to think I don’t err with him, because the bigger the uglier the more he likey, and I end up getting crushes on big ugly guys, retro-vicariously, for him. Sometimes I try to get my camera phone to send him a picture, but unsuspecting real life subjects never behave the way you want them to.
In any case, I take this into the pizza place with me, and I always suspect that I come off as though I am a little bit in love with them, which, of course, is not what I intend, and adds yet another layer of complication to this multi-layered fiasco.
Then again, it’s possible that I’m devoting too much thought to the pizza place and the feelings and interpretations of the people who work there.
That may be true, but sometimes that just happens, one minute a situation is normal and the next minute it’s awkward. Why does it do that? Because it can. And although there are no real stakes, nothing really hanging in uncertainty, it becomes nevertheless important to maintain a delicate balance – because to tip to one side would mean certain nothing, and to tip to the other side would be to tempt the other side of nothing. So I think I’ll stay on the beam, thank you, keep up with my pizza-guilt and retro-vicarious crushes, and even if one day I buckle under the complexity and try to explain my way out of nowhere, it will be good to have it all out in the open.
I realize that blended foods imply a lot of fruit and not much else, but don’t think I’ve fallen for that trap. These are shakes, not smoothies. I’ll be damned if I’m drinking smoothies. I know it is not advisable to eat only fruits. Which is why I add soy protein/ spirulina powder and yogurt to all my shakes (sometimes carrots too!) Take those shakes plus vitamins and flax oil, and I figured if my body needed more than that, I’d eat my hat.
Well, after a shake at lunch, I would eat my hat, provided someone sprinkled it with sugar or cheese, because I find I can’t go more than 30 minutes without sprinting to the nearby Indian restaurant or pizza place, just so I can eat something good and goddamned saturated.
But not so saturated that I will eat the puddles of standing grease that abound on basically any slice of pizzeria pizza. If for no other reason than standing puddles of anything are something to steer clear of. I mean, if mosquitoes are born in standing puddles of water, then what do you suppose might be born in standing puddles of grease? Mosquitoes with clogged arteries, that’s what.
So, because I’m averse to consuming both mosquito larvae and puddles of pure fat, I can’t help but blot my pizza before eating it, mopping up the hideous grease, napkin after yellow heavy napkin, and what a satisfying thing it is! To healthen up a slice with a minimum of effort, napkin after napkin. Of course, I don’t usually go beyond 4 or 5 rounds, because anything beyond that seems a bit excessive.
Or if not excessive, then perhaps the slightest bit insulting, which is what I worry about every time I go in there. See, it’s a small place and I always get it to go, so I have to mop it right in front of the people who work there and it’s always the same guys.
I wonder, do people who work in pizzerias take offense when customers mop up their pizza-grease? I guess it would depend on how much of their heart and soul they pour into each pizza, and whether or not they consider the puddles of grease to be part of the composition rather than an unfortunate side effect of using bulk mozzarella. But if they didn’t consider the grease to be part of the pizza, wouldn’t they remove it? Maybe not if they’re lazy like me!
In any case, I always worry that I’m insulting them (even though I’m in there so much it’s clear that I am a fan of their work) and so I adopt this smiling idiot persona every time I speak to them, in an over compensatory attempt to make them like me. But I won’t get started on smiling too much like a wilting whitebred wuss. For more on that, go here.
But there is another layer to being nice to them in that they’re kind of big guys, like macho guys, and one of my friends loves big guys best, and he never shuts up about them. He’ll see them in public and get all tragic about it until they are out of sight. How amazingly big and mean they look and isn’t that so hot? At first I resisted this behavior and made jokes about the big ugly guys he was attracted to. Eventually, however, I discovered that it is fun to go kamikaze crush on hot people all day long (and all night long, for that matter). It really adds urgency of hotness to a day in a satisfying and momentary way. Because once they’re gone, that’s it, they’re gone, and they were so completely hot that it’s all you can do to remain standing as you bemoan your loss. And some parts of town, some trains, it’s possible to maintain 3 or 4 of these convulsions of passion simultaneously.
So when I see big macho guys, I can’t help but think of my friend, I wonder what he would think of that guy, would he like him or not like him, and if so, what’s the reason? He does this with me too, I swear, and he errs on the side of perky cute girls, which I can only tolerate for so long. I tend to think I don’t err with him, because the bigger the uglier the more he likey, and I end up getting crushes on big ugly guys, retro-vicariously, for him. Sometimes I try to get my camera phone to send him a picture, but unsuspecting real life subjects never behave the way you want them to.
In any case, I take this into the pizza place with me, and I always suspect that I come off as though I am a little bit in love with them, which, of course, is not what I intend, and adds yet another layer of complication to this multi-layered fiasco.
Then again, it’s possible that I’m devoting too much thought to the pizza place and the feelings and interpretations of the people who work there.
That may be true, but sometimes that just happens, one minute a situation is normal and the next minute it’s awkward. Why does it do that? Because it can. And although there are no real stakes, nothing really hanging in uncertainty, it becomes nevertheless important to maintain a delicate balance – because to tip to one side would mean certain nothing, and to tip to the other side would be to tempt the other side of nothing. So I think I’ll stay on the beam, thank you, keep up with my pizza-guilt and retro-vicarious crushes, and even if one day I buckle under the complexity and try to explain my way out of nowhere, it will be good to have it all out in the open.
“Don’t rest your head against the window.”
“Why not?”
“Safety canopy.”
“What?”
“You know that safety canopy I had installed?”
“No.”
“It cost 500 extra bucks to install the safety canopy.”
“So why can’t I put my head on the window?”
“Because it comes down over the window. It’ll kill you.”
“What kind of safety canopy kills you when it’s deployed?”
“The kind that protects you from the airbag, that’s what.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“It protects you from the airbag?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s about time something did.”
“I know.”
“Those airbags will break your flimsy body right in two.”
“Got my uncle last spring. Would have been a fender bender. When they found him, they said his body felt like jelly. His face was in his elbow.”
“Weren’t airbags designed to help you and not kill you?”
“In older cars, yes.”
“Wow. Wonder why they changed airbags from good to evil?”
“Probably so they could sell more safety canopies.”
“For 500 bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the people who don’t pay extra to have that installed?”
“God help them.”
“Now, what if I wear some sort of protective head gear like a bike helmet? Can I rest my head on the window then?”
“No, man. It’s a safety canopy. It’ll crush your little helmet and your head right along with it.”
“I’d almost prefer the airbag.”
“Shut up.”
“What? I would.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not joking. I’m not scared of a little airbag.”
“Seriously. Shut the hell up now.”
“Why?”
“The airbags will hear.”
“What?”
“Don’t tease them.”
“That’s a lie.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Fuck your airbags.”
“Did you see that? Did you see the dashboard swell?”
“Yeah. Oh my god yeah.”
“He’s sorry, airbags!”
“I’m sorry, airbags!”
“He didn’t mean it!”
“I just didn’t realize you were conscious, that’s all!”
“He’s used to older, stupider airbags!”
“Not smart ones like you!”
“…”
“…”
“I think we’re okay.”
“Phew.”
“Look, just don’t sleep in the car and treat my airbags with a little respect and fear.”
“But I’m tired.”
“Well, watch a movie or play a video game then.”
“Okay.”
“But keep clear of the middle seat.”
“What’s in the middle?”
“Electro-torture safety field.”
“Ah. No doubt.”
“Why not?”
“Safety canopy.”
“What?”
“You know that safety canopy I had installed?”
“No.”
“It cost 500 extra bucks to install the safety canopy.”
“So why can’t I put my head on the window?”
“Because it comes down over the window. It’ll kill you.”
“What kind of safety canopy kills you when it’s deployed?”
“The kind that protects you from the airbag, that’s what.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“It protects you from the airbag?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s about time something did.”
“I know.”
“Those airbags will break your flimsy body right in two.”
“Got my uncle last spring. Would have been a fender bender. When they found him, they said his body felt like jelly. His face was in his elbow.”
“Weren’t airbags designed to help you and not kill you?”
“In older cars, yes.”
“Wow. Wonder why they changed airbags from good to evil?”
“Probably so they could sell more safety canopies.”
“For 500 bucks?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the people who don’t pay extra to have that installed?”
“God help them.”
“Now, what if I wear some sort of protective head gear like a bike helmet? Can I rest my head on the window then?”
“No, man. It’s a safety canopy. It’ll crush your little helmet and your head right along with it.”
“I’d almost prefer the airbag.”
“Shut up.”
“What? I would.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not joking. I’m not scared of a little airbag.”
“Seriously. Shut the hell up now.”
“Why?”
“The airbags will hear.”
“What?”
“Don’t tease them.”
“That’s a lie.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Fuck your airbags.”
“Did you see that? Did you see the dashboard swell?”
“Yeah. Oh my god yeah.”
“He’s sorry, airbags!”
“I’m sorry, airbags!”
“He didn’t mean it!”
“I just didn’t realize you were conscious, that’s all!”
“He’s used to older, stupider airbags!”
“Not smart ones like you!”
“…”
“…”
“I think we’re okay.”
“Phew.”
“Look, just don’t sleep in the car and treat my airbags with a little respect and fear.”
“But I’m tired.”
“Well, watch a movie or play a video game then.”
“Okay.”
“But keep clear of the middle seat.”
“What’s in the middle?”
“Electro-torture safety field.”
“Ah. No doubt.”
