Things That Probably Have a Good Reason, But I Will Never Get

Some things I am destined never to understand.  Like Japanese television programming.  If this blog hasn't taught you yet, there are also a lot of things out there in the world that make little sense in the light of common sense or reason, but still exist because the people who made them and/or the target demographic are as bright as elephant dung.  However, I am willing to admit that not everything I consider counter-intuitive necessarily implies dipshittery on the part of someone else.  There is probably a logical explanation.  But I'll be damned if I can figure it out.

Sitting down at a restaurant when you have kids.

This is one of those things I actually hope I never understand.  I get it, children, especially the small, nimble variety, are a handful, making shrill noises, scurrying around and bouncing off things to stay just out of reach, like a rat-dog or monkey.  And that's assuming they are not pelting you with fistfuls of Cheerios or die-cast toy trucks.  Then there are car-seats to transform into their alternate mode of infant-containment-unit.

Honestly, who would put their baby in something that is so obviously a Decepticon?

Children must be passed back and forth between all adults at least three times; the mobile pre-humans corralled and forced into various seats following a five-minute debate who can sit beside whom; and diaper-bags, strollers, backpack carriers, and unidentifiable trappings resembling bombproof-suits situated, re-positioned, and finally jammed into any available space.  All I want to do as I hover ten feet away, waiting for the ritual to conclude before approaching (since it invariably consumes all of the parents' attention), is yell, "Just sit the fuck down."  But here's the part I really don't get: it seems as if, no matter how many or how few imps are involved, the presence or lack of the baby-toting paraphernalia notwithstanding, it still takes five minutes just to sit down.  It's as if the mere presence of the crotch-dumplings slows down the space-time flow, or at least parents' perception of it.  I assume this is the same phenomenon that occurs when old age sets in.

Visual cues for the blind and/or braille in odd places.

Now, just to clarify before the torches and nooses come out, I am not mocking the blind, although I do snicker every time I hear an advertisement for a local window-dressing shop called House of Blinds.  (C'mon, it's kind of funny.)  But some things just make me scratch my head, such as this:

At my bank's drive-through ATM.

Who is using these?  To be honest, I can't say I have ever seen a blind person using a teller machine in any capacity, drive-through ones even less so.  And a headphone jack?  In case you are, what, so blind you can't read braille?  Even if that were possible, you still have to accurately press buttons labeled in braille.  So it must be for people who are both blind and mentally-challenged (multi-alternatively-enabled?).  And driving cars to access money.  I am guessing all businesses just use the same generic model of ATM, whether it's for a drive-through or not, but it is always a weird thing to see when you ponder the implications.

Ha, trick question!  Got you, tax-defrauders!

There is truly no way to justify this, but it appears on almost every online tax form.  Blind people can do some pretty amazing things, despite their handicap, er, equal-difference-non-impairment . . . thing.  But I do not understand how they could be filling out their own taxes on the computer.

*Pictured: Just an average, everyday visually-impaired citizen, the muthafuckin' "I-can-kick-a-dozen-Yokuza's-asses-but-can't-use-Facebook" Daredevil.

I am forced to assume this is simply a poor choice of words on the part of the tax-form copywriter (sweet Gutenberg, does that sound like a rewarding career).  It should probably run something like, "Is this person blind?"  Then again, I am not blind, so what do I know?

Books for extremely specific things (especially this one).

Maybe the dogs are the ones taking the pictures.

Publishing a book is expensive.  As this goes to print, digitally and for free, the Encyclopaedia Britannica is ceasing all physical production of its 244-year-old tomes of accumulated wisdom.  Readers and tablets like Kindle and Nook were invented in an attempt to trick a vapid, technologically-obsessed, increasingly-illiterate public into reading books again, under the assumption they would mistake it for the Internet.  Aside from the megalithic Barnes & Noble, nary a bookstore can stay in business without offering an espresso bar, WiFi, and cut-rate crack cocaine out the back door.  So, especially in this day and age, the printing of a book on honest-to-Gaia, murdered-tree paper must be economically-viable, marketable to a mass audience.

And this is considered a sound investment?  Dog Photography for Dummies?  There are people who can't figure out how to take pictures of dogs?  Because they're really rare, elusive, seldom-photographed beasts, akin to Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, or J.D. Salinger (how's that for an obtuse reference?).  Hell, I wouldn't have thought there were enough total people out there trying to take pictures, successfully or not, of our four-legged friends to justify the publication of such a guide.  I would think those aspiring photographers who just can't seem to snap a decent picture of Fido could look to the childless women of Facebook who treat their Pugadoodleyork rat-dogs as babies and post images of said pets accordingly.  But there must be demand if the book got printed, which sort of saddens me for other reasons.

If any of you can shed light on these mysteries for me, I would be much obliged.

Man up

Yes, I know, I have not posted since Ron Paul was a relevant GOP presidential candidate.  I offer no excuses.  I could feed you some ambiguous, intentionally-mysterious hints at what I have been doing to make it sound cool and pardon my lapse, but that's not what this blog is about.  It's about me and my opinions on totally asinine shit.  So I won't bother you with tedious details about why I haven't been writing.  Somewhere along the way, I have forgotten to be a responsible blogger (if those exist).  My apologies, loyal readers.  Let's move on.

Happy International Women's Day!  What, you didn't know that was today?  You didn't know that holiday existed?  Well, I did, and it's totally not because it was the Google Doodle of the day.  Shame on you, sexist pigs!  And it just happens to coincide roughly with the release of world-renowned ultra-prick Taylor Max's third (really, third, America?) book, Hilarity Ensues, which, to be fair, it probably does.  For about six pages.  Then, I feel quite confident, it becomes just another string of dirty, mean-spirited, sensationalized anecdotes of dubious authenticity from the life of a loser whose fame clock is hitting 00:14:59.

The kind of guy who thinks this joke never gets old.  How clever.

What sort of name is that anyway?  Tucker Max?  How about Chotchbag Max?  It sounds like the kind of online handle a 12-year-old "extreme" rollerblader would adopt.  So, I am the anti-Tucker Max.  By that, I mean I am not a narcissistic, chauvinistic, complete douche-tool (much).  Notably, I'm also not famous.  As a writer, I am perfectly aware that embellishment and hyperbole are the weapons of mass comedy, and being offensive can be funny.  Or at least I hope so.  Thus, I would like to hope Max's authorial persona, which reads like a stock character from (take your pick) Animal House/Revenge of the Nerds/PCU/Old School/whatever-the-modern-remake-is-called, is a gross exaggeration.  But let's be honest: in all likelihood, it's not.

And this is a fucking shovel.  Get it?

So, with that needlessly involved and lengthy introduction in mind, it's time for another revision of the rules governing male behavior, the Gentlemen's Agreements.  I hearby call this meeting to order.

High-fives

Like many of society's more insidious ills, we probably have the 80s to thank for this one.  The slapping of elevated palms was around well before that, I assume, but it was not until the era of neon glitz, cocaine, and laughably-stupid Reaganomics that it became the go-to gesture for any sort of masculine celebration.  More specifically, the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are, perhaps, to blame for the rabid proliferation of this phenomenon in the modern world.

It is the only sin they ever committed.

In conducting research for this article (yes, I do that), I even found out April 21 is National High-Five Day.  That.  Is.  Pathetic.  Nowadays, high-fives are the equivalent of a participation ribbon in your elementary school field day.  We need to let this die.  At this point, a high-five means about as much as blinking.  Nothing says, "My maturity is permanently stunted!" like going for the palm-connection with a bro because you ordered something mutually-awesome in the Taco Bell drive-thru.  As a matter of principle, I do not distribute high-fives except for very momentous achievements, in an attempt to reestablish their once-lauded status.  If it helps, anytime you feel the urge to call for a high-five, just remember it will never, ever be as sweet as . . .

. . . this.  Yeah.

Stop being a dickhead (shock, right?)

Boy, am I going to catch shit for this one.  Ladies, just remember this: I am on your side.  As my good friend Dr. Watson once commented in regard to my stance on women, "He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent."  Or maybe that was about Sherlock Holmes.  And they might both be fictional characters.  Either way.  My point is, no matter what your personal ignorant thoughts on the ovaried ones, treat them civilly.  As I have noted previously, I am pretty old-school, but this is one of those times when I think people would truly benefit from following my lead.  Quit being a Fucker Max.  To refer back to my earlier visual aid:

Oh, I get it, it's funny because you treat all females like anonymous receptacles for your seed who are lining up for the honor!  Well-played!

Seriously, how old are you?  The war between the sexes, the longest-running cold war in the history of ever, will probably never abate, but we can promote the detente by not being dickheads to the other half of our species.  For every Snooki, termagant, and backstabbing uber-twat out there, another 392 women are essentially respectable, decent human beings.  Yes, there are genuine bitches and sluts out there, but acting like they are the representative examples of their gender is akin to saying Germans are, by and large, the Third Reich.  Only not as funny.

Take that, rich and diverse cultural history of a nation!

Beyonce may be an obnoxious, pretentious celebrity who seems to revel in telling men off, yet you can't deny her man-slamming music is a product of women getting the shaft (damn, couldn't resist) from us.  But, while we're on the subject, you can call a girl a "slut" when you can verify that she has had some manner of sexual contact with more partners than you have.  Maybe.  Until then, shut the hell up.  That is all.

KP, out.