Thursday Snark

29 10 2009

Here we are, Thursday already, and for some reason, I have not come up with 19 different things I need to do other than write something. Must be the weather. At any rate, I’ve decided to continue the non-existent tradition of making Thursday a day of snarking. It is, after all, named after Thor, and while I don’t know a great deal about Asatru (yet) he strikes me as the sort of fellow who wouldn’t shrink from speaking his mind, especially if he had a day reserved for it each week. So, let’s get to it then.

  1. Facebook users. If you have have more than 5 picutres, or 3% of your total photos, depicting you in some stage of drinking, either getting ready to drink heavily, drinking, holding alcohol as a clear sign that you are in the midst of the the drinking process, or well past the point of drinking too much, either take a few down or reevaluate where your life is. This is fun up to about 22 years old, when the novelty of being able to drink in public lawfully should have worn off. Yes, alcohol is fun. So is heading out for the night and tying one on occasionally. But if this is the only way you can think of to get your jollies, you have either a lack of imagination or a substance abuse problem. I’m no teetotaler. There’s a half-bottle of excellent bourbon sitting less than 12 inches from my fingers right here on my desk. And as a writer, alcoholism is a long-treasured part of the literary tradition. But just like smoking isn’t cool unless it’s in movies, alcoholism isn’t cool unless it’s tortured. And you people, I’m sorry, are just not tortured.
  2. On a related topic, while studying psychology in college I took Adolescent Psychology. Anyone in the class with me will still recall the amusement of hearing the term pronounced “pooberty.” In that class definitions of adolescence were discussed, including when adolescence ended. It’s an open-ended sort of topic, but I can’t help but think that the period has gotten hyper-extended to roll into many peoples’ 30s. I’m not going to write down what my definition of adolescence is, but I’m going to throw out that if a lot of our generation would stop trying to rent an apartment in NeverNever Land through their 34th birthdays, life might go a little more smoothly.
  3. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Fog lights on cars are for fog. If it’s not foggy, turn them off. It’s no different than wearing rain boots because the grass is damp at night. Plus, turning them off is a lot like using turn signals: it will greatly reduce the likelihood of your fellow drivers conspiring to murder you.
  4. Finally, an appeal to common sense. If you’re going to wear pins that your employer asks you not to, if they go out of the way to tell you it violates company policy, that they’ve explained this policy to you, and the policy is evenly applied, don’t go howling when you refuse to comply and they fire you. Is it right that we have to avoid discussion or outward shows of religion at work? Probably not, no. But until we can all discuss the matter openly, without reacting, judging, hating, until we can have the discussion at a national level and work out the hypocrisy about mentioning God in our documents, prayer in schools, and religious symbolism in our monuments, we can’t expect Home Depot and Walmart to have the answers. So leave your pins about Obama and your local Union, about Sarah Palin and your boss being a Jewish carpenter OFF your work uniform. It’s not that hard. They’re paying you to be an expert on where to find 1/4 inch plywood and tubes of liquid nails for a certain number of hours each day. If you punch someone in the parking lot while you’re wearing the orange vest, they’ll get in trouble too. So while you’re at work, just try and be Dan in customer service, and display your views when you’re not on the clock, eh? If your faith is too fragile not to practice every waking moment, you might need to reevaluate things.
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One response

5 11 2009
Christine

I have the most pressing feeling I need to go though my facebook pics and look for wine glasses.

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