Death by Spontaneous Internal Yeast Suffocation

A couple of times a week, as my wife and I are sitting in our bed waiting for sleep to befall us, we can hear the not-so-faint cackling of a riotous pack of coyotes that congregate in the vacant land just beyond our yard’s back wall. And though it sounds downright crazy to have a herd of coyotes living just beyond your property line, I assure that this phenomenon is very real.

With the cackling and occasional agonized yelps of the coyotes setting the unnerving backdrop, Angela’s mind begins to conjure up scenarios of super-intelligent coyote committees that work in complete harmony to accomplish such goals as hop our 8-foot tall fence, open our locked doors, enter our home, devour us, and perhaps even steal our most precious possessions including her printer and my PC. Yet, surely there are many holes in Angela’s phobia of hyper-evolved coyotes. (For instance, if the coyotes were smart enough to pick the locks, wouldn’t they also be smart enough to take her Apple computer instead of my PC? I mean, come on, who wants to deal with “this program has performed an illegal operation and must be shutdown” six times a day?) However, in the moment of her fear, logic is placed on the back burner and raw emotion is the plat du jour.

We all occasionally fall victim to our illogical fears that unreasonably beset us and allow emotion to drive us wildly. I, for instance, am plagued with the nagging thought that if I eat bread that is undercooked so as to be doughy in the middle, the yeast will continue to react until it fills my stomach and throat leaving me entirely unable to breath. (Spontaneous internal yeast suffocation (S.I.Y.S.) would be an unfortunate way to go). It’s the same kind of half-cocked logic that makes us think twice before swallowing watermelon seeds lest they burrow themselves into the lining of our stomachs and begin to sprout, or that causes us to check a dozen times to ensure that our fly is in the fully upright and locked position before leaving the house.

Now, some experts might encourage us to question or challenge these preposterous phobias, that we might free ourselves from their grasps. And that would probably be a good idea. The only problem is that one of my illogical fears is that all the experts are together colluding for the purpose of convincing us that our very real fears (of things like coyote committees and death by S.I.Y.S.) are actually illogical. That way, when these “illogical” fears strike, we’ll be caught completely unprepared.

iRate.

Seeing as how their whole profession relies on their ability to intrigue and motivate their audience, one might expect that people who go into advertising would be the cleverest and most creative our society has to offer.

That certainly is the reputation that advertising-types get—witty, shrewd, keen. I used to subscribe to this theory as well, but recent events have shifted the whole enchilada of my perception on the subject. I now regard the majority of these individuals to be mindless twits, lemmings marching toward the precipice’s edge.

What changed my mind, you ask? Well, it all began when Apple released the now legendary staple of MP3 players, the iPod. Surely, a fantastic product that has revolutionized the way I dust the house as well as an absolute marketing triumph.

But my hot water is not with Apple. Rather, I aim my disgust squarely at the seemingly unending population of marketers who felt it advisable to exploit Apple’s advertising scheme by applying it to their own products.

Since the iPod’s rise to fame, we’ve witnessed the arrival of such ridiculous and pilfered products as the iHair, iFloor, iCast, iGrill, iPaper, iWatch, and iMattress. In fact, if you attach the letter 'i' to the front of any noun (and most verbs) and Google it, you’ll find a product of that name. Is there iFood? Absolutely. What about iPants? Yep. There couldn’t possibly be a product called the iShip-in-a-Bottle*. Oh, there could. And there is.

I am afraid to say that things have grown even more dire than the “Got Milk?” crisis of the 1990’s. For a few dark years, the country was under the dank impression that it was absolutely hilarious to plaster a “Got ____?” (fill in the blank with absolutely anything at all, no matter how completely stupid) sticker onto the rear window of your car.

It was not funny then. And it makes me want to throw up now.

The prime concern is not how far we will sink. (I think we already hit rock bottom with the advent of the all too real iBlood). The question is who among us will be able to refrain? Will the potential profit margins associated with this extremely tacky form of marketing encourage me to capitalize on the public’s undeniable demand for an iNachos? How long until I’m attending iChurch? When, if ever, will I pick up an iNewspaper to check the iPrices of my iStocks on the iStockMarket? It’s all very depressing.

*For the record, the only one of these products that doesn't actually exist is the iShip-in-a-Bottle. Yet.

Ride the snail

I’m 23 now, and despite my inability to grow a respectable patch of facial hair, practically an adult. I work. I pay bills. I complain about bills. I even look forward to baths and naps and have learned to tolerate, if not enjoy, the taste of mushrooms. (All things which quite repulsed the youthful version of myself).

But I’m not quite ready to relinquish childhood. I still covet the times of yesteryear when laundry would seemingly wash, fold and place itself into its rightful dresser drawer without any doing of my own. I still relish in the occasional round of complete inappropriateness. And when feeling dejected I still find myself just a little tempted to pop a quarter in the mechanical snail with the cowboy hat that sits in front of my local grocery store and go for a ride.



Of course the sight of a six foot four inch tall man riding a mechanical snail while eating an ice cream sandwich might draw some curious looks. Just to grasp the handlebars, I have to tuck my arms close to my chest and reduce my reach to something like that of a tyrannosaurus rex. In order to place my feet in the stirrups on either side of the snail, my knees must extend upwards past my shoulders configuring my lanky frame in most unnatural way. But I’m okay with looking weird. The therapeutic seesawing helps to work out the homework-induced kinks of collegiate life and is a worthy trade off for looking a wee bit foolish.

Blogging.

It has recently come to my attention that "blogging" is not, as I previously believed, a British word for making out. This comes as good news, because now I can blog to my heart's content without contracting mono.


It has begun.