I hate it when . . .
Yeah-ya. That’s it, I really do hate it when. I mean really. I. Really. Hate. It. When. Oh. Yeah. I’ll explain.
I was in town the other day. One of the shop windows was advertising THE NEXT WAVE, and I’ll get to that. The window indicated we would get a preview. It’s supposed to be a fashion statement of some kind. It seems that if the next wave looks anything like the last wave then the obituaries will come filled with the names of people I know and I find that disturbing. I don’t find it fashionable at all. So, you know, I’ve been keeping an eye on the environment. So I was, I was in town, even though I had other things to do, just to see the preview . . .
and someone walked by and said that. “I hate it when . . .”
Yeah-ya. Well, it’s a college town. It’s a college town and I really do, I hate it when . . . it’s right at the top of my fuckin’ list. I think that’s as bad as – worse even – someone hanging out in the rest room with a clip board checking off: washed hands, did not wash hands. And just think: someone, somewhere, gets paid to process that data.
So yeah, why not. I HATE IT WHEN . . .
and you know this’ll be good . . .
I HATE IT WHEN . . . Industry leaders behave in ways that indicate a complete disconnect with reality. Here’s an example. Vermont Yankee was using the medium of television advertisement to lobby the public on the basis of jobs, and the ad featured several employees who work at the nuclear plant. One of them indicated a desire to get the TRUE FACTS out to the public. The. True. Facts. Facts do not require embellishment. Facts do not require qualification. To suggest that they do is to indicate that the information being conveyed may not be factual at all, but may rather be rumor, speculation, or even innuendo. We have not yet established an accepted method of disposal for the radioactive waste generated from such facilities, and that is a fact. It needs no qualification. Vermont Yankee presented information that was false to the Vermont State Legislature, and this too, is a fact that requires no embellishment. It could be embellished, very easily, with the simple suggestion that they knew the information provided was false. It seems there are underground pipes, pipes whose existence they denied, pipes that carry liquids laden with radioactivity, pipes that are apparently leaking . . . and in consequence the water table has been subjected to radioactive contamination.
Vermont Yankee wants it’s license to operate renewed. Fat chance I say. Fat chance when the operators behave with this level of complete disregard for the public and the regulatory authority delegated to oversee such matters.
THE TRUE FACTS . . . indeed; and it is both a truth and a fact that when someone feels the need to quantify a series of purported facts as true facts then the likelihood is that they are not dealing with facts at all, and of that they are well aware.
Here is another example of industry leaders completely disconnected with reality. But let me give you the whole package, because after all . . .
I HATE IT WHEN . . . the dogs wake me early to go out, and there is an unidentified electronic hum in the air, the only explanation I can come up with for suddenly waking from nightmares of i.e.d.s because after all, I’ve never been near one; with a minor exception of course, one that took place long long ago - a memory that is shrouded by time of an event that took place in a drunken haze, and most importantly, did NOT include electronic devices . . .
so much for the foolishness of youth . . .
I HATE IT WHEN . . . I wake early to discover the cause of my waking - which remains unidentified - may have an integral connection with my most recent nightmare, turn on the tv to catch the morning news only to find a television commercial clearly illustrating that great divide between, in this case the automotive industry and reality . . . In this particular commercial the narrator laments those men who view his choice of transportation as somehow less than manly. His choice in this instance is a minivan, and he goes on to ask: What could be more manly than to fill that minivan with FIVE of his offspring . . .
Seven billion people on this planet, that is six billion more than could be fed on the basis of available sunlight, and in China a one child policy has been the law of the land for decades, YET American executives find it acceptable to embrace a complete lack of family planning what so ever. I contend that if this narrator’s wife is not interested in taking it in the ass, and he cannot manage the use of a condom, then perhaps he should just take the cut - TAKE THE FUCKING CUT I say, or keep his god damned dick out of his wife and learn to masturbate. Seven billion of us on this planet. Seven billion. I do not mean to berate or belittle those who come from a large family, rather it is to state clearly that planning a large family today is utterly irresponsible. We have been fruitful. We have multiplied. We have multiplied like fruitflies . . . Enough is enough.
I just hate it when industry executives and ad men dally with ancient dogma in appeal to a specific segment of the demographic even though that dogma is outdated and the survival of the species - with abundant clarity - lies elsewhere.
I HATE IT WHEN . . . I walk into the tool section at Sears only to find on display a new series of boxed end wrenches - boxed end wrenches labeled as new and somehow revolutionary even though they are no different than the old boxed end wrenches, with the exception of the label: EVOLV and the nitwits can’t even spell. The bastards aren’t selling wrenches so much as they are a label. In this case, a fraud. EVOVL indeed. I’d like to tie the nitwits dominant wrist to their own necks with a six inch cord - behind their back - with my patient and understanding admonition to EVOLV - echoing in their ear. It shouldn’t take long, not long at all. Unless it happens their necks come fashioned in the form of some scrawny twig of flesh and bone. The fuckers would most certainly EVOLV regardless of neck size.
It reminds me of those days when it seemed everywhere I went there were accidents, accidents accompanied by sirens, and not far away circled a car like some vulture, a car with the licence plate that read ADJUST. I suppose you may think the car belonged to a chiropractor, and that would be a reasonable explanation, but that begs the question: Why would a chiropractor join the entourage of nitwits and nimrods that did seem to be everywhere . . .
Never mind. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, be grateful. Be grateful and fear, your turn may be next . . .
I HATE IT WHEN . . . I walk in the mall and upstairs there is a series of posters – of Africa, beside a new line of clothing, Utility clothing, a new generation, every bit informed by their predecessors and every bit as useful . . . The Utility vest with all of its pockets augmented now with a belt and the message of that belt is BOLT IN because this, obviously, is the preview, and THE NEXT WAVE arrives this spring . . . while downstairs in the mall GoGames has a series of puppies pictured in the window, next to a game of Labyrinth - and this all the while in the news a dog artist has committed suicide and a mother and child lay trampled by an elephant - in Africa . . . And there in the obituaries lie the names and faces of people I know . . .
I HATE IT WHEN . . . The S.I.C. [Surveillance Industrial Complex] Bastards reach the conclusion that Congress has not allocated sufficient resources to, say, YEMEN, and so they use a young man from Nigeria to lobby Congress on behalf of terrorist interdiction; and I don’t much care for it when the man’s father, who happens to be a banker, wealthy and connected, expresses his displeasure with the purchase of an actor - or worse, a fixer who choreographs the scene with someone completely innocent and unknowing - who flies the same exact route only to arrive sick and locked in the john, refusing to come out, creating international headlines. I just hate it when that happens, but I do find it interesting . . .
I HATE IT WHEN the predictive behavioral analysts indicate they can’t get it right and thus seven CIA officers die by suicide vest - I hate it when that happens because I know better, the behavioral analysts are in fact quite good at what they do, though they go to great lengths to deny that fact. The man was a loner, one with a deep hatred of everything American. It isn’t that they missed something, it is rather the creation of that appearance is simply more useful. No one gets fired over The Nigerian. And that would seem to indicate that the CIA is itself, no longer a lead agency, possessing and deploying all of the latest bells and whistles . . .
I HATE IT WHEN . . . nitwits and nimrods call the house leaving strange names and even stranger telephone numbers – numbers with things like double zeros in places where zeros should not be . . . as if I’m a dog and it’s just a whistle, one you can’t hear because it has been designed for only the dogs ear and the whistle screams COME OUT TO PLAY as if dogs were meant to chase cars in busy intersections as if it were a game a game even though people die playing people die playing and I’ve got a list . . .
I’ve got a fucking list and they should just count me out of THE NEXT WAVE because I’m not playing.
I’m not playing and I’ve got a newsflash for the nitwits and the nimrods who apparently can’t seem to read their own iconography . . . I Never Was.
Fucking nitwits . . .
© D. Winter
January 20, 2010