Technology: Friend or Indifferent Younger Brother?

I will go ahead and get this out of the way right now- I am greatly amused by things normally considered too silly for a grown person to give more than a second thought to.  A robot that can vacuum my house is the most incredible thing in the world to me.  Were I to own one I would follow it around while it did it's duty, endlessly mesmerized at how it just knew where that chair was!  And that's just the simple stuff.  Technology has come a long way.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we now have the technology to make Robin Williams a believable actor."

Phones used to do one thing: call people.  Now we have phones that can send and receive any video from anywhere all over the world, instantly.  We have GPS systems that can tell someone on the other side of the world where I am standing down to the foot, how fast I'm walking, and have a satellite read the tag on my shirt to see what brands I buy.  We have a cruise missiles that can fly through someone's front window, stop, turn around, find the right person, and blow them up.  We have cars with freaking night vision.  We- the human race as a whole- have risen to new heights, right!?

Wrong.

If you really think that we can do anything we imagine, I lead you to only one place: the movie theater bathroom.

Now for couples!

I know, I know- it's not just theaters, but for some reason they seem to be the worst offenders.  Still don't know what I'm talking about?  Let me give you a hint: when was the last time you tried to wash your hands at one of those "hands free" sinks where you didn't stand there waving your hands around like an idiot?  Exactly.  It never happens.  After moving your hands every which way, standing on your head, and banging on the faucet itself (which really defeats the whole "hands-free" idea, amirite?)- finally you get a decent flow, right?

Nope.  It runs for one second and shuts off, never to work again.  So you move one sink over, and over, and over until you finally have washed your hands (and missed the entire movie).  There, that wasn't so bad was it?  I can deal with that, I suppose.  But it's not over.

"Mua ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!"

Can someone please tell me who thought that we only needed two square inches of paper towel to dry their hands?  Anyone?  Bueller?  That's right.  Once you've gone through approximately six million sinks to get rid of those nasty theater-toilet germs, you need to wave your hands frantically in front of a little red light to get two inches of paper towel.  And can you get more right away?  Nope.  You have to tear that two inches off first.

Maybe I'm a spoiled American.  Maybe I need to care less about the little things in life and go do something productive with what the good lord gave me.  Or maybe I should call up NASA and have them send an engineer or two to the good folks down at Kholer to whip them into shape.

Don't make me send RoboCop.  I'll call him right now if I have to.

Cause nobody hates germs more than RoboCop.

These Things Are Completely Useless.

Every now and again in my daily travels I come across things that I find, as this posting's title would imply, completely useless.  These things usually inspire some sort of quip about the downfall of humanity to come out of my mouth- much to my own amusement and much to the chagrin of my dear wife. 

Do not confuse me with one to get annoyed with little things that absolutely no one uses.  Things that have so little effect on the course of our lives, such as pancake spray or the Potty Putter- because quite frankly I adore both of these products.  No no, rather I am HUGELY annoyed (capitalization added for emphasis) with things that seemingly everyone thinks are terrific.  Because they're not.  They're really not. 

Things such as these.

• Clip-on cell phone holders.  You know- these:

Mr. Big here just knows he's great!

 Before you say I've gone too far already, let me be reasonable.  I know that sometimes your phone rings off the hook and it would be really nice for someone to invent something that holds your cell close at hand at all times.  I hate to break it to whatever bright ray of sunshine invented this, but there already is something that does that.  Pockets.

•  Loud, aftermarket exhaust on anything.

No, really.  This is an Aston Martin, I promise.

Now I have a confession to make- the exhaust system on my little car has been tuned.  I'm not proud of it, but the previous owner did it, and you know what?  It's actually tasteful.  It's not loud, it just gives it a little extra gurgle when dropped a gear.  But not you, Domenic Toretto.   You had to make sure that everyone and their dead grandparents hear your excessively loud 90 bhp Honda Civic just FLY to the next stoplight.  (By the way, if you got the Domenic Toretto reference, you're fired.)

•  Dreadlocks.  Oh yes I did.

Don't mind the fleas.  Just look into those eyes...

There's nothing to say on this one, except that while running around town I see a staggering amount of young people sporting dreadlocks.  And if that's you, let me be honest.  You're not Bob Marley.  That nest of birds up there isn't normal.  And no.  No I will not hire you.

• Deep-V Shirts

"You feel me, bro?"

 
While the people that wear them maintain the fact that they are- like, standing out, man- I maintain that they look preposterously, enormously stupid.  All a deep-V shirt tells me is either a) you wax your chest hair, or b) you don't have any.  Frankly I don't care which one is true- just keep it to yourself, would you please?

• Budweiser beer.

The bane of every good decision, ever.

Yup- the self-proclaimed "King of Beers".  More cans of this dull, urine-like liquid are sold every year than any other beer in the world, and I think I cried a little bit just typing that sentence.  I'm going to go down a Leinenkugel 1888 Bock.  I'll come back when we've all come to our senses.











And finally, the worst offender of them all- the one useless thing above all other useless things:

•  The Toyota Prius.

I've made sure to paint plants on my Prius just in case you didn't know that I'm better than you.

Ah, the grandaddy of all hybrid cars- the Holy Grail for those wishing to show their neighbors just how much better human beings they are than them.  I'm not going to into detail about actually how much worse on the environment they are than, say, a normal car.  You can read that here.  Or here.  Or here.

I am going to say, instead, that I'm tired of the people that drive them.  I'm tired of them driving 5 miles under the speed limit.  In the left lane.  I'm tired of them glaring condescendingly at you when you're leaving the grocery store in your big, gas guzzling SUV, plastic bags in full tow.  I'm tired of the way they all are so blatantly convinced that they are saving the precious li'l polar bears or some such nonsense.  I've had enough!  With God as my witness, I would rather attempt to strangle a full-grown polar bear with my bare (see what I did there?) hands than drive a Prius.

Of course, you'd never do something like this.

Every now and then I find myself in a situation that merits either panic, disgust, or frantic excuse-making.  Usually all three at once.  Of course, I'm sure that none of you know just what I'm talking about, so please indulge me while I explain.

I'm a man who enjoys the finer things in life.  Things that make you wonder how you ever could have done without.  Things like Italian shoes, or German cars.  Cigars dipped in brandy, and the perfect pinstripe on a tailored jacket.  I'm a man who will waft about in a room filled with the sounds of Ligeti and Part, praising the golden fingers of Gidon Kremer and thinking I am more likely having a religious experience rather than just listening to music.

Of course, then there are days like yesterday- of which are becoming increasingly common.  I had arrived home from work, and upon finding I had the house to myself I began to do what I would normally do- sit and waste time looking up useless things on the internet; the kind that nobody else in the world would want to know.  Ask me later if you really want to know (you don't).  Anyway.  On a normal day I would sort through my vast library of music and select something tasteful, well-thought through and slickly produced.

Yesterday, however, was not a normal day.  Yesterday I open iTunes and, without thinking and with just a little too much excitement I scrolled down to the where The Artist Formally Known As Prince is to be found, and double clicked "Raspberry Beret".  And- as if to laugh in the face of anyone who would suggest that I couldn't sink any lower than that- I did something else.  I sang along.  Quite loudly.

Now before you go judging me, let me finish my story and get to my point.  Not one minute into the song (and perfectly in time with the chorus, I might add) my wife came home and caught me mid-song, invisible microphone up to my mouth.  Needless to say I my face turned into a ripe tomato and I quickly tried to write the whole incident off.

But as I sat wafting in the stink of my shame, I realized something.  Everybody has a closet full of dirty laundry.  No matter who you are, you have dirty little secrets hidden away that you don't want anybody to know about.  And guess what folks?  I'm here to tell you that it's okay!  Let's all be free of our oppression and openly announce to the world what our hidden pleasures are, so that we may find solace in the company of like-minded (but equally tasteless) people.  So here goes.

I love Maroon 5, and know all the words to "Wake Up Call".  I eat chicken nugget roll-ups when nobody is around (don't pretend you don't know what those are).  I once ordered Bud-Light Lime and enjoyed it.  I've watched "The Notebook".  By myself.  Eating popcorn.  With a box of tissues.  You see, nobody is perfect.  But on second thought (as I re-read my startling confessions), let's not show our guilty pleasures to the world.  These types of things should be buried in a shoebox deep, deep below the spot where you buried your pet hamster.  Let's make sure Adam Levine's voice never gets heard of again. 

And of course, if you find yourself in a spot where you simply MUST sing "Raspberry Beret"- make sure you know what time your wife gets off work.