Some Things Just Irritate Me

For a mere $10 per year (the cost of registering my domain name) I find myself with a bully pulpit from which I can declaim, rationally or incoherently, to an audience largely unknown to me. I have some loyal followers and, frequently, strangers drop by, a few leaving words of encouragement or disparagement. In any case, I am grateful to all who read this. It’s personal therapy. If you’re a sentient being and often suffer from cognitive dissonance (what thinker wouldn’t) I can recommend blogging as a way to organize and calm your mind.

I would be remiss not to offer thanks and praise to WordPress for providing this forum. If you don’t want your own domain, it’s free. I’d pay a hundred bucks a year for it, but don’t tell the folks at WordPress.

That said, on to today’s rant, a collection of minor irritations you may share:

Home and Car Alarms. When your neighbor’s car or home alarm goes off do you run out of your house, .45 in hand, ready to stop injustice in its tracks? Probably not. Like me, you doubtless utter some profanity and hope the asshole shuts his alarm off before you take your .45 and go after him. Alarms are fine but they shouldn’t disturb the tranquility of a neighborhood. Pay someone to monitor your alarm, you cheap bastards, and let the rest of us sleep. If you insist on having a horn or siren, put it inside the house or car. An alarm screeching at one hundred and twenty decibels inside a closed spaced will drive even the most determined thief quickly into the street.

Musical Ringtones. (Sorry RW).  I don’t care if it’s Bach, jazz, rap, or C&W; it’s just goddamn irritating. What are you trying to do, make some sort of statement about who you are? We don’t care. The ringers on old Bell telephones were pretty irritating, but they pale in comparison to a cheesy rendition of “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places” or “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.”  Pick a ringtone that’s unique but unobtrusive. In 2008, Americans spent $585 million on ‘custom’ ringtones. Sheesh.

Blister Packs. The inventor of these diabolical containers should fry in hell. (The term blister pack may be foreign to you but you’ve encountered them numerous times. They’re those clear, impenetrable plastic bubbles behind which something you paid good money for is just daring you to try and get it out). Scissors usually are futile against blister packs; garden shears will work if you can just remember where the hell you put them. A box knife will do the job, but it’s only a matter of time until you slip and suffer a ferocious laceration. Sue the bastards. My remedy: If I buy something in a retail store I take the blister pack to the service desk and make them open it. Yes, it’s fatuous but it makes my point. Amazon, by the way, has told its suppliers not to use blister packs. For them, it’s a green initiative. To me, it’s a valuable public service.

Social Security Numbers. Even though I have one of the older cards that says “Not for Identification” (the new ones don’t have that caveat) I’m asked constantly for my ‘social’ (a term I despise).  I can’t give blood or buy a cell phone without giving up my social security number. (Question: How do all those illegals get cell phones)? At a lot of places (the blood bank, for example) I just lie about it. I use alternate phony numbers whenever I think I can get away with it. I’ve got a credit card that was issued years ago, when banks asked for social security numbers but apparently didn’t check them. My number is phony. The bank is none the wiser. Am I paranoid? You bet. Your name almost certainly is not unique, so identifying you to the exclusion of all others with the same, or similar, name is a problem. But someone armed with a number that uniquely identifies you and only you, owns you. Might as well do what the SS did and tattoo the fucking thing on the inside of your left forearm.

Illiterate Sign Makers. For Christ’s sake, we license almost every trade (plumbers, carpet layers, electricians, hairdressers but, oddly, not auto mechanics) Why don’t we license sign makers? I’m tired of seeing misspellings and bad grammar on signs. I guess it’s all part of the dumbing down of America or, as Roger Price used to call it, “Creeping Meatballism.” For a journeyman sign maker’s license, the candidate should have to demonstrate that he can read, write, and use a dictionary. Only a master sign maker, after passing a rigorous exam, would be allowed the use of apostrophes. All signs would have to be approved by Ellen Hall (the only person I ever knew who could recite correctly the inflections of “to lay”). I shop at Target, where the fast lane is signed “Ten Items or Fewer” (correct) as opposed to WalMart, “Ten Items or Less” (braaack).