I was originally going to write today’s opinion article as a response to some of the horrible comments I read on one of Clay Jones’ cartoons that dealt with transgender individuals and bathrooms. But, all of the drafts kept coming out 70 percent profanity and 30 percent caps-locked repetition of “IGNORANT” and “HATEFULL.” So, keeping in mind my own words about argument and persuasion last week, I decided I should take a week or two to breathe before I addressed that issue. Instead, here are five completely inconsequential things that I’m irrationally passionate about. *UPDATE: I have since written that article here.
Doorknobs should never be wet
I don’t care if I’m exiting a public bathroom or entering a public library, unless it’s caused by rain, doorknobs should never be wet. No paper towels? Shake ‘em dry. Rub ‘em on your pants. Do the hokey pokey. I don’t care how you get them dry, but don’t leave your slimy palm drippings all over the knob! There are few things as gross as touching a wet doorknob, and I can’t help myself from picturing some crazy S.O.B. slobbering all over it. Yeah, I know that’s not the most likely way for it to get wet, but maybe they had some jelly on their hand that rubbed off onto the doorknob and they thought, “Gee, that looks yummy!” It could happen! I realize that I may have put too much thought into this, but for any of you who aren’t creeped out by a wet doorknob, just replace the word “wet” with “moist.” You’re welcome.
Ear hair serves no evolutionary purpose
Why? Why do our bodies do this as we get older? Does the chance of crap flying in our ears increase with age? Are our bodies trying to prevent us from hearing the inevitable footsteps of death approaching? What? I managed to survive 35 years without this B.S., and now my body decides that I can’t live without it. It’s bitter at me. That’s it. My body is taking its revenge on me for all of the crap I put it through in my teens. Jerk.
Most items are good a couple days beyond their expiration date … except milk — milk doesn’t eff around
My usual assumption is that expiration dates are a marker for stores to know when something needs to be pulled off the shelf. Thus, I should still have a day or two to consume it. I’ve tested this theory hundreds of times throughout my life, usually to the concerned/annoyed eyes of my wife, and I’m still here, hundreds of delicious expirations later. But milk! Milk’s expiration date should come in bright red with warning lights around it. Milk’s expiration date should come as a Surgeon General’s Warning: “Consumption after this date will most likely cause a John Hurt Alien moment.” In fact, I’m pretty sure John’s character was eating cereal with expired milk in that scene. Look it up.
Shoes are terrible, just terrible
I understand that they were created for a reason. The first prehistoric person to wrap their feet in dung-covered leaves was probably the greatest mind of their generation, but I hate them. Some of you might be thinking, “But you live where it’s warm 98 percent of the time!” Shoes. A major life decision dictated by my hatred of shoes. But even before that, when I lived in Logan, Utah — which spends four months in Jack Frost’s anus — I still wore flip flops most of the time. I’ve played basketball, hiked, crossed a river, red-pointed a 5.9 sport climbing route, and played soccer (okay, that one wasn’t the best decision) in flip flops. Free your feet, free your soul.
Ducks are horrible people
Yes, they’re cute. Yes, they make a great metaphor for staying calm on the surface while working like crazy below. “The Mighty Ducks” was a great movie. And “Duck Tales” may have been one of the greatest shows ever made. But ducks are dicks. They’re cranky little jerks with Napoleon complexes. But the most horrible thing about ducks is how they mate. If cartoons were scientifically accurate, Donald would have been a crazy stalker rapist. Seriously, male and female duck reproductive (ha! repro*duck*tive) organs have evolved in a millennia-long battle over consent. Watch this link, have a laugh, and be scarred for life.
RELATED ARTICLES
Ten lessons I won’t teach my son
The uncomfortable relationship between sex and violence in America
