I was rifling through the San Diego Reader recently in search of my favorite crossword puzzle when I came across this real life ad:
After immediately taking a picture of it to text to my friend Jenny and upload on Facebook, I began to make notes in my iPhone about our society’s troubling obsession with mobile devices.
Dear Mother Earth,
I have always associated your preservation with a certain level of misery. I was raised in a household where your name was often mentioned when my childhood pleasures were being restricted. Growing up without Lunchables, a well-packaged treat that is apparently an “ecological disaster,” is not a hardship I’m ready to forgive you for. Let’s just say I have always liked you WAY less than my other parent, Father Christmas.
As I got older, I began to understand the importance of respecting you, but caring for you became no less miserable. My feelings toward you now also included guilt. Every time I did something that I knew hurt you – like driving my own car to work when both of my roommates worked in the same building – I felt myself having to defend myself to you for my bad behavior.
“Sorry, but we all have slightly different sleep patterns! I recycle, what more do you want from me?!”
I wanted to make you happy, but what I was doing was never enough.
Well Mother E., after years of resentment and guilt, I’m writing to tell you that I’ve recently had a revelation: being a good daughter to you actually requires way less effort than I thought!
It all started when we made a compost bin. First of all, drilling holes into a plastic container and cutting out its bottom with a utility knife is the most enjoyable thing I have ever done on your behalf. Second, it turns out that composting is not that nasty or hard! I thought saving you would smell like an alley in Ocean Beach and take up a lot of my precious crossword time. Actually, I walk a shorter distance to our compost bin than I do to the trash can and it just smells sorta earthy. Third, did you know how much shit you can actually compost? Coffee grounds, tea bags, paper towels; every time I turn around Kristy is showing me something else that I have incorrectly directed toward a landfill rather than back into your blessed loins. I find that neat.
Go on, say it. "It's breathtaking".
Dear Samsung Flip Phone,
I’m going to be frank – I’ve been unhappy for some time now. It’s silly for me to hang around hoping you’ll change when you are just as unreliable and low-achieving as you were when we met four years ago. One minute you’re fine, the next minute you’re going on about your low battery, unable to complete the simplest tasks. I know it’s only a matter of time before you shut down completely, and I don’t want to be around for that.
You should know that I’ve been cheating on you with my work phone for months now. It was never serious – just the occasional call or text – always when I was angry with you. I know Blackberry is totally wrong for me, but sometimes it’s nice to be with a GROWN-UP phone – one that can satisfy my basic needs. I’m not proud of it, but my willingness to be unfaithful was the first sign that something needed to change.
Dear Sports Radio Hosts,
Let me start by saying that I LOVE sports radio. I listen to your programs every morning and on my way home from work. I listen to sports radio more than I actually watch sports, which I’ll admit is weird.
So please, understand that I am coming to you as a fan (as opposed to a crazy, ranting feminist) when I tell you that your coverage of women’s sports doesn’t make you sound like an educated analyst; it makes you sound like a valued member of Ron Burgundy’s news team.
I hear your ads for male virility drugs and dad friendly divorce lawyers and I understand that I am a minority listener. I would never ask you to give women’s sports an equal share of your air time. In fact, I’m not even writing to ask you to report on women’s sports more. I’m actually asking you to mention them LESS.
It seems like there are only two acceptable ways to approach the topic of women’s sports in your industry. You can,
1) Comment on how they are inferior to men’s sports, or
2) Comment on how hot and/or un-hot the athletes are
They say no press is bad press, but if I was a professional athlete, I think I’d pass on either option.
Delivering a traffic report in Southern California is like telling a person being tortured, “Hey, you’re being tortured! Specifically, you’re being waterboarded, and it appears you’ll continue to be waterboarded for the next forty five minutes!”
You would never give a bus report notifying riders that “The 34 has standing room only this afternoon, and smells faintly of vomit!” Stating the obvious to a powerless audience is unnecessary and mean spirited.
When I’m sitting at a dead stop on the freeway, I don’t need to be told that “traffic is sticky through the Golden Triangle.” It’s 5:30 PM on a weekday and it’s raining. The Golden Triangle looks like a scene from an apocalyptic movie where everyone is fleeing a burning city at the same time. Just like yesterday. There is no need to call the futility of my situation to my attention every fifteen minutes.
I hate you slightly less than morning show DJs.
Introduction
Chapter 1: Combating Office Awkwardness
Chapter 2: The Fundamentals of Office Real Estate
Chapter 3: Tools of Forced Social Interaction – Mastering the 15 Second Conversation
Chapter 4: Rules of Engagement – Mastering the Passive Aggressive Email
Remember in the 5th grade when your teacher paired you with the smelly kid for that group project? When you complained, she told you, “In the real world, you’re going to have to work with people you don’t like all the time!”
This wisdom offered little consolation during the pioneer diorama catastrophe of ’95, and unfortunately, she was right. When you work in a corporate office, it is likely that at least 65% of the people you collaborate with on a daily basis will irritate you to no end.
At the risk of sounding like a crotchety old man, I fear that certain advancements in technology are leading to the downfall of civilization as we know it.
My enjoyment of music has little to do with the physical album or its artwork, so I didn’t care much when music stores disappeared as iTunes became my exclusive provider of jams. Being accosted by desperate Union Tribune reps on street corners never fazed me either; a born skimmer, I continued to keep myself minimally informed via online news sources. And mooching off friends with Netflix and access to quality bootlegs has always seemed preferable to a fruitless trip to Blockbuster.
When it comes to music, news and movies, I’ve been all about technological progress. But as my inbox becomes increasingly flooded with store closing sale alerts from Borders and Barnes & Noble, the juggernauts of the book industry, because of their inability to compete with e-readers, I’m beginning to realize this has gone too far.
Suddenly the Martin Niemöller “First they came for the communists…” quote seems alarmingly relevant to my shallow life. Tangible media was being devoured by online alternatives all around me and I never blinked an eye. Now they’re coming for my books and it appears that we’re at a point of no return.
Sad, Borders. Do you sell books or mattresses?
http://fortunefavorsthebrave.wordpress.com/2011/02/21/professional-blogger-mareas-guest-post
I’m mere steps away from being a famous travel writer.
Shame Spiral
An emotional condition commonly experienced during the recovery period following extreme intoxication. The shame spiral consists of continued, connected thoughts and emotions of lack of self-worth, shame, regret, embarrassment and commitments to refuse to intoxicate oneself ever again. – The Urban Dictionary
To experience the perfect Shame Spiral, it’s important that you start at a high point. The success of your spiral is measured by the magnitude of your impact at the bottom. The impressiveness of your impact is determined by the height from which you fall.
I would suggest leaving for Vegas on a Friday after work. After a week of drudgery and a seven hour slog through desert traffic, the sight of the strip peeking over the horizon and then engulfing your car is a thrill, no matter how many times you’ve made this mistake before. Elevate yourself further by listening to pump up hip-hop jams and enjoying a roadie as you enter the city. So far you have only spent enough money to pay for your share of a tank of gas split four ways, you are wearing clean clothes, and you are still certain of the whereabouts of your possessions and your pride. You are on top of the world; you are perched atop your spiral, gazing up at the lights.
O MMA Fighter Guy!
I know you are an MMA Fighter Guy because you are wearing one of those bulky hats with a perfectly flat brim, rotated just slightly to the right. You are often barefoot or in socks, despite the urging of several signs in your immediate vicinity. I swoon knowing that this rebellious, devil-may-care attitude will mean the certain annihilation of your opponent in the MMA Fighter Guy Championship Match for which you are surely preparing.
Most gym rats make methodic sex noises whilst they lift; three grunts of exertion with the heaviest weight and then…done. BORRRING! You, MMA Fighter Guy, make karate chop sounds and jump erratically in a circle around the cable machine, yanking that handle toward the floor like you’re laying the smack down – each rep a titillating hi-YAH! I can only assume, nay, fantasize, that being in the throes of passion with you would be like making sweet love to a character from Mortal Kombat.
I’ve seen the TV show The Ultimate Fighter and I know that there are special gyms for MMA Fighter Guys like you. They have cages and mat space where you can wrap your legs around other MMA Fighter Guys and perform very intimate sit-ups. I don’t know if you can’t afford a membership at one of these establishments or if you have been banished (for a sit-up faux pas?). Either way, your presence gives me a secret thrill, and keeps alive my hope that maybe, just maybe, you are doing very fast pushups with pronounced exhales in my neighborhood 24 Hour Fitness out of … love.
TKO...of my heart.
Occupation: Cubicle Monkey 
