Self-perpetuation and Small Appliances

It occurred to me tonight that reality shows are the lowest-common-denominator version of a Philosophy degree.

Let me explain.

No. Is too much; let me sum up.

Winners of these reality shows, instead of doing anything worthwhile with their fifteen minutes, usually go on to host their own spin-off reality shows.

Philosophy majors, when faced with the realization that GE and Microsoft aren’t scrambling to hire them, dive back into the ivory towers and start teaching their own Philosophy classes.

I fled to the kitchen tonight to avoid both reality shows and Philosophy majors, and happened to notice the warning on the door to the toaster oven:
“In the event of a food flare-up, make sure door is closed.”

What odd phrasing – “flare up.” Do people not understand the word “fire” anymore? It’s as if:

“MOM!!!”
“What? What is it, honey? Why are you crying?”
“I have a date tomorrow night…and I’ve broken out in pork chops!”

“Hey…we can’t go to that house.”
“What? Why not?”
“Don’t you see that sign on the door? Someone in there has Toasted Cheese Sandwiches.”
“I thought that was eradicated, like, back in the 50s.”
“New strain came over from Eastern Europe. Just leave the Watchtower in the mailbox. Come on.”

“Duuuuude…I can’t believe you’re going out with her”
“Whattaya mean? She’s smokin’, dude.”
“Yeah…she’s tight. But she’s got muffins, man.”

“You look like hell, Dave.”
“Not sleeping very well, Al.”
“You and Eileen okay?”
“What? Yeah. It’s nothing like that. My fish sticks are just acting up again.”

“Hey, Sweetheart?”
“Yes, Dear?”
“Could you pick up another can of tater tot spray while you’re out? This burning is driving me crazy.”