I AM the law

I embodied an Internet Law today. No…not Rule 34, Poe’s Law.

Poe’s Law states: “Without a winking smiley or other blatant display of humor, it is impossible to create a parody of fundamentalism that someone won't mistake for the real thing.”

While the use of the term ‘fundamentalism’ usually implies the far Right (Poe originally formulated this law while trolling Christian usenet boards), an older and somewhat broader definition of the term is: “strict adherence to any set of basic ideas or principles,” which covers all ideologies.

And it’s true. The availability and anonymity of the internet has allowed every crazy bastard who thinks he knows THE TRUTH to hose down comment sections with his overheated brain drippings.

When Swift published A Modest Proposal in 1729, many readers failed to recognize the satirical intent because – one could argue – they did not have access to vast amounts of information with which to compare ideas, paper and books being too expensive for the common man until the Industrial Revolution a century later. I find it ironic that in today’s “Information Age,” where you can find links to most libraries, any number of magazines and newspapers, museums, encyclopedias, all kinds of video, as well as scientific and governmental data, you still cannot recognize satire, because for every idea you think is just way-out-there wacky, someone’s turned it into a .com and is plastering up huge walls of text and links.

The Letters to the Editor in my local paper is actually what got me started on all this today. This was one of them:

Free to breathe

Hallelujah!! I have never been so happy as to see that North Carolina will be enacting a smoking ban as of Jan. 1! It will be so refreshing to not have to breathe polluted air and see innocent children subjected to the noxious second hand smoke of irresponsible parents or caregivers in restaurants. The next law I would like to see would be one that charges adults with child abuse for smoking around their children.I am so proud of our state government for protecting its citizens from this disgusting habit!

— Robin

This was my comment:

I'm with you, Robin! My child has asthma, which is exacerbated by strong odors, so I'm lobbying Governor Perdue to enact a ban on people wearing perfume or aftershave in public. If people want to use a completely legal product like Old Spice, they are free to do it within their own home where I don't have to smell it. I'm especially looking forward to forcing department stores to dismantle their perfume counters, because we're too stupid to avoid them when we go out. Besides, perfume contains benzyl acetate, which is a known cancer-causing agent, and as it volatizes off the wearer's skin, it can affect everybody nearby. I think you're limiting yourself with the child abuse law, though; violators of my Perfume Law will be charged with attempted murder.

I thought it was a pretty obvious parody, but I apparently overestimated the comprehension skills of the local townsfolk. This is what I got back:

· you are one freakin idiot!

· there are lots of Socialist countries in the world that might be more to your liking. Please don't let the door hit you on your way out of the U.S of A. Let Freedom Ring!

· Wow....I am all for smoke free restaurants. If you must smoke, you can smoke outside and not indoors for the rest of us to sit through. However, a ban on perfume and cologne?? Are you kidding??? I would die without my perfume!

· I think you're a whack job.

I can’t decide whether to feel superior or sad, so I’ll leave you with the words of The Waco Kid:

“You've got to remember that these are just simple farmers. These are people of the land. The common clay of the new West. You know... morons.”

All I want for Christmas

In October the Marketing groups gathered ‘round.
They all needed to nail down their holiday sound
For the ads they’d be running o’er my radio
(‘cause they wanted my money to help their cash flow).

“We want all of the people to sit up and hear
All about the great offers we’re making this year.
We will need something catchy, unique, a surprise
So we’ll tempt them to enter our store for our buys.”

And they pondered and thought and they brainstormed and then
From the back came a voice (it was probably Ben).
He said “Let’s do an ad no one else has before.
We’ll just rip off that poem by Clement Clark Moore.”

Said the boss: “So creative! I love it! I do!
We will turn that old poem into something new!
We will use it to sell all the widgets in stock.
I can pay the store mortgage and get out of hock!”

But unfortunately the group wasn’t the first
To adapt the old chestnut of holiday verse.
They weren’t even the only to do it this year
Because everyone thinks that to spread the good cheer

They should hammer the listeners with holiday tropes
Irrespective of whether they all sound like dopes.
They think people will listen if they mention snow
In their ad, or have elves or a loud “Ho, ho, ho!”

It is not very clever; I hate it a lot.
And they all should be taken outside to be shot.
They contribute to cheapening these special days
And to giving we shoppers December malaise.

But they’re not only guilty of Christmas abuse.
They have also dishonored the fine work of Seuss.
Anapestic tetrameter his métier,
Which blows them out the water on all their best days.

So to all of you clever new writers for hire
If you want to be heard; if you want to inspire,
Do not meddle with carols, and Santa eschew
Or you’ll find that you get a collective “Fuck you!”


Happy holidays, everyone!

A Little of This; A Little of That

Arby’s is running one of the lamest promotions ever. Their combo meals are priced at $5.01, and they’re distributing coupons good for 1¢ off. The accompanying tagline is “Worth Every Cent!” So…your food is worth the one penny the coupon covers? The coupon that’s not redeemable for cash? Doesn’t that technically make the food worthless? Too often the 2 A.M. brilliant marketing hook shrivels and dies in the harsh light of an 8 A.M. management meeting. This should have been one of those times.

I’d like to meet the person in charge of programming the music for our “Local on the 8s” Weather Channel segments. While most go for muted, stately orchestral pieces, our guy (it has to be a guy) chooses tracks from Steve Vai, Eric Johnson, and Joe Satriani. Not only am I sure it’s a dude picking these out, he has to be a Gen X-er, because those are all 80s guitar gods. I keep hoping for some Queensryche to underscore our Doppler.

I’m in the process of paying off the debt incurred during eighteen months of unemployment, and it’s kind of nerve-wracking, especially when dealing with credit card companies. Their license to anally rape their customers expires next February, so calling them is like sticking a finger in the piranha tank to test the water temperature. You barely get your account number out before they’re peppering you with questions about current contact information, place of employment, next of kin, aliases you might be using, message boards you read, and your Twitter handle. I dutifully gave over all of that at first, but then I realized Hey…why do they need all this? We have one relationship – fiduciary – and that’s coming to an end with this call (I’m paying them, not declaring bankruptcy, just to make that clear). With that insight, I’ve decided to totally fuck with them. I’m hoping the conversation will go like this:

“Thank you for calling Ben Dover & Smyle. How can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m calling to pay off my balance. My account number is [digits here].”
“Okay. And is your address still [blah blah blah]?”
“Well, sort of. I’m living in a rusted-out Mini-Winnie in the field behind the place. But Dave, the owner, throws my mail in the recycle bin instead of the garbage, so I can still read any letters you send me since they’re not covered in his secret sauce. That’s not a euphemism, by the way; Dave makes his living by entering barbecue chicken contests across the South.”
“Oooooo…kay. And how about a phone number?”
“I’m using Dave’s phone right now. He’s in Tuscaloosa until Thursday, so I forced my way into his wife’s back door. That’s not a euphemism, by the way; she has her own room off the deck, and the sliding door doesn’t latch right ever since the trailer slipped off the masonry block and threw the whole frame off plumb.”
“Where are you currently employed?”
“I’m in a band called Chuck U. Farley and the Horse He Rode in on. That is a euphemism, by the way. We do techno remixes of Barry Manilow songs. I play the banjo.”
[stunned silence]
“It’s a niche market.”
“Uh…anything steadier? Maybe with an address?”
“There’s the clinic where I sign up for all the drug trials. I try to stick to ones for new pills because a doctor examines you for those, and that’s like having insurance, you know? Sometimes I sign up for three or four at the same time because it’s an easy hundred bucks a month. I used to sell blood, too, but I can’t anymore because my liver’s failing from all the pills. On the other hand, my sperm count is way up. Doesn’t really help me, though. Since I stopped drinking, I‘ve noticed that there aren’t any pretty women at the bar anymore.”
“Uh…”
“Can we hurry this up? I’ve got a Bat Mitzvah in an hour and still need to tune my banjo for I Write the Songs. Did you know Barry didn’t write that? That’s what college folk and Alanis Morissette would call “irony.” I used to not know that. I think these pills are making me smarter.”