Dear Aunt Slugger,
I've recently become concerned about my cardiovascular health and have decided to join a gym. Do you have any good exercise tips for me?
Sincerely,
Trying Not To Die At Age 41
Dear TNTDAA41,
Actually, no. I don't. I stopped paying attention to wellness advice after I was forced to square dance in the seventh grade. If you take nothing else away from my advice columns, at least remember this: Never, under any circumstances, should you ever take fitness tips from a middle-aged junior high school gym teacher wearing a red and white checkered scarf. Those are words to live by.
That being said, I can offer you a number of tips for surviving in a gym environment. I have been to a number of different gyms over the years (none of which, you will note, have square dancing machines), and there are a few things you should know before you go stroke out on the treadmill.
First--and this is very important--unless your gym is located inside the locker room of a professional football team, you are not the most athletically disinclined person there. You just aren't. You will think you are, but you are not. Your average gym goer likes to appear as though he or she is a walking, talking Michelangelo fresco, so you will see these people wearing top-of-the-line gear, grunting on the weight machines, and drinking protein shakes while sprinting at top speed on the treadmill. You will also note that these same people rarely survive more than five minutes at any given exercise. This is sometimes referred to as "circuit training," or, as advice columnists know it, "weakness." So do not be intimidated.
Second, your gym will usually offer personal trainers. Unless you have very specific fitness needs, such as wanting your left thigh to look like a turkey drumstick, you don't need a personal trainer. These people get paid by the hour to convey the following message: "Burn calories." Since I am an advice columnist, and thereby already independently wealthy, I will offer the same message here, free of charge: "Burn calories." You may print out this column and keep it with you when you go to the gym to remind yourself of that message, in case you somehow forget why you've decided to surround yourself with sweaty assholes in unforgiving moisture-wicking shorts.
Third, you should not worry about your appearance at the gym. Wear the following outfit: t-shirt, shorts, socks, sneakers, and deodorant. (PLEASE wear deodorant, especially you, dude in yellow shirt who uses the rowing machine every morning from 6-6:30). For you women, if you consider putting on makeup before you go the gym, you should also consider checking yourself into a mental facility. For you men, if you consider not wearing a shirt, ask yourself the following question: "Am I a model?" If the answer is no, you can't go without the shirt. If the answer is yes, you still can't go without the shirt, given that the modern male model looks as though he's been eating nothing but cocaine and Tic-Tacs for the past two years.
Finally, you will find that people will spend a great deal of time trying to see how far you've gone on the treadmill, or how many flights of stairs you've climbed on the stair machine, or how many gallons of sweat you have produced. Disregard these people. They are the same people who keep meticulous notes about how long you took for lunch at work last Friday and how many times they saw you check the online weather forecast. They are also sociopaths who keep body parts in their pantries, so pay them no heed (except as required to avoid being alone with them near an electric carving knife).
Well, TNTDAA41, I hope this helps. Good luck at your new gym, and remember: If you eat properly, exercise regularly, get 8 hours sleep a night, and drink 10 cups of water a day, you will still die.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Answering life's deepest questions
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Air Travel
Dear Aunt Slugger,
This weekend, I am flying to South Dakota to see the famous Mitchell Corn Palace. I have mixed feelings about this trip, because, although seeing the Corn Palace has been a lifelong dream of mine, I have never flown on an airplane before and I am nervous about what to expect. Do you have any tips for me?
Sincerely,
Doug
Brockton, MA
Dear Doug,
Doug, first and foremost, I hope you have a really nice time at the Corn Palace. I hope you are blessed with many happy memories of…of whatever it is that you do at the Corn Palace.
Now, onto the topic at hand. You’ve come to the right place, Doug. Your Aunt Slugger has a great deal of air travel experience – so much air travel experience, in fact, that even the strongest drugs cannot suppress the memories. I’ve tried; nothing has worked.
As your Aunt Slugger sees it, there are a number of problems with air travel, which I will list here:
1.) The airlines. These assholes will rob you blind at every opportunity, and there is not one single thing you can do about it. We had the opportunity to stop them, we did. Back when they started charging baggage fees, we should have made a statement by filling our suitcases with rotting catfish and sweaty compression shorts. But we didn’t. I wanted to, but the rest of you apathetic dicks didn't back me up.
2.) Security. I know that some of you are going to defend airport security as being critical to the safety of airplane passengers. I get what you’re saying, I really do. You’re clinging to this dream of an airport security utopia wherein suspected terrorists are caught, honest people are treated with dignity, and deer eat right out of your hand while you go through the metal detector. But you need to face reality here: Our airports would be just as safe--possibly safer--if we put a common dairy cow at the entrance to each terminal.
For those of you who are busy drafting e-mails to me in which you ardently defend airport security, stop now. Stop it. Put down the pen. You are only deluding yourself. Airport security, as it is currently conceived, is - how do I say this diplomatically? - a circus.
First, there is the random screening process. Now, my grievance with the random screening process is not the randomness. Your average complaint out the TSA screening process always involves someone's 90-year-old grandma getting frisked and run through the x-ray machine. I am automatically voiding these complaints. Which is it? Do you want to risk that your grandma gets randomly selected to be screened, or do you want to engage in racial profiling and thereby end up somewhere between Adolf Hitler and dog shit on the moral decency spectrum? That's what I thought.
No, my grievance with the screening process is the screening process. It's stupid. And pointless. I was once randomly selected to be screened at Midway airport in Chicago. Your Aunt Slugger is not proud to admit this, but at the time, I was an accountant. Please don't judge me; I was young and I was desperate. Anyway, I was traveling for work, and I had in my possession both a staple remover and a pair of scissors. When I was selected to be screened, my bag went through the x-ray machine again, and HOLY FUCKING GOD THERE'S SOMETHING IN THIS BAG! THERE'S SOMETHING IN THIS BAG! It turns out that my staple remover was creating a national emergency. They went through every square inch of my bag. They removed the staple remover and inspected it carefully. After no less than five minutes of thorough investigation (during which time I was patted down), they returned the staple remover to its rightful place and I was able to board the plane.
The scissors - THE SCISSORS - were left in place.
And now, I would like for you to envision a world in which a staple remover is deadlier than a pair of scissors. You can't, can you? Right. The modern human brain is not capable of that kind of absurdity, which is hard to believe when you consider that we spend 80-85% of our days pondering the goings-on of Kate Gosselin and Donald Trump.
To preserve your mental hygiene, I will NOT share with you the details of the time I had a pastry shaped like Oscar the Grouch (fuck you for judging me - you know you would've bought it too) and I put it through the x-ray machine in its own plastic container and the security personnel--there were three of them--kept running it through the machine, backing it up, and running it through again to figure out what it was, rather than just, for example, looking at it with their own eyes. No, I will not share that story with you, because it's so fucking stupid that it will make you suicidal if you think about it for too long.
3.) Other Passengers. This is where the bulk of your trouble is going to occur during the average flight. You can mentally accept the fact that the airlines suck, and you can justify the inanity of airport security as being just another of humanity's great fuck-ups (with germ warfare and skinny jeans being among some of the other greats). But the other passengers...well, if the Oscar the Grouch pastry story didn't make you want to kill yourself, your fellow air travel passengers will. Either way, I am expecting about a 90% mortality rate from reading this column.
You will begin seeing problems at check-in (there's always some asshole who cuts you in line or tries to put a child in his or her checked baggage--which is less of a problem these days because the airlines will let that one go with a higher luggage fee), but your real problems will begin at security (of course). Some of the common offenders include
Once you finally take off (if you make it off the tarmac...good luck), and after you've dealt with the guy who is sitting in your aisle seat and says, "Oh, it's OK, I don't mind the aisle" and pretends as though his middle seat is more attractive and then sighs audibly when you insist on occupying the aisle seat for which you paid an unreasonable fee, you will also encounter
In conclusion, Doug, Google Maps tells me that it's a quick and painless 27-hour drive to the Mitchell Corn Palace. Have fun.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
This weekend, I am flying to South Dakota to see the famous Mitchell Corn Palace. I have mixed feelings about this trip, because, although seeing the Corn Palace has been a lifelong dream of mine, I have never flown on an airplane before and I am nervous about what to expect. Do you have any tips for me?
Sincerely,
Doug
Brockton, MA
Dear Doug,
Doug, first and foremost, I hope you have a really nice time at the Corn Palace. I hope you are blessed with many happy memories of…of whatever it is that you do at the Corn Palace.
Now, onto the topic at hand. You’ve come to the right place, Doug. Your Aunt Slugger has a great deal of air travel experience – so much air travel experience, in fact, that even the strongest drugs cannot suppress the memories. I’ve tried; nothing has worked.
As your Aunt Slugger sees it, there are a number of problems with air travel, which I will list here:
1.) The airlines. These assholes will rob you blind at every opportunity, and there is not one single thing you can do about it. We had the opportunity to stop them, we did. Back when they started charging baggage fees, we should have made a statement by filling our suitcases with rotting catfish and sweaty compression shorts. But we didn’t. I wanted to, but the rest of you apathetic dicks didn't back me up.
2.) Security. I know that some of you are going to defend airport security as being critical to the safety of airplane passengers. I get what you’re saying, I really do. You’re clinging to this dream of an airport security utopia wherein suspected terrorists are caught, honest people are treated with dignity, and deer eat right out of your hand while you go through the metal detector. But you need to face reality here: Our airports would be just as safe--possibly safer--if we put a common dairy cow at the entrance to each terminal.
For those of you who are busy drafting e-mails to me in which you ardently defend airport security, stop now. Stop it. Put down the pen. You are only deluding yourself. Airport security, as it is currently conceived, is - how do I say this diplomatically? - a circus.
First, there is the random screening process. Now, my grievance with the random screening process is not the randomness. Your average complaint out the TSA screening process always involves someone's 90-year-old grandma getting frisked and run through the x-ray machine. I am automatically voiding these complaints. Which is it? Do you want to risk that your grandma gets randomly selected to be screened, or do you want to engage in racial profiling and thereby end up somewhere between Adolf Hitler and dog shit on the moral decency spectrum? That's what I thought.
No, my grievance with the screening process is the screening process. It's stupid. And pointless. I was once randomly selected to be screened at Midway airport in Chicago. Your Aunt Slugger is not proud to admit this, but at the time, I was an accountant. Please don't judge me; I was young and I was desperate. Anyway, I was traveling for work, and I had in my possession both a staple remover and a pair of scissors. When I was selected to be screened, my bag went through the x-ray machine again, and HOLY FUCKING GOD THERE'S SOMETHING IN THIS BAG! THERE'S SOMETHING IN THIS BAG! It turns out that my staple remover was creating a national emergency. They went through every square inch of my bag. They removed the staple remover and inspected it carefully. After no less than five minutes of thorough investigation (during which time I was patted down), they returned the staple remover to its rightful place and I was able to board the plane.
The scissors - THE SCISSORS - were left in place.
And now, I would like for you to envision a world in which a staple remover is deadlier than a pair of scissors. You can't, can you? Right. The modern human brain is not capable of that kind of absurdity, which is hard to believe when you consider that we spend 80-85% of our days pondering the goings-on of Kate Gosselin and Donald Trump.
To preserve your mental hygiene, I will NOT share with you the details of the time I had a pastry shaped like Oscar the Grouch (fuck you for judging me - you know you would've bought it too) and I put it through the x-ray machine in its own plastic container and the security personnel--there were three of them--kept running it through the machine, backing it up, and running it through again to figure out what it was, rather than just, for example, looking at it with their own eyes. No, I will not share that story with you, because it's so fucking stupid that it will make you suicidal if you think about it for too long.
3.) Other Passengers. This is where the bulk of your trouble is going to occur during the average flight. You can mentally accept the fact that the airlines suck, and you can justify the inanity of airport security as being just another of humanity's great fuck-ups (with germ warfare and skinny jeans being among some of the other greats). But the other passengers...well, if the Oscar the Grouch pastry story didn't make you want to kill yourself, your fellow air travel passengers will. Either way, I am expecting about a 90% mortality rate from reading this column.
You will begin seeing problems at check-in (there's always some asshole who cuts you in line or tries to put a child in his or her checked baggage--which is less of a problem these days because the airlines will let that one go with a higher luggage fee), but your real problems will begin at security (of course). Some of the common offenders include
- People who don't have their shit ready to go through the x-ray machine
- People who refuse to take off their shoes
- People who are afraid of that air puffer machine that checks for weapons (GET YOUR ASS IN THE MACHINE OR SO HELP ME GOD I WILL BEAT YOU TO WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR LIFE WITH MY STAPLE REMOVER)
- People who become upset when security confiscates a full tube of toothpaste (we won't touch on the liquid restrictions - or else I won't be able to finish this column without setting fire to my eyes)
- Women in impractical high-heeled shoes (for no specific reason other than they really bother me. Who wears impractical footwear while traveling? Only an idiot.)
Once you finally take off (if you make it off the tarmac...good luck), and after you've dealt with the guy who is sitting in your aisle seat and says, "Oh, it's OK, I don't mind the aisle" and pretends as though his middle seat is more attractive and then sighs audibly when you insist on occupying the aisle seat for which you paid an unreasonable fee, you will also encounter
- People who scream every time there is mild turbulence
- People who invade your personal space
- People who make cellular phone calls despite clear rules prohibiting it
- People who recline their seat backs onto your lap during the ascent and descent
- People who hit the flight attendant call button instead of the reading light button and don't realize it and then become confused when a flight attendant shows up
- People who try to talk to you when you're sleeping
- People who try to talk to you when you're reading
- People who tell you that they are in the frozen ravioli sales business (really; I wish I were making this up) and then ask what you do and then lecture you on your specific line of work as though they, being in the frozen ravioli business, know more about your line of work (which is not the frozen ravioli business) than you do.
In conclusion, Doug, Google Maps tells me that it's a quick and painless 27-hour drive to the Mitchell Corn Palace. Have fun.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Bicyclists
Dear Aunt Slugger,
Hello. My name is Jeff, and I am a resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Now that summer is upon us, I have noticed that the bicyclists -
Say no more, Jeff. I already know what you're going to ask. You want to know whether or not you would be charged with manslaughter or murder if you just rolled your Subaru Outback right over one of those skinny jean-wearing fucknuts. Although I am not, technically, an attorney, and I do not, technically, have a juris doctorate, and I have not, technically, passed the Massachusetts bar exam, I did receive a B- in an undergraduate Constitutional law course and I usually keep Law & Order on in the background when TNT is running a marathon, so I do fancy myself something of an expert on the subject. The correct answer is neither, because a Subaru Outback won't get the job done and you'll just end up with a messenger bag stuck in your wheel well. It's not worth the effort.
Some of you are reading this with horror and shock and are saying to yourselves, "This column is offensive. I ride my bike all over town and you have just referred to all bicyclists as 'fucknuts' and implied that you would run me over if you had access to a steam roller." That's a typical bicyclist response. You read this column just like you go through intersections - without fucking looking. If you READ ON (i.e. STOP AT A FUCKING RED LIGHT), you will find some CLARIFYING STATEMENTS.
So your Aunt Slugger is not opposed to bicycling as a concept. In fact, your Aunt Slugger used to be quite the avid cyclist. Bicycling is an energy efficient, enjoyable, low-impact way to burn off last night's raw cookie dough binge. With proper gear (a helmet, rear and front lights, light or reflective clothing, and glitter tassles on the handlebars), bicycling can even be a good way to get to and from work (so long as your coworkers aren't slipping on the sweat that's dripping off your nose).
The problem, as your Aunt Slugger sees it, is that there appears to be general confusion among bicyclists; they appear to believe that they are neither pedestrians nor moving vehicles. So I will provide the authoritative clarifying declaration: YOU ARE VEHICLES. THIS MEANS YOU CANNOT RIDE THE WRONG WAY DOWN A NARROW ONE-WAY CAMBRIDGE STREET WHEN AN EMERGENCY VEHICLE IS TRYING TO GET BY. This also means that you cannot (for example) ride down the SIDEWALK next to a street where there is a DEDICATED BIKE LANE and then swerve to narrowly avoid hitting your Aunt Slugger as she steps out onto the sidewalk from her apartment building and then SWEAR AUDIBLY as though it was my fault for having the balls to exit my apartment building on foot.
Bicyclists should also be advised that they need to actually adhere to posted traffic signs. So if you are (for example) approaching an intersection with a stop sign and a pedestrian crosswalk that your Aunt Slugger is utilizing to cross the road safely, you ACTUALLY NEED TO COME TO A STOP. I realize that stop signs can be confusing, given their giant octagonal size, red coloring, and bold letters that read "STOP," but when in doubt, err on the side of caution and COME TO A STOP instead of plowing forth at 25 mph and forcing your Aunt Slugger to make a sideways dive out of your path.
A few other points:
1.) If you are wearing all black clothing and do not have a headlight and tail light on your bike in direct violation of Massachusetts state law and you are bicycling against a red light in Central Square at 11pm, you are not, in fact, entitled to make a rude gesture when I almost hit you.
2.) If you decide to bicycle across a major bridge during a snowstorm in February, you do not actually get to scream at a bus that is accidentally blocking the bike lane because the bike lane is not visible due to the fact that the road has not yet been plowed. YOU. ARE. BIKING. IN. A. SNOWSTORM.
3.) We know that you're fashion forward. We can't help but notice your skinny jeans, $87 witty t-shirt from Urban Outfitters, and sneakers without arch support. It's like looking at a train wreck; we want to look away, but we can't. Nevertheless, your thirst for ridiculous and impractical fashion DOES NOT ABSOLVE YOU OF YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO WEAR A HELMET. Given that you roll around town like an infant on roller skates, YOU ARE A CLINICAL IDIOT IF YOU DO NOT WEAR PROTECTIVE HEADGEAR. Of course, maybe you've weighed the risk; maybe you've said to yourself that you are not concerned about protecting your pea-size reptilian brain from injury. And that makes sense from your perspective, but I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE SPLATTERED ALL OVER THE TRADER JOE'S PARKING LOT. Even if YOU don't care about head injury, the REST OF US still have to be able to sleep at night without having nightmares about your headless, skinny-jean clad body.
Before you start drafting hate mail, let me just point out that I am aware that motorists aren't necessarily innocent here, especially the dark blue Dodge Caravan with license plate # W41 PT2 that cut me off in the Target parking lot yesterday. So I don't want to get a bunch of letters pissing and moaning about the time you you were locking up your bike at Whole Foods and got sideswiped by an SUV whose driver was reading a book, eating lunch, and waxing her eyebrows at the wheel, OK?
Jeff, I hope this answered your question, whatever your question was.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Hello. My name is Jeff, and I am a resident of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Now that summer is upon us, I have noticed that the bicyclists -
Say no more, Jeff. I already know what you're going to ask. You want to know whether or not you would be charged with manslaughter or murder if you just rolled your Subaru Outback right over one of those skinny jean-wearing fucknuts. Although I am not, technically, an attorney, and I do not, technically, have a juris doctorate, and I have not, technically, passed the Massachusetts bar exam, I did receive a B- in an undergraduate Constitutional law course and I usually keep Law & Order on in the background when TNT is running a marathon, so I do fancy myself something of an expert on the subject. The correct answer is neither, because a Subaru Outback won't get the job done and you'll just end up with a messenger bag stuck in your wheel well. It's not worth the effort.
Some of you are reading this with horror and shock and are saying to yourselves, "This column is offensive. I ride my bike all over town and you have just referred to all bicyclists as 'fucknuts' and implied that you would run me over if you had access to a steam roller." That's a typical bicyclist response. You read this column just like you go through intersections - without fucking looking. If you READ ON (i.e. STOP AT A FUCKING RED LIGHT), you will find some CLARIFYING STATEMENTS.
So your Aunt Slugger is not opposed to bicycling as a concept. In fact, your Aunt Slugger used to be quite the avid cyclist. Bicycling is an energy efficient, enjoyable, low-impact way to burn off last night's raw cookie dough binge. With proper gear (a helmet, rear and front lights, light or reflective clothing, and glitter tassles on the handlebars), bicycling can even be a good way to get to and from work (so long as your coworkers aren't slipping on the sweat that's dripping off your nose).
The problem, as your Aunt Slugger sees it, is that there appears to be general confusion among bicyclists; they appear to believe that they are neither pedestrians nor moving vehicles. So I will provide the authoritative clarifying declaration: YOU ARE VEHICLES. THIS MEANS YOU CANNOT RIDE THE WRONG WAY DOWN A NARROW ONE-WAY CAMBRIDGE STREET WHEN AN EMERGENCY VEHICLE IS TRYING TO GET BY. This also means that you cannot (for example) ride down the SIDEWALK next to a street where there is a DEDICATED BIKE LANE and then swerve to narrowly avoid hitting your Aunt Slugger as she steps out onto the sidewalk from her apartment building and then SWEAR AUDIBLY as though it was my fault for having the balls to exit my apartment building on foot.
Bicyclists should also be advised that they need to actually adhere to posted traffic signs. So if you are (for example) approaching an intersection with a stop sign and a pedestrian crosswalk that your Aunt Slugger is utilizing to cross the road safely, you ACTUALLY NEED TO COME TO A STOP. I realize that stop signs can be confusing, given their giant octagonal size, red coloring, and bold letters that read "STOP," but when in doubt, err on the side of caution and COME TO A STOP instead of plowing forth at 25 mph and forcing your Aunt Slugger to make a sideways dive out of your path.
A few other points:
1.) If you are wearing all black clothing and do not have a headlight and tail light on your bike in direct violation of Massachusetts state law and you are bicycling against a red light in Central Square at 11pm, you are not, in fact, entitled to make a rude gesture when I almost hit you.
2.) If you decide to bicycle across a major bridge during a snowstorm in February, you do not actually get to scream at a bus that is accidentally blocking the bike lane because the bike lane is not visible due to the fact that the road has not yet been plowed. YOU. ARE. BIKING. IN. A. SNOWSTORM.
3.) We know that you're fashion forward. We can't help but notice your skinny jeans, $87 witty t-shirt from Urban Outfitters, and sneakers without arch support. It's like looking at a train wreck; we want to look away, but we can't. Nevertheless, your thirst for ridiculous and impractical fashion DOES NOT ABSOLVE YOU OF YOUR RESPONSIBILITY TO WEAR A HELMET. Given that you roll around town like an infant on roller skates, YOU ARE A CLINICAL IDIOT IF YOU DO NOT WEAR PROTECTIVE HEADGEAR. Of course, maybe you've weighed the risk; maybe you've said to yourself that you are not concerned about protecting your pea-size reptilian brain from injury. And that makes sense from your perspective, but I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE SPLATTERED ALL OVER THE TRADER JOE'S PARKING LOT. Even if YOU don't care about head injury, the REST OF US still have to be able to sleep at night without having nightmares about your headless, skinny-jean clad body.
Before you start drafting hate mail, let me just point out that I am aware that motorists aren't necessarily innocent here, especially the dark blue Dodge Caravan with license plate # W41 PT2 that cut me off in the Target parking lot yesterday. So I don't want to get a bunch of letters pissing and moaning about the time you you were locking up your bike at Whole Foods and got sideswiped by an SUV whose driver was reading a book, eating lunch, and waxing her eyebrows at the wheel, OK?
Jeff, I hope this answered your question, whatever your question was.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Monday, February 1, 2010
Public Transit
Dear Aunt Slugger,
It is my understanding that you use public transit on a regular basis. Do you have any tips for those of us who are considering making the switch?
Sincerely,
Randolph from Manitoba
Dear Randolph,
Why yes, in point of fact, I do use public transit on a regular basis, and I have the immune system to prove it. Over the years, public transportation has gotten a bad rap because it's never on time and it's dirty and there's crime sometimes and the subway rats will feast on your toes if you stand in one place for more than nineteen seconds (two seconds in New York City). But in reality, people who are afraid of public transit for those reasons are probably the same people who buy organic rutabagas at Whole Foods, and their opinions are automatically void. No, you should be afraid of public transit for the same reason you should be afraid of major sporting events, corporate team-building activities, and PTA meetings: Because these things bring out the worst in humanity, and that reality can be hard to take, especially if you are not medicated properly.
So my job is to prepare you for the kinds of people you will see aboard public transit. Knowing your enemy is half the battle, readers. Below is a list of the most common types of public transit offenders; keep this list on hand at all times.
We will start with
People Who Talk on Their Cell Phones. This group is multiplying at an unprecedented rate, now that cell phone technology has improved and many devices can now receive a signal in an underground train. The human race is capable of a mind-blowing number of inane cell phone conversations, and you will hear most of them on public transit. Most people are oblivious to the fact that they are talking at top volume, but some people will try to keep their voices low, and they think they are being polite. Notice to those people: WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU, and YOU ARE STILL BEING AN ASSHOLE. Some people also believe that they are entitled to take business calls while in an enclosed subway car. If you receive a work-related phone call while you're on a train or a bus, ask yourself this question: "Am I a doctor?" If the answer is "No," then you are not permitted to take the call. There are no exceptions. If you are the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, that $80 trillion unregulated hedge fund will still be collapsing when you get off the train, so you can deal with it then. God gave us overpriced text messaging plans for a reason; use them.
And speaking of things that are overpriced, let's talk about
People Who Wear Large Camping Backpacks. I have no objection if you want to commune with nature; my concern is that I now have two broken ribs from getting a Nalgene directly to the chest. Be aware of your volume, people. If your backpack weighs more than my grandmother, it's time to take a cab, carbon footprint or not.
And on the subject of other people who should take cabs, let's discuss
People Who Have Never Used Public Transit and Have No Common Sense. Now, let me preface this one by noting that your Aunt Slugger grew up in a small Midwestern town that did not have an extensive public transit system, so I never used it until I got to a larger city. So Aunt Slugger is not passing judgment on folks who have never used public transit; their blood pressure is probably lower because of that fact. But Aunt Slugger IS passing judgment on the fucknuts who have never used public transit AND are totally oblivious to their surroundings. If you don't know whether you need to be on a specific train, DO NOT STAND IN THE DOORWAY AND BLOCK THE OTHER PASSENGERS FROM BOARDING THE TRAIN WHILE YOU CONSULT YOUR MAP. Try to have a game plan before you get to the doorway. Ask another passenger. Countless people travel all around the world and are able to board trains and buses in foreign cities without holding up the entire metropolitan transit system. Model this behavior.
These are often the same people who become confused when they have to stand on the train or bus because it is crowded. Now, let me once again preface this by noting that Aunt Slugger has never taken a formal physics class. I was a high school dropout, and a political science major in college, which is essentially the same thing as not having gone to college. So I dodged physics and still don't understand why your face explodes if you go down too far while scuba diving. Yet somehow - against all odds - I figured out that you need to hold onto something while standing on a moving train. And if you make the mistake once, that's fine; train and bus drivers are highly skilled in the art of stopping and starting at random. But if you REPEATEDLY find yourself being thrown eighteen feet and landing in someone's lap every time the train starts moving, it is TIME TO GRAB AHOLD OF SOMETHING. Please. For your own safety. Please.
Moving on, let's not forget
People Who Are Afraid to Touch Anything. I was once on a crowded train with a woman who doused herself with antibacterial hand gel after inadvertently touching a handrail. The key to a successful relationship with public transit is making peace with the fact that you will be exposed, on a daily basis, to some highly toxic shit. If you make it the week without contracting leprosy, you've done well for yourself. The same applies to riding in an airplane, sitting in a doctor's office waiting room, or eating a Filet o' Fish. If you can't come to grips with this reality, you DO NOT BELONG ON PUBLIC TRANSIT.
Finally, we should be sure to talk about
People Who Are Afraid of You. These are people who are riding public transit out of some tragic necessity - like their vehicle was towed because they parked it in front of a fire station - and are clearly VERY AFRAID of you and the rest of the users of public transit. These are the people who say things like, "Don't ride the [name of subway line] because it goes to [name of a neighborhood without Whole Foods]." During rush hour traffic, these people will grip their bags in white-knuckled terror, because in their minds, anyone who rides public transit is desperate and will rob them blind, despite the fact that the average rider is a 30-something disheartened finance professional who is contemplating the cold reality that he or she will spend the next 30 years of his or life reading the Wall Street Journal and looking at Excel spreadsheets. These people are more annoying than any of the aforementioned groups, because they will gasp in terror whenever you open your backpack to dig out your keys, your iPod, or your copy of Betty Crocker's Guide to Bisquick.
So there you have it. These are the folks you need to look out for, readers. I'm not saying there's anything you can DO about them, but at least you won't be surprised when you get hit in the face with a camping backpack, or when your eardrum bursts from listening to someone yell "ARE YOU THERE? HELLO? I THINK I LOST YOU" into his or her cell phone, or when you try to get out some chapstick and someone accuses you of going for your gun.
I hope that helps, Randolph, and that you are able to navigate the complex public transit systems of Manitoba with ease.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
It is my understanding that you use public transit on a regular basis. Do you have any tips for those of us who are considering making the switch?
Sincerely,
Randolph from Manitoba
Dear Randolph,
Why yes, in point of fact, I do use public transit on a regular basis, and I have the immune system to prove it. Over the years, public transportation has gotten a bad rap because it's never on time and it's dirty and there's crime sometimes and the subway rats will feast on your toes if you stand in one place for more than nineteen seconds (two seconds in New York City). But in reality, people who are afraid of public transit for those reasons are probably the same people who buy organic rutabagas at Whole Foods, and their opinions are automatically void. No, you should be afraid of public transit for the same reason you should be afraid of major sporting events, corporate team-building activities, and PTA meetings: Because these things bring out the worst in humanity, and that reality can be hard to take, especially if you are not medicated properly.
So my job is to prepare you for the kinds of people you will see aboard public transit. Knowing your enemy is half the battle, readers. Below is a list of the most common types of public transit offenders; keep this list on hand at all times.
We will start with
People Who Talk on Their Cell Phones. This group is multiplying at an unprecedented rate, now that cell phone technology has improved and many devices can now receive a signal in an underground train. The human race is capable of a mind-blowing number of inane cell phone conversations, and you will hear most of them on public transit. Most people are oblivious to the fact that they are talking at top volume, but some people will try to keep their voices low, and they think they are being polite. Notice to those people: WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU, and YOU ARE STILL BEING AN ASSHOLE. Some people also believe that they are entitled to take business calls while in an enclosed subway car. If you receive a work-related phone call while you're on a train or a bus, ask yourself this question: "Am I a doctor?" If the answer is "No," then you are not permitted to take the call. There are no exceptions. If you are the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, that $80 trillion unregulated hedge fund will still be collapsing when you get off the train, so you can deal with it then. God gave us overpriced text messaging plans for a reason; use them.
And speaking of things that are overpriced, let's talk about
People Who Wear Large Camping Backpacks. I have no objection if you want to commune with nature; my concern is that I now have two broken ribs from getting a Nalgene directly to the chest. Be aware of your volume, people. If your backpack weighs more than my grandmother, it's time to take a cab, carbon footprint or not.
And on the subject of other people who should take cabs, let's discuss
People Who Have Never Used Public Transit and Have No Common Sense. Now, let me preface this one by noting that your Aunt Slugger grew up in a small Midwestern town that did not have an extensive public transit system, so I never used it until I got to a larger city. So Aunt Slugger is not passing judgment on folks who have never used public transit; their blood pressure is probably lower because of that fact. But Aunt Slugger IS passing judgment on the fucknuts who have never used public transit AND are totally oblivious to their surroundings. If you don't know whether you need to be on a specific train, DO NOT STAND IN THE DOORWAY AND BLOCK THE OTHER PASSENGERS FROM BOARDING THE TRAIN WHILE YOU CONSULT YOUR MAP. Try to have a game plan before you get to the doorway. Ask another passenger. Countless people travel all around the world and are able to board trains and buses in foreign cities without holding up the entire metropolitan transit system. Model this behavior.
These are often the same people who become confused when they have to stand on the train or bus because it is crowded. Now, let me once again preface this by noting that Aunt Slugger has never taken a formal physics class. I was a high school dropout, and a political science major in college, which is essentially the same thing as not having gone to college. So I dodged physics and still don't understand why your face explodes if you go down too far while scuba diving. Yet somehow - against all odds - I figured out that you need to hold onto something while standing on a moving train. And if you make the mistake once, that's fine; train and bus drivers are highly skilled in the art of stopping and starting at random. But if you REPEATEDLY find yourself being thrown eighteen feet and landing in someone's lap every time the train starts moving, it is TIME TO GRAB AHOLD OF SOMETHING. Please. For your own safety. Please.
Moving on, let's not forget
People Who Are Afraid to Touch Anything. I was once on a crowded train with a woman who doused herself with antibacterial hand gel after inadvertently touching a handrail. The key to a successful relationship with public transit is making peace with the fact that you will be exposed, on a daily basis, to some highly toxic shit. If you make it the week without contracting leprosy, you've done well for yourself. The same applies to riding in an airplane, sitting in a doctor's office waiting room, or eating a Filet o' Fish. If you can't come to grips with this reality, you DO NOT BELONG ON PUBLIC TRANSIT.
Finally, we should be sure to talk about
People Who Are Afraid of You. These are people who are riding public transit out of some tragic necessity - like their vehicle was towed because they parked it in front of a fire station - and are clearly VERY AFRAID of you and the rest of the users of public transit. These are the people who say things like, "Don't ride the [name of subway line] because it goes to [name of a neighborhood without Whole Foods]." During rush hour traffic, these people will grip their bags in white-knuckled terror, because in their minds, anyone who rides public transit is desperate and will rob them blind, despite the fact that the average rider is a 30-something disheartened finance professional who is contemplating the cold reality that he or she will spend the next 30 years of his or life reading the Wall Street Journal and looking at Excel spreadsheets. These people are more annoying than any of the aforementioned groups, because they will gasp in terror whenever you open your backpack to dig out your keys, your iPod, or your copy of Betty Crocker's Guide to Bisquick.
So there you have it. These are the folks you need to look out for, readers. I'm not saying there's anything you can DO about them, but at least you won't be surprised when you get hit in the face with a camping backpack, or when your eardrum bursts from listening to someone yell "ARE YOU THERE? HELLO? I THINK I LOST YOU" into his or her cell phone, or when you try to get out some chapstick and someone accuses you of going for your gun.
I hope that helps, Randolph, and that you are able to navigate the complex public transit systems of Manitoba with ease.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Visiting the Dentist
Dear Aunt Slugger,
I am supposed to go the dentist for a routine cleaning soon, and I understand that you had your teeth cleaned recently. Do you have any tips or suggestions?
Lars from Winston-Salem
Dear Lars,
Well, Lars, I'd like to tell you that it'll be all right. I'd like to tell you not to worry. I'd like to tell you not to lose sleep over it. Yes, Lars, I'd LIKE to tell you all of that, but Aunt Slugger doesn't believe in sugarcoating the truth. It's going to be awful, Lars, and if you have any sort of suicidal tendencies, you may want to pre-medicate.
The first thing you need to know is that brushing three times a day and flossing after you eat a bean burrito from Qdoba is no longer considered proper dental hygiene. And if you use a manual toothbrush, you may as well have someone take a baseball bat to your teeth and just ask for a whole new set when you get to the dentist.
Up until recently, your Aunt Slugger fancied herself something of a model of good oral hygiene. She brushes three times a day, rinses with mouthwash, and flosses occasionally. She has had only one cavity in more than three decades of life, and has never had to wear braces. While she acknowledges her flossing shortcomings, she doesn't necessarily think of herself as a terrible person and until recently did not experience white-knuckled terror at the dentist's office.
WELL. Readers, if you find yourself in Aunt Slugger's camp, you need to know that you are, in the mind of your dental hygienist, a hardened serial killer. It turns out that proper dental hygiene consists of brushing with an electric toothbrush, flossing, rinsing with Listerine, rinsing with anticavity mouthwash, and (get ready for this one) MASSAGING YOUR GUMS. You can imagine how much of an epic asshole your Aunt Slugger felt like when she had to admit that not only is her flossing sporadic, but she also doesn't get around to massaging her gums very often (i.e. never).
So given that engaging in modern dental hygiene would effectively take up about 95% of the average person's day, and given that most people have other obligations - like working, taking care of family members, and sitting on the couch with a bucket of fried chicken while watching Lifetime movies - you might think that your dental hygienist would be used to hearing people say that they don't necessarily find the time to light some candles and massage their gums for twenty minutes. You might also think that your dental hygienist would look at you and say, "You're a grown adult with a full-time job, and while I'd love for you to make time to give your mouth a spa treatment, I understand if you cannot."
And you would be wrong. Your Aunt Slugger was forced to PROVE TO HER DENTAL HYGIENIST THAT SHE KNOWS HOW TO FLOSS AND MASSAGE HER GUMS. She was also told that there is "no excuse for not flossing," which is actually false, because the excuse "I forgot" is more than sufficient.
But being interrogated by the East German Secret Police is not the only thing you have to worry about, Lars. You should also prepare yourself for the "Ultrasonic." After her bug-eyed hygienist made your Aunt Slugger feel like a complete dickhead, she used a high-powered device that operates a bit like a miniature fire hose to allegedly remove Aunt Slugger's plaque (of which there was reportedly a minimal amount, FYI, but this did NOT mean that Aunt Slugger was congratulated for her efforts - she was again reminded of the fact that she should be beaten to death for having small amounts of plaque on her back molars). Aunt Slugger also had to hold the suction thing (presumably because the hygienist's other hand was busy giving Aunt Slugger the middle finger for not flossing regularly), which didn't work, because most of the water from the Ultrasonic splashed onto her face instead of onto her teeth. Let us just say that it would not surprise Aunt Slugger if the Ultrasonic is also marketed as a waterboarding tool.
So there you have it, Lars. Be prepared to say goodbye to your happy childhood memories of receiving a rhubarb fluoride treatment and a smiling tooth sticker from your cheerful neighborhood dentist. Times have changed, Lars. In fact, as we speak, your dentist is probably interviewing former Gitmo interrogators to be your dental hygienist. I wish you all the best, Lars, but you may want to wish your loved ones farewell before you go get those teeth cleaned.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
I am supposed to go the dentist for a routine cleaning soon, and I understand that you had your teeth cleaned recently. Do you have any tips or suggestions?
Lars from Winston-Salem
Dear Lars,
Well, Lars, I'd like to tell you that it'll be all right. I'd like to tell you not to worry. I'd like to tell you not to lose sleep over it. Yes, Lars, I'd LIKE to tell you all of that, but Aunt Slugger doesn't believe in sugarcoating the truth. It's going to be awful, Lars, and if you have any sort of suicidal tendencies, you may want to pre-medicate.
The first thing you need to know is that brushing three times a day and flossing after you eat a bean burrito from Qdoba is no longer considered proper dental hygiene. And if you use a manual toothbrush, you may as well have someone take a baseball bat to your teeth and just ask for a whole new set when you get to the dentist.
Up until recently, your Aunt Slugger fancied herself something of a model of good oral hygiene. She brushes three times a day, rinses with mouthwash, and flosses occasionally. She has had only one cavity in more than three decades of life, and has never had to wear braces. While she acknowledges her flossing shortcomings, she doesn't necessarily think of herself as a terrible person and until recently did not experience white-knuckled terror at the dentist's office.
WELL. Readers, if you find yourself in Aunt Slugger's camp, you need to know that you are, in the mind of your dental hygienist, a hardened serial killer. It turns out that proper dental hygiene consists of brushing with an electric toothbrush, flossing, rinsing with Listerine, rinsing with anticavity mouthwash, and (get ready for this one) MASSAGING YOUR GUMS. You can imagine how much of an epic asshole your Aunt Slugger felt like when she had to admit that not only is her flossing sporadic, but she also doesn't get around to massaging her gums very often (i.e. never).
So given that engaging in modern dental hygiene would effectively take up about 95% of the average person's day, and given that most people have other obligations - like working, taking care of family members, and sitting on the couch with a bucket of fried chicken while watching Lifetime movies - you might think that your dental hygienist would be used to hearing people say that they don't necessarily find the time to light some candles and massage their gums for twenty minutes. You might also think that your dental hygienist would look at you and say, "You're a grown adult with a full-time job, and while I'd love for you to make time to give your mouth a spa treatment, I understand if you cannot."
And you would be wrong. Your Aunt Slugger was forced to PROVE TO HER DENTAL HYGIENIST THAT SHE KNOWS HOW TO FLOSS AND MASSAGE HER GUMS. She was also told that there is "no excuse for not flossing," which is actually false, because the excuse "I forgot" is more than sufficient.
But being interrogated by the East German Secret Police is not the only thing you have to worry about, Lars. You should also prepare yourself for the "Ultrasonic." After her bug-eyed hygienist made your Aunt Slugger feel like a complete dickhead, she used a high-powered device that operates a bit like a miniature fire hose to allegedly remove Aunt Slugger's plaque (of which there was reportedly a minimal amount, FYI, but this did NOT mean that Aunt Slugger was congratulated for her efforts - she was again reminded of the fact that she should be beaten to death for having small amounts of plaque on her back molars). Aunt Slugger also had to hold the suction thing (presumably because the hygienist's other hand was busy giving Aunt Slugger the middle finger for not flossing regularly), which didn't work, because most of the water from the Ultrasonic splashed onto her face instead of onto her teeth. Let us just say that it would not surprise Aunt Slugger if the Ultrasonic is also marketed as a waterboarding tool.
So there you have it, Lars. Be prepared to say goodbye to your happy childhood memories of receiving a rhubarb fluoride treatment and a smiling tooth sticker from your cheerful neighborhood dentist. Times have changed, Lars. In fact, as we speak, your dentist is probably interviewing former Gitmo interrogators to be your dental hygienist. I wish you all the best, Lars, but you may want to wish your loved ones farewell before you go get those teeth cleaned.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Holidays with the Family
Dear Aunt Slugger,
What is the best way to survive a holiday meal at your spouse's crazy grandparents' house?
Sincerely,
Pass the Scotch For My Sanity
Readers, the holiday season is upon us! For many of us, this means tons of great opportunities to interact with our beloved family members and add more scars to our livers.
PTSFMS, I am sorry I didn't get to this question in time for Thanksgiving. Assuming you aren't hooked up to a ventilator somewhere after trying to impale yourself repeatedly with a meat thermometer, I hope this advice will at least come in handy for the Christmas season.
In order to properly answer this question, it's important to ascertain exactly how crazy your grandparents-in-law are. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being "they let the cat eat fresh Atlantic salmon at the dining room table," 5 being "there are puddles of urine on the stairs," and 10 being "you aren't sure whether this is a honey-glazed ham or a human thigh," exactly how crazy are we talking here?
For grandparents that register anywhere between a 1 and 4, you are probably fine to rely exclusively on your scotch, though I still recommend a single malt Lowland scotch, served directly out of the bottle. You're also going to want to maintain a cranberry sauce to scotch ratio (CSSR) of 1:12.
In-laws that clock in between a 5 and 8 require more advance preparation. In the days leading up to your visit, you should develop a debilitating addiction to valium or xanax. On the day of the visit, you should pre-medicate by telling your local animal control officer that there is a bear in your backyard, and then stepping in front of the tranquilizer gun at just the right moment. (This may take several tries.) You will also want to wear waterproof hunting boots, and you should only eat foods whose pedigree can be established with certainty (i.e. you opened the can of Beanee Weenies yourself). Your CSSR should be 1:24.
When dealing with relatives that score a 9 or 10 on the scale, you should maintain complete control of your faculties (which unfortunately means no scotch, but feel free to soak up as many shirley temples as you can). Citing allergies to gluten, egg, legumes, turkey, dairy, nuts, and water, you should bring your own food. And if your relatives leave the room, listen through the wall for the words "It puts the lotion in the bucket."
But the best way to survive a holiday meal at your in-laws' house? Don't go. Become a Scientologist, shun your extended relatives, and enjoy some peace and damn quiet with a Hungryman dinner in front of the TV.
Best of luck to you.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
What is the best way to survive a holiday meal at your spouse's crazy grandparents' house?
Sincerely,
Pass the Scotch For My Sanity
Readers, the holiday season is upon us! For many of us, this means tons of great opportunities to interact with our beloved family members and add more scars to our livers.
PTSFMS, I am sorry I didn't get to this question in time for Thanksgiving. Assuming you aren't hooked up to a ventilator somewhere after trying to impale yourself repeatedly with a meat thermometer, I hope this advice will at least come in handy for the Christmas season.
In order to properly answer this question, it's important to ascertain exactly how crazy your grandparents-in-law are. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being "they let the cat eat fresh Atlantic salmon at the dining room table," 5 being "there are puddles of urine on the stairs," and 10 being "you aren't sure whether this is a honey-glazed ham or a human thigh," exactly how crazy are we talking here?
For grandparents that register anywhere between a 1 and 4, you are probably fine to rely exclusively on your scotch, though I still recommend a single malt Lowland scotch, served directly out of the bottle. You're also going to want to maintain a cranberry sauce to scotch ratio (CSSR) of 1:12.
In-laws that clock in between a 5 and 8 require more advance preparation. In the days leading up to your visit, you should develop a debilitating addiction to valium or xanax. On the day of the visit, you should pre-medicate by telling your local animal control officer that there is a bear in your backyard, and then stepping in front of the tranquilizer gun at just the right moment. (This may take several tries.) You will also want to wear waterproof hunting boots, and you should only eat foods whose pedigree can be established with certainty (i.e. you opened the can of Beanee Weenies yourself). Your CSSR should be 1:24.
When dealing with relatives that score a 9 or 10 on the scale, you should maintain complete control of your faculties (which unfortunately means no scotch, but feel free to soak up as many shirley temples as you can). Citing allergies to gluten, egg, legumes, turkey, dairy, nuts, and water, you should bring your own food. And if your relatives leave the room, listen through the wall for the words "It puts the lotion in the bucket."
But the best way to survive a holiday meal at your in-laws' house? Don't go. Become a Scientologist, shun your extended relatives, and enjoy some peace and damn quiet with a Hungryman dinner in front of the TV.
Best of luck to you.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Office Dress Codes
Dear Aunt Slugger,
As you know, most offices have some sort of dress code policy. While perusing my office's dress code, I noticed that it addressed short skirts, flip flops, and jeans, but I did not find anything in the policy regarding tight fitting shirts. Is there a polite way to tell someone that his or her shirt is so tight that I am concerned that the buttons may pop off and land in my eye? Also, please confirm whether there is a law against neon-colored shirts in an office environment.
As you know, most offices have some sort of dress code policy. While perusing my office's dress code, I noticed that it addressed short skirts, flip flops, and jeans, but I did not find anything in the policy regarding tight fitting shirts. Is there a polite way to tell someone that his or her shirt is so tight that I am concerned that the buttons may pop off and land in my eye? Also, please confirm whether there is a law against neon-colored shirts in an office environment.
Sincerely,
Go Celtics!
Dear Larry Byrd:
First of all, I'd like to thank you for addressing this matter, because we certainly can't rely on our elected officials to deal with this. While they were sending 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan this week, the rest of us were wondering when someone will send 30,000 troops stop people from buying size XS graphic tees at Urban Outfitters.
Well, don't hold your breath. It's the elephant in the room - literally - and no one wants to deal with it. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that there is at least one United States Senator inside a Washington D.C. Brooks Brothers right now, trying to squeeze into a slim-fit, non-iron tattersall diddy with French cuffs and a 14.5" neck, when in fact we all know that the poor bastard would really just be better off draping a queen size comforter around his body and calling it a day.
So we can't expect legislative action, and ever since that cottage cheese-eating, New Hampshire rock-climbing hippie David Souter retired from the Supreme Court, we can't expect any majority opinions forcing people to buy the correct size, either.
Readers, this issue remains a mystery to me. Except in the case of certain college football sweatshirts, very few articles of clothing actually showcase the size on a visible portion of the garment. Yet people seem ABSOLUTELY INSISTENT on buying the wrong size and thereby drawing attention to any imperfections. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Aunt Slugger hasn't eaten her fair share of Hostess Pudding Pies dipped in Cheez Whiz over the years. What I'm saying is that God gave us fabric stores for a reason, and we should not be afraid to go buy twenty yards of white muslin and fashion ourselves a housedress after a hard night of drinking and dunking fried Clark bars in tubs of butter.
So to get back to the question at hand, the unfortunate answer, Larry B., is that until we see some action at the federal level, your best course of action is to buy a pair of welding goggles and a kevlar vest to protect yourself from projectile buttons.
Oh, and if the culprit is not only wearing tight clothing, but also neon clothing, you should pour hydrochloric acid in your eyes.
Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
Dear Larry Byrd:
First of all, I'd like to thank you for addressing this matter, because we certainly can't rely on our elected officials to deal with this. While they were sending 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan this week, the rest of us were wondering when someone will send 30,000 troops stop people from buying size XS graphic tees at Urban Outfitters.
Well, don't hold your breath. It's the elephant in the room - literally - and no one wants to deal with it. In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that there is at least one United States Senator inside a Washington D.C. Brooks Brothers right now, trying to squeeze into a slim-fit, non-iron tattersall diddy with French cuffs and a 14.5" neck, when in fact we all know that the poor bastard would really just be better off draping a queen size comforter around his body and calling it a day.
So we can't expect legislative action, and ever since that cottage cheese-eating, New Hampshire rock-climbing hippie David Souter retired from the Supreme Court, we can't expect any majority opinions forcing people to buy the correct size, either.
Readers, this issue remains a mystery to me. Except in the case of certain college football sweatshirts, very few articles of clothing actually showcase the size on a visible portion of the garment. Yet people seem ABSOLUTELY INSISTENT on buying the wrong size and thereby drawing attention to any imperfections. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that Aunt Slugger hasn't eaten her fair share of Hostess Pudding Pies dipped in Cheez Whiz over the years. What I'm saying is that God gave us fabric stores for a reason, and we should not be afraid to go buy twenty yards of white muslin and fashion ourselves a housedress after a hard night of drinking and dunking fried Clark bars in tubs of butter.
So to get back to the question at hand, the unfortunate answer, Larry B., is that until we see some action at the federal level, your best course of action is to buy a pair of welding goggles and a kevlar vest to protect yourself from projectile buttons.
Oh, and if the culprit is not only wearing tight clothing, but also neon clothing, you should pour hydrochloric acid in your eyes.
Hope this helps.
Sincerely,
Aunt Slugger
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