The recent rash of cold weather got me thinking, gentle reader, about all the undiscovered permutations of winter accessories. Take gloves, for instance. We’ve traditionally been forced to choose between gloves and mittens, though I have seen people sport three-fingered gloves. That’s all fine and dandy, but what if a designer picked up my idea for a one-fingered glove? Let me explain.
At first glance, you’d probably write this off as a needless addition to the glovosphere, and that’d be fair skepticism. After all, what could be gained from a model that seemingly offers less versatility? This is where I step in and smack your face with the proverbial leather shoe.
First, think of the amount of cloth saved with these puppies. You could clothe a small country or, for the consumer intent on purchasing the leather iteration, you could make an entire cow. Despite the overall decrease in materials used, your hands would stay just as warm, if not more so. Naysayers will undoubtedly decry the lack of flexibility and control, but exactly how much control do you need in subzero weather? Were you planning on rolling your piano onto a frozen lake to hold a little concert? No? Oh, then maybe you were about to operate on someone’s frickin’ pineal gland when my gloves got in your way.
Consider the other benefits. My SinguMitt would make you more confident. Let’s say it’s New Year’s Eve and you’re walking hand-in-hand with your fiancée, trying to decide where to eat.
“Why are you so indecisive?” s/he asks you. “Why can’t you–“
You throw up your free hand in despair and unwittingly point at a fancy restaurant.
“Oh!” says your beloved with a grin. “Why didn’t you say so? I’ve always wanted to try the place out.”
See? Smooth.
Sure, the SinguMitt would put you in a fine position to dole out static electricity. Sure, it would give you a head start in pushing buttons or jabbing people in the ribs. The most tempting use of the glove, however, would be to switch your pointer finger with your middle finger. In essence, you could furtively flip the birdie at passersby without any repercussions. I’m telling you, the only way you could be more secretive is if you stuck your middle finger up a stealth bomber.
This is an industry secret I’m giving you, dear reader. Tommy and Ralph? They’d be all over the SinguMitt if I told them first. Bet you didn’t know Christmas came in March, huh?
When I started this company with Muse, gentle reader, I did so with a lofty goal in mind: to create a forum embodying all the virtues that make our deliberative democracy so envied. And you know what? I woke up this morning and said, “Hey! I deliberate–with myself, mainly–and the way I run my company could be considered democratic, so I guess I’ve achieved my goal.”
What we have is a rich community made solid by the bonds of thoughtful discourse, by which I mean griping and arguments founded on pure conjecture. The fine e-mail below only adds credence to the screed of a love note I penned yesterday:
To be sure I will miss the drug deals going on behind my building, or the bums that come knocking on my door asking for money or alcohol, and most of all I will miss not getting packages or food delivered as the good souls at B&A have yet to put our names in the call box despite several attempts to get them to do so.
The only thing I can say to the great employees of B&A is, God bless them. Of course, that’s what southerners say when they really mean: fuck you!
Per company policy I will omit the signature not only for privacy’s sake, but also because the closing language is so saucy. I always try to blunt the kind of language that would make Barney the Purple Dinosaur claw out his eyes, which is why I normally pepper my vulgarities with asterisks. “F*ck you” is par for the course, though “*uck you” and “fuck y*u” will also do in a pinch.
We are not here to discuss naughty language, however, so let’s get down to brass tacks. You note the drug deals unfolding behind your building, and I am jealous. My back lot sees less hash than a corned beef union on strike in New Delhi. Some of the residents from across the street occasionally wander over to pick through our dumpster, but that’s it. Oh, and every October we also have a tree out in front spewing forth fruit that smells of poop and vomit. But where is the human interaction? Where are the herbs?
“Bums…come knocking on my door asking for money or alcohol,” you say, to which there’s a simple fix–just send in your rent on or before the 1st of each month.
As for your callbox problem, let me assure you that having your name displayed will not affect the “mail system.” Magazines and packages are usually left in the lobby for all to partake, and on more than one occasion I’ve had to reorder lost issues. I really appreciate this because it gives me a chance to imagine the incisive opinions I could be reading.
Bottom line? I think you should renew your lease. Heck, I know I’ve grown attached to my place. That’s why I’m staying another 13.25 days.
Tomorrow I sign my new lease, gentle reader, and it will be a watershed in my personal history. Six months ago, I apparently filled out an invitation to get sauced by B&A Associates. Longtime readers will remember the numerous housing perks: temperamental wiring, mini-blinds targeted at my skull, windows fused shut by expert painting, cracked panes, radiators endowed with a single setting, and a kitchen sink that frequently emitted a frighteningly loud gurgle at opportune times, such as 4:15 AM. I’d be thankful for the roof over my head, make no mistake, if it weren’t for the fissures in the ceiling.
“Why didn’t you call maintenance?” I hear you ask. Let me reply with an anecdote. I returned home on December 19th to find my deadbolt locked. Since I didn’t have a deadbolt key, I called up the groundskeeper to unlock my door. When asked about the strange state of affairs, he informed me that maintenance had probably done some “work” on my apartment during the day.
I entered my studio and found that the windows were fused better than ever. What’s more, I was missing $90.00 worth of Gamecube discs–a small loss, to be sure, but the shining apex of my B&A experience. The police were convinced that subletter and former suitemate Jeff was the culprit. This made perfect sense because, as you may well imagine, the draw for non-stealing types to drive three hours from Peoria to pocket a bunch of shitty games is indeed strong. The leasing office promptly denied any scheduled maintenance, and I also found out that “rudimentary system for tracking keys” was synonymous with “none.” To paraphrase Ms. Theron in The Devil’s Advocate, my house f*cked me eight ways to Monday.
This will hopefully change, of course, when I move to yuppie Wilmette. Central air, concrete walls, lot parking, all for $150.00 less. Perhaps I’ll donate some of this windfall to help B&A redirect their homepage to bendover.biz, a more accurate portal.