Why: When I was first introduced to the world of text messaging, it annoyed me to no end. I saw people doing it constantly while I would just make a call, say what I had to say, and be done with it. Eventually I caught on though, and I have to admit I text quite a bit. Itís really the equivalent of passing notes in class; itís rare that youíre sending a text that contains useful information. But thatís where I begin to hate this semi-superfluous technologyóitís made our conversations stupid.
First, the text-speak and word shortening that has slipped from the text world into our actual lives. People actually say ďOMGĒ now. They say it out loud when talking to other adults! People SAY ďLOLĒ without actually laughing out loud. Itís damn near psychotic.
The second reason Iím mad at the text messaging are the exclamation marks. Not that I usually have a problem with the lone or sometimes double exclamation mark ó it does its job. But the computer communication world has sucked any subtlety from the use of this capable punctuation. Now, everything a person says is accompanied by at least five exclamation marks, which is three more than typical English allows or really needs. Then, because so many are used to punctuate normal sentences, if something actually exciting happens the person uses 20 to 30 marks to get their point across. I love Doritos as much as the next Joe, but I donít ďLove Doritos!!!!!!!!!!Ē see how stupid that looks?
Whatís even worse? Some people have begun using multiple question marks as well. What? So is the question that youíre asking me more than just a question? Are you asking me twice? How would you vocalize a question that had five question marks? How would one have to physically contort their entire being in order to convey a question that needs seven question marks??????? Ow.
What: Winter/Daylight Saving Time
Why: I donít really mind the cold. As much as I love summer, the winter offers the opportunity to layer and bundle up. What I hate are the 8 a.m. sunrises and the 4 p.m. sunsets. I donít like the early darkness. Itís depressing and it makes me feel like time is running out. Normally when I walk home from my day job, itís still bright and sunny and I think to myself, ďHey! Thereís still some daytime left to do as I please! To work, to play, to live, to love...Ē When you arrive at a place and itís dark then 12 hours later you leave and itís dark, you think, ďUgh. Iím going to go home and eat a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.Ē
I have talked to people that claim to like this time of year. They say that they like having fewer hours of daytime. This makes no sense to me so I must assume that these people are a direct danger to the American way of life and probably Weremummies.
Why: There is a steadfast rule among those of us who donít like to play fast and loose with other peopleís schedules: 15 minutes early is on time, on time is late and late means youíre fired. For as far back as I can remember I can say Iíve been a stickler for promptness. This isnít to say that Iím not occasionally late. Sometimes things happen to throw off your game. It happens. The difference is, when Iím late I care. Some people donít and I hate that. They simply donít care about your time or schedules. They can know exactly when and where they are supposed to be with up to a month of lead time, and they will still keep you waiting. What causes this lax sense of being? Is it selfishness? Could it be laziness? Perhaps general apathy is the cause. Oversleeping is no excuse. You have an alarm and a clockó get up! ďI hit the snooze button.Ē Why!? You have someplace to be! You simply donít care! Perhaps I am the weird one for caring so much. As much as I would love to drift through life like Forrest Gump arriving wherever, whenever I felt like it, it simply isnít in my character. Iíd rather be an hour early than 10 minutes late.
What: Lady GaGa
Why: Perhaps Iím premature in my hate of this person because I can honestly tell you I donít really know who she is. I have no idea where she came from or how she managed to become someone Iíve heard of. I see the occasional picture of her in Rolling Stone (which I also hate) with her face covered in various silly looking masks and fabrics ó which is a blessing because the girl is pug fuggly! There are rumors that sheís a hermaphrodite, which doesnít really have anything to do with her general and obvious lack of real talent. If you have any knowledge of popular music you know where this girlís career is headed ó gay club remixes. And hey, thereís good money in that. Just ask my D.J. alter ego, Saucemaster Dingaling.
What: Good things getting shafted
Why: I know people that love and defend Family Guy for being funny (which itís not) and topical (not really) and well written (never). Itís a mean-spirited mess of terrible animation. Whatís more, the show gets its ďlaughsĒ by casually mentioning things that spark some sense of recognition in the Lowest Common Denominator (LCD) thus making them think theyíve heard a joke. Yet with all of this information showing us that the show is just not worthy of viewers, itís still here. It was even canceled and somehow the LCD managed to suck it back. Arrested Development was a show on the same network. It was a hilariously dense character study full of quirky callbacks and storylines that constantly rewarded the devoted viewer ó even more when viewed multiple times. Yet with all of this evidence that this was a clever and innovative show that was prepared to entertain us for years, it only lasted three. This is just one example of how the world seems to be shifting towards the ignorant and easy rather that the challenging and artistic.
There were two films about aliens this summer: District 9 and Transformers. Both films contained aliens as metaphors for race. In District 9, the aliens were used to show the horrors and effects of apartheid. In Transformers, the ďblackĒ robotic aliens sported big ears, gold teeth and called each other bitches. The Transformers sequel made 62 kajillion dollars this summer, but District 9 ó a film that asked you to think just a bit ó did not. The sad part is I was not surprised.
Stories by J'Mel Davidson appear in every issue of Birmingham Weekly. Write to email@example.com