There are a lot of problems in the world today: bacon shortages, uppity Canadians, exploding dolphins, and the rest, but somehow I manage not to go around protesting everything all the time. Lately it seems that protesting has become the new “in” medium of voicing one’s discontent with various meaningless issues. Look here America, I do not want to have to deal with the Causes of the Unwashed. Sure, there are things that bug me about the universe, like why can’t a guy ever get chocolate covered relish-balls pre-made at my local chocolatier instead of having to use the old Gonoughan family recipe. I know that the store-bought iteration of the delectable delicacy would not live up to the handcrafted goodness to which I am accustomed, but it would save me a lot of time. Do I then put on a garishly painted sandwich board and march my way down to the chocolate dealer of my scorn, waving castanets and rattling torches? No. I take a deep breath, count to three, and imagine a river of blood knee deep flooding the city streets. I don’t feel the need to make myself a nuisance to every fucking human being on the planet just because something’s not going my way.
“But Guiles” a reeking and smoking poncho-wearing “dude” protests as I explain to him my views, twigs falling from his mouth as he speaks “the president is bad and the war in Iraq has to stop and what about Darfur?”
“Yeah!” a rich, white, cause-adopting college suburbanite agrees, “don’t forget that we got to boil all the world’s water supply to make sure it’s clean for Palestine.” She wears a poorly screened shirt depicting Palestine in a pot of boiling water, a logo I am sure nobody thought through. I shake my head in frustration.
People please, I just want to be able to walk down the street without some guy with a haircut asking me if I have a few minutes to spare for the environment, or if I am registered to vote in wherever it is I live, or if I have fucking spare change because the answer to all these questions is the same: “No, no, a thousand times no, take a shower.”
Seriously, isn’t it time this stopped? Isn’t it…time?
“But Guiles” a reeking and smoking poncho-wearing “dude” protests as I explain to him my views, twigs falling from his mouth as he speaks “the president is bad and the war in Iraq has to stop and what about Darfur?”
“Yeah!” a rich, white, cause-adopting college suburbanite agrees, “don’t forget that we got to boil all the world’s water supply to make sure it’s clean for Palestine.” She wears a poorly screened shirt depicting Palestine in a pot of boiling water, a logo I am sure nobody thought through. I shake my head in frustration.
People please, I just want to be able to walk down the street without some guy with a haircut asking me if I have a few minutes to spare for the environment, or if I am registered to vote in wherever it is I live, or if I have fucking spare change because the answer to all these questions is the same: “No, no, a thousand times no, take a shower.”
Seriously, isn’t it time this stopped? Isn’t it…time?
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