An Attitude of Platitude

In the song, "The Fly" by U2, there's a lyric that my forthcoming thoughts exemplify. "Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief. All kill their inspiration and sing about their grief."

I'm about to start an incohesive rant about trivial things using the most vitriolic and verbose prose that I can muster. I do this knowing full well that it is easier to criticize than to create. That is, in fact, the point. I'm trying to follow the age-old, "If you don't have anything nice to say, lambast an innocent bystander" rule.

I'll start with the most callous of my criticisms. It relates to a quip I saw recently on a bumper sticker that read, "Don't Drive Faster than Your Guardian Angel Can Fly!"

Ok, so how fast is that exactly? I'm no expert on guardian angels, but I'm pretty sure any one of them could outpace my Corolla on a straightaway. Not that he'd need to. What kind of a guardian angel would watch me get into the driver's seat of my car and not realize I might be planning on going somewhere? Maybe the bumper sticker should say, "Don't Start Driving Until Your Guardian Angel Has Had a Chance to Grab Shotgun!"

I don't know, maybe there really is some sort of transdimensional barrier that keeps guardian angels from entering vehicles, and maybe they do have a maximum flying velocity that happens to correspond with a reasonable highway speed. But if that's the case, a more helpful message would be, "Just FYI, If You Ever Get in a Plane, You're Screwed."

Maybe you're sitting a little uncomfortably in your chair right now, wondering how I've come to this dark and cynical place in my life. I don't know, but while I'm here, I may as well move on to cookies.

Suppose you're at a carnival. You see a brightly colored tent beneath a painted wooden sign which reads, "Madame Mystique's Fortune Telling $5". You realize that you would indeed like your fortune told, so you enter the tent. After handing over your hard-earned money to the Gypsy-esque Madame Mystique, she gazes into her smoke-filled crystal ball for several tense minutes and then gravely pronounces, "You have an infectious smile."

"Uhh...Thank you." you say, "So, what does my future hold?".

"Another reading will be five dollars." she replies.

You grind your teeth and wonder if punching Madame Mystique square in the nose would be worth the resultant curse upon your progeny. You decide it wouldn't, so instead leave in a huff and ultimately take your anger out on a well-intentioned bumper sticker you see while driving home.

The fortune cookie at the end of a Chinese dinner is more than just dessert. It represents hope, dreams and destiny. By definition it should be a glimmer of light cast into the unseen darkness of the future. How infuriating is it then to break into one of these little hope-holders only to find a generic statement about your positive attitude? For the love of all that is decent and good in this world, they're not called compliment cookies!

Rrrgh. Now I've gotten myself so worked up about fortune cookies that I can't think of anything else to rant about.

Oh yeah! Greasy politicians that never make good on their campaign promises. I mean, how hard is it to... you know what, never mind. I'm sure they're doing their best.