Tele-mafia

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So, it had come to this. Telemarketing had become such an aggressive tool they were resorting to home invasions, breaking down doors and inviting themselves inside.

It didn’t stop there. They were stealing wifi passwords, breaking in to anyone’s browser history they could and trying to sell more, more, more. They were using Siri queries as evidence of desires. From that knowledge sprang their own sales-pitch queries.

Did you want your wifi security upgraded? The telemarketers could take care of that for you…at a reasonable cost. “Hello sir or ma’am, would you like to know more about how to make your front door impervious to home invasions? Have we got a solution for you!”

It was only a minor insult that they were guessing at what you wanted to buy. The greater insult was when they were forcing their way in and then selling you the security to keep them out. It was no coincidence, the mafia comparison. The only thing in this world more aggressive than either of those two organizations, the telemarketers and the mafia, is the political opinion geezer. Nobody wants one of those in their neighborhood, let alone their house.

Where do they come from? How are they made? These home-invasion telemarketers? Some might say they are born in the malls at kiosks. Others might claim they’re the spawn of insurance and pharmaceutical salespersons. Still others say they’re formed from the bad dreams of Alexa users when the moon is full and the bandwidth is flaccid.

Regardless of how they begin their existence, the most important knowledge to use against their info-gathering ways is to catch them unaware. They think they know everything about everyone, but they don’t. Plant your hedges, digital and botanical. Go “off grid”. Falsify your desires. Pretend you’re interested in bizarre things. Make pretenses that you’re really super fanatical about teams of monkeys playing pickle ball. Then be entertained at the frantic way the telemarketers try to find something, anything, to sell you.

To A Frenemy:

Frenemy

That game we play, you always win.

No matter how skilled, how talented, how strong I am, I always accept defeat. Your rules are bent to serve you. Our limits are meant to serve you.

Even if your habit is to broadcast your victories as loudly as possible and make them known as far as you can; from here to the opposite side of the world, still my wins are visible in the sheer volume, the abundance of them. Call them yours or not. You may have the guns, but I have the numbers.

No matter how often my standards are voiced, you shout them down to boost your sub-standards. It’s like a really loud garage band, insisting that their every note is a sold-out concert. I get it. You want that reality so bad, you have to say you can see it before you actually see it. Package your rage before it escapes. It might not return.

Returns aren’t what we’re after though, we’re after retorts. We’re after witty verbal slaps and creating the fictional character traits we call ourselves. We’re into creating the fake faults, so we can continue the fake insults. You and I take each other seriously as long as we’re creating imaginary worlds of hurt and offense.

Watch as I tear your false reality down. Watch as your alternate reality crumbles, and then, like always, I forgive you and let you build it up again. All for the sake of the game.

Who Do You Trust?

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This is my “I don’t believe you” look.

They’re everywhere. Ads that catch your attention and try to draw you in to visit a web site so they can sell you more things. The initial sensationalism is meant to upset your belief system or your sense of security enough to have you searching for answers. Answers are not what you’ll find of course.

It would be interesting to do an article on the variety, and the most ridiculous of these sensational “click bait” advertisements. For now though, I wanted to just take notes about one of them. It told me that my beard was filthier than an alley cat.

My first thought was not: “I must know more about my filthy beard.” My first thought was: “That’s no way to start a conversation.” Do you know anyone who tells you your beard is dirty? This is insulting if you’re a man. If you’re a woman it’s doubly insulting.

Rude! But this ain’t no trick. It’s for real! Some scientists actually did a study. And then they published their discoveries, not in medical journals, not in science magazines, not even on collegiate sites. They had the wisdom to post their scientific brilliance on a site concerned with such contemporary dilemmas as whether your 5G is performing the way it should, and whether plastic grocery bags mess with your reproductive system, and whether dying your hair makes you look younger.

All of these are important issues, I’m sure. The most important of all though is whether my cat knows he’s 100 times cleaner than the hair on my face.

Flip Flops

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Ten things you can do with flip flops:

  1. Go to the beach.
  2. Use a public shower without worrying about fungus.
  3. Take it easy.
  4. Show off your toenail polish.
  5. Wear them with socks and sport the ninja look.
  6. Take them off and save your place in the line at the pharmacy while you sit.
  7. Feel the breeze on your toes.
  8. Cool your feet by walking through a stream, stepping in a wading pool, or turning on a hose.
  9. Sing along with Jimmy Buffett. (“Margaritaville!”)
  10. Take one off and slap somebody with it.

 

Ten things you probably shouldn’t do with flip flops:

  1. Go to the beach and try to hide your wallet in them.
  2. Mining.
  3. Ride a bike.
  4. Walk through a cow pasture.
  5. Climb a tree.
  6. Traffic court appearance.
  7. Welding.
  8. Lawn darts.
  9. Space exploration.
  10. Mow the lawn.

 

Eye Heard

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Every wear I Luke icy Miss Steaks. How wood any won reed it if it was sew must up? I knead two order a way cup call four the mourning—the best thyme for editing. Know one can dew it fore me. Know one can fined the Miss Steaks in a man you script quite as well as yours truly. Bee sides, who maid awl the tie Poes, punk chew Asian errors, and ox ford dramas? He who spelt it, bot it. That’s how the sane goes. Or so eye heard.