So Much Stupid And So Little Time! Whence All Of These Bad Ideas?

Oh, Readers!  Did you ever get the feeling that you were the Only One On The Job anymore?  Certainly you recall how many times I have renewed my offer to make the Dept. of Nance a bona fide department.  I am offering it again, for I have borne witness to so much Stupid, so many Bad Ideas lately, that it is patently obvious to me that Someone has to do Something.  Here now:

Example A:  This past weekend, our Cleveland NBC affiliate had a segment on its Saturday morning infotainment show about what not to get moms for Mothers Day.  It was clearly a "package" feed that they got from another affiliate because every mom in it had a pronounced Southern accent.  They all looked as if they were in a store parking lot (Walmart?) and were interviewed at the sides of their vehicles or in them.  "Don't get appliances!" one woman said in a dire voice.  Another woman drawled, "I hate gift certificates or gift cards. There doesn't seem to be much thought in those."  One greyhaired lady with very few teeth said cheerily, "I jest want hugs and kisses and all mah fam'ly around!"  At the end of the segment, our local anchorwoman said, "For those of you taking Mom out to brunch, Ruby Tuesday's has a free cookbook for every mom!"

Wow.  Message there?  Here's your meal out, but as of tomorrow?  Get back in the kitchen where you belong!  Really, Ruby Tuesday's?  And, on Fathers Day, will they get a cookbook? Bet not.  Spare me.  What a load of cliché and stereotypical bullshit. I said as much--and plenty more on this theme--to Rick as I went in to grab a shower.  Then, I turned around and said, "And!" to which he said, "I knew you weren't done."  But really, how condescending.  "Here, little ladies.  Enjoy your meal out, but let's remember what Being A Mom Is All About.  Now scoot back in there and tie that apron real tight!" Grrrrr....!

Example B:  Because of Hormonal Fluctuations and The (Now Hopefully Permanent) Cessation Of Sanguinary Hostilities, I have been having intermittent migraines.  I awoke with a real bitch of one last week, and struggled to make use of my migraine medication.  Let me just say that the people at Maxalt "have a lot of 'splaining to do" about their product and may they rot in everlasting circles of Migraine Hells   engage in a little R&D toute de suite so that others do not suffer in kind.  Here is a little Photo Essay to demonstrate.  (And imagine yourself in Excruciating Agony while two pleasant but hungry cats annoy the hell out of you.)

1. First, you have to try to pry this open.

2. To get this, the second package.
READ THOSE DIRECTIONS!

3. NOW, IF I can peel this off, I can push the
melty little pill onto my tongue and LIVE.

Really, Merck&Co?  Don't you have any Migraine Sufferers on board over there at all?  Do you honestly think I can even see those directions, let alone fold on that fucking line, then have the patience to locate an almost nonexistent notch, tear it--OR USE SCISSORS--all in order to THEN OPEN ANOTHER FUCKING PACKAGE?!  As my students used to say, "Somebody needs to get real."

Example C:  Much of the time, I simply cannot stand to think of using my dreadmill (hence the name).  The weather has been temperate, so I do my walking outdoors in the 'hood.  I try to time it so as not to disturb the local schoolchildren with my presence.  I have to tell you, though:  it's boring walking the same routes over and over.  In order to break the monotony, I give myself little tasks and little things to look for, like a Quirky Scavenger Hunt.  I wasn't on one of those when I saw this Quintessential Bad Idea, however:


This is just So Bad on So Many Levels, that I'm almost in awe of its Badness. I mean, come on.  What, exactly, is the thought process here?  All right!  Those damn kids want a trampoline, we'll give them a trampoline!  I've told them and told them we don't really have the room, but they just won't shut the hell up.  The city says we have to have a safety fence, and damn it, we do!  Not safe for them, but oh well!  And I swear to God, the first one who impales himself can just walk to the hospital for all I care!  And if they want those branches trimmed, they can goddam well do it themselves, the little shits! 

In the front yard of this house were a ton of kid toys.  And bikes and happiness.  But that back yard. Yikes.  Interestingly, there is another house in the neighborhood with a scary trampoline setup almost identical to this one.  I was all set to photograph it as well, but they put up one of those cage-net thingies that completely encloses the trampoline, rendering it much safer. I was devastated because this trampoline had the bonus of a nearby garage gutter.  Alas.

But, really, parents? Allow me, if you will.  TRAMPOLINES + PICKET FENCES = KID KEBAB (NO GOOD).

Had to be said, apparently.