Anyone That’s Ever Said Kids Are Like Tiny Adults

Really, people who have, at any point, said that kids are just like tiny adults?

You’re way off on this one. And I can prove it:

Let’s say you have one tissue. With that tissue, you have to wipe your bottom and blow your nose. There’s no way around doing both. You can only decide which one to do first.

The kid will get this one wrong every time, and no adult with their right mind would mess this up.

There. I’ve proven it and have earned the distinct honor (one more time) of asking a shamed group of offenders: Really?

Incredulous People, Young And Old Alike

Really, People Who Assume That Those Not Of Your Generation Would Probably Not Know Anything About So Much As Even The Existence Of A Given Cultural Aspect Typically Assigned To, Or Originating From Within, Your Generation?

I know that’s a long title for any person to have, so I’ll spell out more explicitly the kind of scenario that’s in the limelight (and the crosshairs) of today’s ROTD:

Guy In His Mid-20s: [Insert any mention of, say, Pink Floyd here]
Woman In Her Mid-50s (incredulously): You know about Pink Floyd? We listened to that when I was in college!

As if to suggest, of course, that there isn’t an over-saturation (and, admittedly, an inherent profitability) in today’s marketplace of things considered to be “vintage.” If you’re unaware of that, it’s a wonder you had enough cultural cognizance to know what Pink Floyd was in the first place.

Lest you whipper-snappers think this is just about the old foagies, though, read that over-long description of yourself again, and realize it works both ways (though the bulk of my experience has, naturally, been with the older generations enacting it upon the younger). Then ask, both of yourself and those geezers who act entitled to a greater respect for their knowledge of things just because they “lived through” them: Really?

Old People in Young People Jobs

Really, middle-age-or-better crowd that make their non-living at the expense of the comfort of our nation’s youth?

As many of you may know, the national minimum wage just increased in a series of increases that are set to take place over the next few years. If you’re over 21, however, you shouldn’t have known. It shouldn’t have made a difference because you should have left the minimum wage arena in the rearview mirror of your fully operational car by now.

The problem is, all too frequently the fast food joints, low-end department stores, and snow cone stands all across America are haunted by the older and even elderly, some of which are really making things miserable for everyone. I’m not coming down on anyone who’s fallen on hard times, is looking for something to make life interesting after retirement, or just got finished serving our nation in the military. I’m just saying quiet down. Money can’t (and didn’t) pay for all the times as a younger lad I had to put up with a loudmouth who had kids my age or older but has spent the last 12 years without a raise at some dead-end, no-reason-to-live job. These weren’t managers either.

I still see evidence of this all the time, when someone my mom’s age threatens the job of someone my age at the local Fazoli’s, then a manager tells them both to go back and work the line, when some poor guy at the library lowers my late fee but literally breaks into a sweat while doing it because the director is in that day, or when the Desert Storm guy at Blockbuster spells out “A-L-T, F-4″ on the keyboard because the system froze up again. Now there’s all types of TV and radio speculation over the latest wage increase and it’s interrupting me from learning who this Ludo band is.

Listen, if you’re in a minimum wage job and you’re older than you probably should be, here’s just a few things to keep in mind:

• The people you’re crabbing at all the time are the people who were intended for this job.
• The kids, managers, and especially the customers you see each day don’t really owe you much of anything.
• You owe it to yourself to answer this question: Really?

Bowling Alleys Of America

Really, certain bowling alleys that, earlier this year and perhaps beyond, accepted coupons for free bowling attached to the backs of Banquet®-brand frozen meals?

Forgive the economic profiling here, and certainly no offense is meant to anyone, as clearly I myself am part of the constituency responsible for purchasing these “meals” as much as the next poor sucker, but does anyone who substitutes a one-dollar frozen tray of mystery meat, ostensible mashed potatoes, and sub-quality corn for “dinner” really go bowling anyplace where a single game costs Nine Dollars? (Side note to people of the future: Nine dollars is over twice as much as I’ve ever paid for any single game of bowling in my life to this point, and closer to six times as much as I frequently pay.)

Alarm Clocks

Really, alarm clocks?

Nothing is better proof of my ever-fragile state of mind. Not only am I a monstrosity when you wake me so early Monday through Friday at some ungodly hour, if you wake me at 11:58 a.m. on Saturday I’m just as distraught. Unless I sleep every last minute that my subconscious body wanted to sleep, I’m on the verge of total breakdown, usually lasting about an hour.

There’s no helping you either. There isn’t a thing anyone can tell me after you do your dirty work that will bring a smile to my face.

Riiiiiiiiiiing!! Come on! Get up! It’s time to go shake the money tree!

No thanks.

Really?

Liar

Really, fellow co-educational, recreational, warrior of the two-hand-touch beer-league gridiron?

You consider there to be so much at stake with this casual football game amongst mostly friends and otherwise friendly types, in spite of your team’s six-touchdown lead over ours, that you thought it was necessary to lie to the referee about whether you were really touched on that last play (you were)? Degrading, of course, not only the good name of the entire league (which is, if all of the qualifiers above didn’t tell the tale, entirely for fun, in the spirit of good sportsmanship, absolutely not serious, and without far-reaching, or any-reaching, effect) and calling into question my own integrity (as I, being the one to have touched you, know for a fact that I did, as do you, having unquestionably felt both of my hands upon your back), but effectively condemning yourself to what should be a series of perhaps/hopefully never-ending sleepless nights?

I noticed that, after the game was over, as we all took part in the traditional line-our-team-up-and-each-give-high-fives-to-everyone-on-the-opposing-team-because-we’re-all-good-sports-and-just-here-to-have-a-good-time-after-all procedure, you weren’t in line.  I suspect you’re feeling guilty already, or maybe you’re at least asking yourself, as I’d have asked in place of the usual “good game” if you had appeared in said post-game line-up, Really?

Bed Sheets

Really, wadded up bed sheets hanging halfway out the bedroom door?

How can I go to sleep on a perfectly-made bed as you gently support me, when the first time I roll halfway over I know you’re going to slingshot yourselves right off the bed? Why is it that we can grow a human ear on the back of a lab mouse fit for immediate transplant and I’m still depending on the same elastic  sheet-holding system the ancient Romans used?

Where are you headed at all hours of the night, bed sheets? Are you going to tie yourself in knots and climb down from the window? Could you really climb down yourself in that scenario? I’ll bet you’d find a way. Maybe you’re planning to suffocate my cat, which has nearly happened already.

Whatever it is, stop it. Just stop it. And…Really?!?

New Batman Franchise Filmmakers

Really, Powers That Be Behind The Newest Series Of Batman Movies?

There aren’t enough American actors (or directors) out there to round out the principal parts that comprise one of the most quintessentially American stories in existence? I’m as big a fan as any (well, okay, so I’m not totally ga-ga, as many are) of these Nolan-helmed Batman films, and of the work, generally speaking, done by Nolan and some of the Irish, Welsh, Dutch, British, and Australian actors used therein to portray these American characters, but it seems there was little or no reason to outsource on the talent when there are plenty of people who actually come from Batman’s home country, surely more than capable, and surely dying, to play the parts referenced.

Lest you think this argument seem Americo-centric, you can believe I had exactly the same response to the casting of an American in the lead role (and direction by a Kiwi) of something so exemplarily British as the The Lord of the Rings movies. Of course, on the basis of the response, public and otherwise, to a certain more-than-fifteen-years-old popular cinematic version of the paradigmatically British Robin Hood story (as directed and starred-in by Americans), to the extent that another take thereupon mocked the failure of the lead therein to even attempt a British accent, I should get a lot of nods in agreement for this one. I have a feeling that this is not going to be the case, regardless–which is frustrating, because I do have a great affinity for Batman, in principle, and typically his incarnations through the years have been favorable on some level, up to and including the very movies in question. This affinity, from which my disquietude primarily stems, seems more likely to be mocked by those pretending to the same affinity, than celebrated by fellow Batman-lovers, however.

In any event, on behalf of a given country’s folklore, old or new, as directly co-opted or represented, and without good reason, by those of another country, regardless of whether or not you were awesome enough to cast Deebo in said representation: Really?

Chocolate Milk

Really, delicious chocolate milk?

You’re just that. Delicious. You’re the only form of food or beverage that makes a sore throat (even strep) feel like a numb non-hurting place where the delicious stuff just was.

Why is it, then, that when I drink more than a Solo cup of you I feel like I’m dying for the rest of the day? I can’t eat because I feel overstuffed, I can’t walk because you slosh around in me, I can’t even go to sleep without agitating you until you’re long gone from my system.

You may be two percent, but I want the whole answer: Really?

Middle Plant Wedding Favor

Really, one of three plants I picked up as a wedding favor at a wedding in late May of last year?

You’ve all three been sitting on the exact same windowsill for over a year now, and receiving the same exact treatment–consistent water, plant food on occasion, and all the sunlight for which you could really hope or ask.

Why, then, do you, middle plant, insist on being brown, crispy, and dead, or at least dead-looking, while your comrades on either side flourish with a lush green hue and a firmness of character and composition?

In other words, Really?