Observed Absurdities™ 43 - This Is NOT My Fault

Let me be perfectly clear.

I have nothing to do with what ads Google chooses to show you when you read this blog. While I suppose a particular blog's content may have a modicum of influence on what shows up at the bottom of each article, I suspect a larger percentage of the blame goes to whatever cookies or browsing history Google AdSense detects in your Worldwide Wackfest-browsing implement of choice.

I suspect this because as I was recently proofreading a future post, Google engaged all its wisdom, deduced that I'm in the middle of a search for full-time employment, and presented me the following ad:

What disturbs me about this is not the Big-Brotherosity of it all. I have made peace with the fact that there is hardly such a thing as a private life anymore. No, the thing about this ad that makes me think, "What the farnsworth?" is that there's apparently a disorder out there...

...a disorder that enough people suffer from that they need to be officially registered...

...a disorder that involves eating nurses.

#MedicalZombies
#Eww

Shop Around: The 495th Greatest Song of All Time

Okay, I admit it...my introduction to Shop Around was NOT Smokey Robinson and the Miracles' definitive version. The first time I heard it was in 1976 (16 years after Smokey made it Motown's first million-seller) and it was the cover version recorded by The Captain & Tennille.

Going backward to hear the original hit not only involved a gender shift and a welcome entrance to the world of doo-wop, but a realization that Smokey Robinson's mama must have been one controlling wad of overbearing womanhood.

Seriously.

The verses are written as words of wisdom coming from the mouth of a caring mother, but check 'em out:

Just because you've become a young man now

There're still some things that you don't understand now

Before you ask some girl for her hand now

Keep your freedom for as long as you can now

My mama told me, you better shop around

Oh yeah, you better shop around

Translation: You're still my baby boy and I want you to stay with me instead of running off with some other woman. 

Oh, there're some things that I want you to know now

Just as sure as the wind's gonna blow now

The women come and the women are gonna go now

Before you tell 'em that you love 'em so now

My mama told me, you better shop around

Oh yeah, you better shop around

Translation: I'm the only female on Earth who will be true to you!

And then, as if this blatant neediness and industrial-strength-apron-stringiness isn't enough, Mama gets...

well...

very interesting:

Try to get yourself a bargain, son

Don't be sold on the very first one

I know, I know...it's supposed to be a metaphor, but seriously? Why are we talking about the search for a lifemate in terms of a financial transaction? Doesn't this strike anyone else as pimpishly creepy?

And then there's this bit of anti-female gender-centric sexism that would never be allowed today:

Pretty girls come a dime a dozen

Immediately followed by a broad, general instruction with no hint of how to practically carry it out:

Try to find you one who's gonna give you true lovin'

Not to mention that it perpetuates the stereotype that an experienced guy is a good find, but a girl who's been around is...well...you know...

Observed Absurdities™ 42 - Any Way You Slice It

I recently made the mistake of picking up some groceries for Beloved.

I call it a mistake because going into a grocery store with a short list of simple items that Beloved wants me to purchase never...and I use that term advisedly...never turns out as one would expect...unless one would expect a disaster somewhere on a scale between minor and earth-shattering.

It sounds so simple when she says something like "get a can of olives." So......simple......yeah-no.

Black olives or green olives? Small, medium, or large? Pitted or non-pitted?

Or ex-pitted?

Or pitiful?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

And then there's the trauma of trying to FIND the stuff. I'm pretty sure there was an edict sent out to all grocery store managers that requires them to lay out their stores with absolutely no regard to any line of logical thinking. Are olives a vegetable or a condiment? Beans are kind of a vegetable, but I put them in chili so maybe they should be with the sauces.

During the recent trip mentioned in today's opening sentence, I just needed to get some sliced provolone cheese. Imagine my glee when I saw a large placard featuring sliced cheese.

Imagine the deflation of my adventurous spirit when I saw what was on the shelves under the "Sliced Cheese" placard:

I eventually found the cheese...under a sign that said "Dad Jokes For Sale".

No, But Really...What If The Eagles Loved Jesus?

Earlier this week, in my other blog (click HERE), I featured a song by Randy Stonehill that he purposefully wrote as an answer to the question "What if The Eagles were Christian?"

It got me to thinking...a dangerous proposition even on my best days...

• (My Sins Are) Already Gone
• Best of My Lord's Love
• Busy Being Forgiven
• (I Was a) Desperado
• Heart-Change Tonight
• Hotel God-Is-For-Ya
• I Can Tell You Why
• Life in the Fast Confessional
• New Kid in Town  -  A song about being filled with the Holy Spirit
• One of These Knights  -  A story song about the search for the Holy Grail

• Peaceful Easy Feeling  -  #TrueTruth: I've sung this many times with the verses of "Amazing Grace".
• Take It Easy  -  ♫ My yoke is easy and my burden is light ♪♫
• Easter Sonrise
• The Long, Straight, and Narrow Run

Let the Nausea Begin!

I almost wanted to classify this as an Observed Absurdity™ , but maybe I'm the only one who was aghast and appalled at what I saw in a convenience store dining area in northern Indiana. (Maybe I'M the absurdity this time.)

I had driven my mother, SweaterGal, to her weekly hair appointment at Maybelle's Dip-N-Clip. I needed to kill an hour, so I went to the nearest convenience store/gas station/tobacco emporium, bought a bottle of apple juice and a couple doughnuts, and sat down to peruse the local paper.

When I got up to throw away my napkin and head out to my car, I saw the following two condiment dispensers:

Being a lover of french fries, I absolutely understand the need for a large jug-o-ketchup, but the existence of a similarly huge tanker of ranch dressing caught me off-guard.

And made me nauseous.

For some reason, all I could imagine was someone filling a soup bowl with that white goop and baptizing chicken nuggets for hours on end.

Which made me nauseous.

I can appreciate a modicum of ranch dressing to enhance the experience of a salad or baked potato or (shudder) raw broccoli, but seeing So Much Dressing in one place  -  poised to be pumped out onto any unsuspecting food item nearby  -  I had to hightail it to the marginally-sanitary men's room and give back my doughnuts and apple juice in a most inauspicious manner.