I was at my local sports pub the other night, throwing back a few pints, terrorizing some all-I-could-eat wings and trying to determine whether the Bears-Vikings or Magic-Hawks game I was watching was more meaningless.
After becoming totally disinterested with both blowouts, I ventured into the men’s room to rinse the teriyaki glaze off my fingernails. Hungry yet?
After thoroughly scrubbing my hands, I turned towards the paper towel dispenser to find one of those new-fangled models hanging on the tile wall. You know the kind, guys. The motion-sensor ones that kick out that half a strip of paper towel which is never enough for one drying.
I stood there like an idiot, waving my wet hands, trying to get that little red light to turn on, for about a minute before I realized the darned thing wasn’t working.
Ok, now what? Wipe my wet hands on my jeans, old-fashioned style? Contact management? Rage against the machine?
These new-fangled, motion sensor models are like Fort Knox. I was afraid I would have tripped an alarm had I tried to tinker with it. At least with the older models, you could either wind the metal wand or work your fingers up into the device to grab whatever paper was left inside. These new ones have those spiked teeth ready to jab like rental car parking lots if you drive out the wrong exit.
The paper sat inside, taunting me. I stood there confounded and wet-handed.
In the end, I went old school. I did a few quick air hand shakes, then went straight to the denim on my thighs. I neglected to tell management their machine was out of order. I’ll leave that to the next lucky employee who chooses to wash his hands after using the lavatory.
Knowing that place, that might be a while.
* * *
I have a buddy who’s depressed after going through a pretty, nasty break-up.
He’s an avid sports fan, as well as an honorary member of the SportsChump Consiglieri, which means he digests a steady diet of ESPN programming.
I’m not sure if you’ve ever noticed this, but we sure as hell have. During the holidays, the Kay, Jared and Zales commercials are relentless. I know they’re just trying to help us dolts with what to buy the women in our lives, but all they’re doing is sinking my boy deeper into depression, even more so than the Giants allowing 28 fourth quarter points to the Eagles.
The endless pendant, necklace and engagement rings ads are nauseating for those of us who have chosen never to wed but there’s one that’s particularly disturbing.
There’s a couple vacationing in a log cabin somewhere. They’re wearing turtleneck sweaters, sipping hot cocoa and staring out the window when a storm breaks out. The thunder startles the woman right into her man’s arms. He then tells her “Don’t worry. I’ll be here. Forever.” Then proposes.
When in the history of mankind has this ever happened?
We’ve all experienced bad breakups in our lives but they’re compounded exponentially over the holidays with these commercials. At this point, I think a pawn shop commercial where the jilted fiancée sells back an engagement ring for cents on the dollar is a little more true to form.
Either way, I’m here for my boy. He doesn’t even have to buy me jewelry or make me hot cocoa.