The Futility and The Complaining

We as Americans complain -- a lot. We have an occupation -- lobbyist -- whose sole purpose is to complain on Capitol Hill. Most trucks on the road have a sticker that asks "How's my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT" or whatever that invites complaints -- no one ever calls to compliment 'Joe's Live Eels' for their driver's roadworthy consideration. And every store has a complaint department.

My complaint of the day is this: we have gotten so used to having it all we have way too much. To wit, The Sharper Image (aka Land of Useless Crap) offers an in-shower CD player. I'm a huge music fan and listen to all sorts of stuff throughout my day and night, but CDs in the shower? MMMmmmkay.

Another useless invention: the retractable cellular hands-free belt-kit. This is a no-brainer: it's a little thingamajig that sits on your hip next to your cellphone until such time as a call comes in. At that time, you're supposed to whip out the ear-piece, lock it in place, stuff it into your ear, and then talk to your Aunt Edna about her bunyons and her replacement hip. And then, presumably, hit a little button on the earpiece casing (which is still attached to your non-replaced hip) and the wire recedes safely into the hip-based housing. This is all well and good, except once I've detected a call coming in, I have enough trouble fishing my cell from my pocket, opening it and speaking to the person before my voicemail intercedes on my behalf and the call goes from present to past tense, just like that.

But the newest recipient of the HoB's "WTF!!!!" Award is Kraft's Road-Kill Candy. Unfortunately, activists got wind of the project prior to this crap hitting shelves so the candy that was will never be. But essentially, it was designed as a bunch of flattened (partial) animal shapes -- snakes, squirrels and chickens -- replete with tread-marks -- in a variety of (presumably) yummy gummi flavors. Fabulous. It harkens back the tasteless, crude, entertaining Road-Kill Grill skit from SNL in the 70's. Except that was marketed to stoned, drunk adults, not kids.

Although I really would have liked to procure a package or two of this stuff, just to share it with a couple friends who belong to PETA.

Alas, Poor Road-Kill, we hardly knew ye.
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