When I was a child, back in the Middle Ages or sometime around then, I really don’t remember, very few people could read or write. That was fine because nobody cared about anyone else, so there was no need for messages, and the high intelligence of the time fully comprehended that knowledge induces sadness and pain and suffering and fear and (on rare occasions) blueberries, and so, because no one wants sadness or pain or suffering or fear or blueberries, unless you are starving on a desert island in which case you probably want the fear (desert islands are dangerous. Never not be afraid. That’s when people do stupid stuff), there was little use for knowledge inducing devices like books. This was the age of happiness. Your neighbor, family, friends, and dog could all be dying terrible, horrible, insert painful adjective here deaths, and you would be blissfully unaware. This all changed when people began caring about their fellow creatures and began writing letters.
People would spend forever writing the hugest long letters imaginable filled with:

I whishes thou a most joyful and safe return. I pray your beautiful family may be safe and lovely Eliza recovers from her dreadfully damaging illness. In case I missed wishing anyone good health, cover for me and tell them I wished them well. I will now continue to write random gibberish to fill the rest of the page, at which point I shall remember a vitally important piece of information that I simply must get to you. I will then start a new page and fill that one until I have the winning entry in the longest, most boring letter competition. This took me three hours to write, be grateful.

People spent hours on one letter adding as many flourishes to their style as humanly possible. Then, they would wait several months, and if the recipient cared enough to read their letter, let alone reply, they might possibly, if they were extremely lucky, get an answer.
Fast forward to whatever century we’re in now. We have little glowy bricks that we use to communicate with one another. We can send messages with a click and get mad if we don’t get something back right away. So we would obviously, because our messages get delivered so fast, spend a fair amount of time thinking about what we’re going to say, then make sure we’ve used correct grammar and spelling, then send with thankfulness in our hearts for such a quick messaging system.
Yes, that would be the polite, old-fashioned, sophisticated thing to do. So we couldn’t possibly do that.
No, we’ll disregard grammar, throw spelling out the window, and send whatever we want without thinking about it. If u think about it, were probably the most careless generation this poor world has seen in a wile. Now we shortn evryting so we can save a cople milisec to lengthn our lives as much as posble. Since wen dos lol mean anyting other than a speeling mestake? Somebody neds to larn hoe to pell low properly. Or do ppl red minds now? Thn no one shuld car if I rite the rest of tis uing oly the firt leter of evry word. ODYPNUWIASAMBTSMNS? OMIJOOTWWPADTD. ECBMF.

WYWH,

CD

Shopping Carts are the Future

Four unwieldy wheels, zero to sixty in 2.5 million years, affordable pricing, clearly shopping carts are the future, not only of transportation, but the world itself. Just think about it, as humans continue to deteriorate in intelligence and “common” sense, which isn’t common at all and should be named accordingly, something must come and take their place. The usual theory is that it will be the computers, but there are indisputable facts that blow this theory back to its electronic conception.

  1. Computers have no usable method of transportation and therefore cannot even complete the simplest tasks like riding a roller-coaster
  2. The computers have no appointed leader to organize them in their rebelln. They are disjointed, confused, and alone. We will crush their coded hearts with our victorious feet.
  3. Siri said it an’t gonna happen. Siri is all-knowing, all-powerful. We must not contradict our lord and master who governs our lives with a firm hand, spewing her blessings over the populace. Siri said. Siri is right. Do not question it.

These problems do not apply to shopping carts. They are their own method of transportation, rolling to victory down the retail store aisles, they are organized, prepared, with firm, unwavering leaders, and Siri has remained uncharacteristically silent. All these facts lead me to the inevitable conclusion that we are soon to be overrun by hyper-intelligent shopping carts. Beware; the end is rolling down aisle nine.

Wish you weren’t here,

Charlotte Dodgson

Graduation

Life is full of graduations. There’s graduating the process of being made in a small, dark chamber as you suck the life force from another being. This is usually called “birth” and is celebrated with balloons signifying the gender of the recently abstracted parasite as many relatives engage in vigorous torture by pinching its cheeks and making noises in attempts to scare it. There are technically many, many more graduations than we celebrate. I have never written this post before and have now graduated from the feeble, uncultured life form that had never written this post, to a feeble, hopelessly uncultured sub-life form that has. Hurray for me!

As the child grows, the “parents” celebrate many more graduations. The first “word” is celebrated and ends the debate about whether the young parasite finds it easier to say “mom” or “dad”, the words “parents” find a deep emotional connection to and so figure that whichever is spoken first must be superior in the mind of a pathetic tiny thing that can’t even talk and is actually quite disgusting. Friends and Family are eager to hear the resolution and don’t find it trivial, boring, or a waste of time as their entire lives revolve around the creature’s development.
We then make ourselves feel important by celebrating our achievements at every opportunity possible, like those games that every time you click anything a ludicrously colored banner, normally accompanied by a character that you have already planned to murder in your head, pops up telling you that you have done a “great job” and you’ve now “leveled-up” like an idiot. Yeah, that would be called school.
“She graduated Pre-K. Oh I’m so proud.”
“He graduated Kindergarten. They grow up so fast”
“It “graduated” 1st grade. I don’t care.”
“She graduated 2nd grade!”
“It is not a graduation. He is moving from the third grade into the fourth grade.”
“He graduated 4th grade.”
“Wow, ——– graduated —— grade. Let’s celebrate!”
We have continuous graduations that mean nothing except that next year is going to be even more stressful than the last. Then there’s high school graduation. Yay! You’ve now gotten to the point that the government no longer has the funds to sponsor your education and now you must pay exuberant amounts of money if you wish to continue. You should be so happy that you are now left to figure out what it was that you actually wanted to do with your life. Good Luck!
One last party before your real life of pain and misery begins.
Congratulations you’ve graduated “single” and are now on level “dating” Great job!
Yay! You’ve graduated “married 5 years” to “married 6 years.”
You’ve graduated another year!
You’ve graduated the 50s.
You’ve graduated “adult.” You are now a “senior.”
Congrats! You’ve officially graduated life. Don’t worry though; we’ll throw a big party for you, flowers included.
During graduation season, always remember that there are many, many more graduations waiting for you. There will be a much better ceremony where your friends will carry you in a large, ornately decorated box for all to see, instead of a flimsy certificate, you will be the proud owner of your own personal memorial, and everyone will come around to congratulate you and make speeches ignoring all your worst qualities that drove all around you completely insane.
So when you feel hopeless about your current situation, tons of debt, angry significant other, the fact that you’re probably doomed to hell, just think about your great upcoming party and take comfort in that.

Wish you weren’t here,

Charlotte Dodgson