Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Batteries are dramatic.

Today's photo comes from Kyle B. in Georgia. 

Whomever scribbled this down has a point, a very good point.

I never thought I'd be able to compare batteries and people in the sense of their life spans but here we go. 

The death of both means crying will ensue. 

People die, we cry because of whatever reason of attachment we have to that individual. 

Batteries die and we cry or at the very least cry out. Usually tears are shed over batteries because when they die in your car they leave you stranded, late for work or your daughter's harvest fest dance and soup drive or you end up dropping an important call or your favorite vibrator leaves you mid-escalation.

Sadness everywhere.

People go in the dirt. Batteries go in a dirty landfill.

Burying people has always been weird to me. There's a graveyard in my hometown that dates back to the 1800s. This means there are thousands of bodies that nobody knows, visits or gives two hoots about. Their families have dried up or left town. Yet we're taught these 200 year old piles of bone dust are precious. 

Meanwhile, we're tossing batteries in landfills. Why? We had good times with batteries too. We made prank calls together. We snuggled up on the couch and switched back and forth between bass fishing and women's naked indoor lacrosse and basket weaving tournaments. And there was that one time we videotaped our 70 year old neighbor yelling at her grandson's dog as her bathrobe flew open in the spring, Kentucky Derby morning breeze.

Don't we need to put batteries in little mini caskets made of old cereal boxes and treat their passing as a traumatic life event?

People piss you off. Batteries piss you off.

Everyday, some person pisses me off—dumb drivers, the morbidly obese who don't understand that their sheer girth plus their cart are blocking the grocery aisle and my path of exit away from their gravitational stink pull, bankers who won't call me back, bathroom attendants at restaurants (I don't need you to dry my hands or my balls), people who talk on their phones on the shitter, Dollar Tree cashiers, idiots who wear shorts all year round in the midwest, the people who make corn dogs, ESPN (too many tickers and it doesn't take 19 people to host SportsCenter), etc.

Batteries piss me off less frequently, but nothing is worse than having a battery operated device and having it stop working suddenly. Then it's a mad dash to the drawer in your house that holds pens, toothpicks, plastic silverware, old Christmas cards, coupons, those warranty cards you were going to send in but didn't and batteries. Only to reach that drawer and find out you either don't have the right size or by the time you get back to your battery operated device, you can't figure out which fucking way the batteries go back into it. 

There's 10 minutes of my life gone.

So in the end. I agree with the drama that surrounds batteries. Maybe I'll start a battery casket and tombstone business. Or just turn my backyard into some kind of weird battery cemetery. 

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