Stupid Stuff Micro-Post: Apple Watch

Stupid Headlines that show up in my news aggregator, and maybe even other Stupid Stuff that I find–a new tradition I talked about here.  Who knows?  No one knows–it’s a big, damn mystery.  But the world is brimming with Stupid, and I’m setting out to document it and share it with you on days that I can’t think of anything worthwhile or positive to write about.

The Apple Watch Sold Out In Under 6 Hours images
So, while we know a sucker is born every minute, people will soon be able to count just how many suckers that is while simultaneously pinning fruitcake recipes on Pinterest and making up hopelessly nonsensical hashtags.  As if the congenitally self-absorbed, on the street and on mass transit, aren’t annoying enough, now we’ll have to put up with an army of douchebags talking into their jacket sleeves like a bunch of melodramatic secret service agents.

It is a tragedy that I will, forever, associate this abomination with one of the most wonderful human beings ever to walk the planet, but when I first heard of a Apple developing a wrist phone/whatever-else-it-does I immediately thought of Dorothy Parker’s timeless quote, “What fresh hell is this?”

Thoreau once said that “A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone.”  Imagine if that poor, brilliant SOB had experienced some sort of strange future dream full of hipsters, tech geeks, and–gods help us–investment professionals  mumbling into their shirt cuffs?  He’d have hurt somebody, or he’d have hurt himself.  Hear me now: I will never own one of these.  Of course, I misplaced my non-smart cell phone two weeks ago and I’m just now thinking that I might oughta look around the house for it.

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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