There's a lot of things I can't understand. Like how a compass really works. Or how to tie my shoes without using the two bows. And where certain relatives fall on the family tree outside of the core group. Once you start talking about step cousins of in-laws and half grand-nieces, I catch the glossed-over blank stare of Honey Boo Boo's mom. The gnats even circle my face. For me, even the telephone is still crazier technology than any space station or heart surgery robot that's ever been built. Our words, just bouncing around the globe instantaneously through the air and under the oceans? Wow, just wow. I can't ever seem to get anyone quite as excited about intercontinental voice transmission, but I'll keep trying.
Recently what I can't understand involves bumper stickers. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the peculiar subculture of opinionated vehicle decorations, and often find them to be rather amusing. My favorite of all time was a shirtless ASU stoner cruising around Tempe at a dangerously slow speed in a beat-up, wood-paneled, Griswold-style station wagon packed to the gills with what appeared to be Mexican Serape blankets. On the rear window, below a rooftop antenna bent into the shape of a lightning bolt was a lone, faded sticker that stated simply: "I have no idea what I'm doing out of bed." I gave him a thumbs up as I drove by, but obviously he didn't notice it.
What's driving me crazy is not the stickers, but the people who apply them to their cars so sloppily, with seemingly no effort at all to align them correctly. For the love of all things GMO-free, how the hell could you not take the time to make sure it's straight before you just drive off with your new important message to the world right in everybody's face? I'd love to be the type of person who doesn't care about these things because truthfully, the way it disturbs me is often overwhelming. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to vigorously shake some of these people like a Dominican nanny.
