“It’s about time there’s a Web portal aimed at large Hasidim like myself. I applaud the launch of TheBigJew.com, and hope it will prosper!”
– Michael Colton, Co-Founder, Modern Humorist

You can check out the site by clicking here, or the link in our blogroll, or the other link at the bottom of this article.

Enjoy.

TO: Tom (My current boss)

I’d like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.

– Kent (the guy with the funny ties)

TO: Cheryl (My high school guidance counselor)

I’d like to add you to my professional network of people on LinkedIn who thought I’d be dead by now.

– Kent

TO: Susan (My old boss at JoAnn’s Fabrics)

I’d like to add you to my professional network of past employers on LinkedIn who were unaware that I was spending most of my time at work jousting with curtain rods and fitting myself for capes.

– Kent

TO: Sam Jones

I’d like to add you to my professional network of college graduates on LinkedIn whose future in advertising depends largely on whether or not I have courtside seats at The Garden this Saturday.

– Kent

TO: Britney Cooper

I’d like to add you to my professional network of emotionally stunted human resource professionals on LinkedIn who – coincidentally – were also the inspiration for my Facebook status yesterday afternoon when it read “Kent Woodyard thinks some people need to get over themselves.”

– Kent

TO: Stephen, David, Josh, and Adam

I’d like to add you to my professional network of former college roommates on LinkedIn who were supposed to open a liquor store/sushi bar/off-track betting facility with me but decided instead to get married or deported and – as a result – had to abandon their childhood dreams, thereby forcing me to do the same.

– Kent

TO: Kelly McFarland

I’d like to add you to my professional network of campus recruiters on LinkedIn who I’m sure are now regretting their decision to let a mild case of Tourettes and a few good-natured ethnic slurs come between The Walt Disney Company and a top-notch applicant for the marketing analyst position.

– Kent

TO: Michael, Gary, and Mark

I’d like to add you to my professional network of coworkers on LinkedIn whose inability to “take one for the team” and “loan me the company credit card” will likely result in an uncharitable portrayal in my professional memoirs.

– Kent

Click here to read the rest of the article.

I digress. The point is, I’ve been busy. The content on the site has been mostly driven by Kent and hilarious contributors. I receive a loud voicemail every other day from Kent that is almost entirely comprised of vulgarities and racial epithets that don’t apply to me. I’m sorry buddy, but you just can’t coerce hilarity out of someone. It has to come from inspiration.

And well, I found some inspiration the other day. The following is my commentary on a list from a website called “The Frisky” about what you should teach your sons about women. What kind of website has that kind of ridiculous name? Good question. It’s a site by women, for women. Anytime a woman writes something about how men work, what men think, or generally anything about men, you can almost guarantee that it’s completely wrong. This list is a decent example of that, although I do agree with some of what it says. The rest of it… well… You’ll see. Here it is. The list itself will be in bold, my comments will be in italics. Bon Appetit, gluttons.

1. Pick your battles.

Right on. Some stuff just isn’t worth the blood and violence. Like with Iraq, you know? After we got into the thick of it we realized, “hey, this might have been better to avoid.” Love is like that. Love is like Iraq. Yeah, that’s it. Remember that, all you single kids. Love is like Iraq.

2. Walk on the outside (closer to the street) of your female companion.

Also a good point. Although I’m not sure that the ladies over at The Frisky know the origins of that rule – it started back in the day when roads weren’t paved. The man walked on the outside in case there was mud or water in the crappy streets. If there was a splash from a passing horse or cart, he’d take the brunt of it. See that? TTM just educated you. You’re officially not wasting your time.

3. Saying “You’re being crazy” is never an appropriate response, unless you want her to go postal on you.

Hmmm… I mean, I get what she’s saying here. That’s probably not a productive thing to say in an argument, but essentially point #3 says that calling a woman crazy makes her crazy… which in effect proves the statement correct, doesn’t it? And going “postal” usually refers to really violent actions, i.e. a disgruntled postal worker shooting a bunch of people. So what you’re saying, Friksy (which coincidentally was also the name of my first dog, RIP) is that calling a woman crazy will turn her into a murdering psychotic.

4. Cooking, cleaning, and taking care of kids are things men can actually do as well as women.

True, true, maybe. Maybe it’s just me, but when my Dad would take care of us while my Mom was sick or out of town, it was a drastically different experience involving lots of microwaved food and diapers made out of newspaper.

5. Keep backup supplies of quality chocolate in the house for her to raid.

True. Chocolate is like catnip for women.

6. Buying tampons and other feminine products shouldn’t embarrass you –everyone knows they’re not for you.

Pshhh! How do they know they’re not for me?! I’m not buying that crap, like I’m gay or something. Chhh. Dumb chicks. (Seriously though, dudes don’t like doing this because it’s kind of weird and gross, not because they’re afraid people will think they’re bleeding out of their vagina.)

7. Women like compliments and gifts.

Men like beer and nudity. And compliments and gifts.

8. Earning less than her shouldn’t be emasculating.

Earning less than him shouldn’t activate the inferiority complex that your loveless father ingrained in you as a child.

9. Be on time, even if she usually isn’t.

That way you can make her feel really guilty about always being late and use it as a tool to manipulate her! Brilliant, Frisky!

10. Don’t be a pouty puppy when shopping with her.

Don’t make him go shopping with you if you don’t want to deal with him inevitably hating it. Studies have shown, actually, that women enjoy shopping because for them it’s a sensory experience – they enjoy the colors and textures of the items, making the experience very stimulating for them.  Mens’ brains, however, aren’t wired to appreciate the same stimuli. Suck it, Frisky.

11. Find out what her favorite flower is.

Conceded. Good point. Otherwise you’d never have a good card to pull out when you screw something up.

12. If you like her, then don’t buy her shoes; it’s bad luck.

Sounds like someone is inserting a little bit of their own personal narrative into this guide. I feel like some dude’s name should be italicized at the end of that statement.

13. Smiling and nodding aren’t the same as listening.

Thought vomiting isn’t the same as talking.

14. It’s OK to cry in front of her, but keep the blubbering to a minimum.

Wow. “Be vulnerable, but only to the extent of novelty. Any real vulnerability isn’t welcome.” Someone is a little dysfunctional.

15. Personality goes a long way.

Trying to justify your ugly boyfriend, huh?

16. At some point she’ll be more important than your mother.

Unless your name is Oedipus! BAM!

17. You will never completely understand women.

That’s because they’re crazy. Oh, no! Please don’t shoot me!

18. Oh yeah, and no woman will ever be good enough for my baby!

I don’t even know what the hell this is about. Freud? Where are you?

Isn’t love amazing? It really is. Nothing else like it. Not even drugs. It’s a rare and beautiful thing when you finally meet that special someone. Who knows where cupid struck you both with his arrow? Maybe you had a class together. Maybe you met through a friend. Maybe you met on Myspace. Whatever the medium upon which your personal Romeo and Juliet began (except without the mutual suicide!), I’m sure you’ve experienced just how hard it is to keep that fireball of romance to yourself. Luckily for you, we here at The Talking Mirror are in the self-help business and have come up with a guide just for you and your boo bear.*

Step One: Always Maintain Physical Contact
No matter what happens, never forget this step. Your love will explode into a dust of broken promises and insecurities you never knew you could have. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, whoever you’re with; none of it matters. The rule always applies. You must always be touching each other. It doesn’t have to be normal or even practical. It just has to be. Common examples:

The “arm around the waist even while walking, running, swimming, or sitting.” This is a pretty common choice amongst the love-stricken. Keep your arm around your lover’s waist no matter how inconvenient it may get, even as you try to run up the escalator or go through airport security. If you don’t, they will disappear instantly. Guaranteed.

The “constant hand-hold.” While more subtle than the arm around the waist, the hand-hold is no less dedicated. No matter what happens, you never let go of that hand. Got sweaty palms? Tough crap, son. You think love is for the weak? Let me tell you, it’s not. Walking through a crowd? You hold on for dear life. What if you get separated?! I… I can’t even bear the thought. Do whatever you have to in order to maintain the hand-hold. Clothes-hang a passer-by, knock over a food stand, step directly on the neck of a puppy – it doesn’t matter. You know what matters? Never letting go. If you let go, they’ll know that you don’t love them anymore and never did.

The “touch, just because.” This move really only belongs in a sitting position and ideally when you’re with a large group of people that obviously don’t know enough about how much you love each other. First, you must be sitting next to each other. Gosh, that was a dumb thing for me to tell you to do! There’s no way two people in love could ever sit anywhere but next to each other! You knew that. Sorry. Anyway, the important part is to try to stay within reason while still maintaining contact. A hand on the knee, shoulders touching, hand affectionately scratching the back, or toes intertwined: take your pick, it’s all golden and will ensure that your love will stay alive forever and ever and ever and ever.

Step Two: Constantly be Together
Remember when you weren’t in love? I know, me neither! But seriously, try to imagine. You were one person. Three weeks later, you’re in love. Know what you are now? A two person unit. Friends wanna hang out? They get the packaged deal. All or nothing, ladies and gentlemen. These two hearts are now one heart. Know what happens if they separate? They freaking die. And it’s bloody. Nobody wants that. Maybe you’re still in high school or college. Guess what? It’s time to go visit your adviser/counselor to make sure you have all the same classes. And, as we said before, you obviously have to sit next to each other. Maybe you’re at a party. Do you mingle with the other guests? Do you go downstairs to play Rock Band with the bro’s? Do you use the restroom? Absolutely not. You sit or stand together in one section of the party for the entirety of your stay. If people want to talk to you, they can come to you. You should also leave the party relatively early because you “had plans,” which should mean that you’re going to snuggle up on the couch and watch Scrubs on DVD.

Step Three: Let the World (Internet) Know
It’s time to show the entire world just how much you love each other via the intertron.

3.1) First and foremost, update your Facebook and Myspace relationship statuses. If you don’t do this, your relationship is a lie.
3.2) Next, change your profile picture to one that features you and your soul mate. This can be any sort of picture – laughing together, making silly faces using your macbook’s camera, or maybe a formal pose from prom or homecoming or when you went to see High School Musical. There’s one profile picture that trumps them all, though. It will tell the world that your love is so lovey and warm and real and eternal that really, no one else could understand it. What is it, you ask? The kissing picture. That’s right. You get some lucky bystander to snap a pic of you two smooching and make that your profile picture. Trust me. The second anyone sees that picture they’ll say to themselves “Wow. That’s not nauseating at all. That’s beautiful. That’s the kind of love I wish I had.”
3.3) And finally, it’s time to post affectionate things on each other’s walls. The following are real life examples from people whose love obviously conquers all, even grammar and spelling.

so i kinda sorta maybe rEAllY love YOU! miss you boo. 3 weeks and counting….1 year and 53 days and counting till something else and HAPPY four months. gah, i love you boo. xoxo*

go to bed you drunkbutttttt. i’m still up! oh man ,i shouldnt have drank that code red. hope you are sleeping soundly as i’m sure you are. you are a funnyyybunnny. love you boo bear.*

remember that one time you were in osh kosh (bi gosh) and i missed you a lot cuz you were super busy? ya, well i’m glad thats in the past and i get to talk to you for HOURS today :) i love you babe. miss you (13 days!)*

As you can tell, this kind of love-laced poetry cannot be fictionalized. It can only be inspired. If you follow this guide, you too can hope to one day achieve this, the highest level of romantic nirvana. Tune in next week for another guide to coping with something that you obviously need help coping with.

*Denotes direct, vomit-inducing quotes.

Mr. Jones and me… ba da dum dum dum da dum… Gawd I love this song. Is the singer Black? He could be from South America I guess… Like Puerto Rico maybe. Is that South America? Whatever, they all speak Spanish. His dreads are intense. I wish I had dreads. Man that would be so bad-A. I wonder if his dreads are what gives him that beautiful, chocolate pudding voice. Like Iron Man’s suit or something.

Man, this guy behind me is really following me close. I’d better step on my brakes to show him that I’d like for him to slow down. There you go buddy, see? Chill out. We’re all gonna get there eventually. Dang, he’s back up in my trunk again. What’s his problem? Speed limit is 45, I’m going 40! That’s plenty fast. Does he know what an accident at 40 miles per hour would do to your body? It would turn into a bloody violent mess. I guess he didn’t pay attention to those videos they showed us in driver’s ed. What was that called? Faces of death? No matter, that’s not gonna be me, bucko.

Alright, time to teach him a lesson. Just gonna ease down to 35 here to send a message to Mr. Speed Racer back there. Yeah, you noticed that didn’t you? Well I don’t respond well to tailgating. Now you see who the boss is, don’t you? Maybe next time you’ll appreciate 40 miles per hour when you have it. You don’t know what you got till it’s gone… Paved with some dice, with a foot on Marky’s cot. That’s a Counting Crows song too, right? Yeah it is. Marky’s cot… I wonder if he’s talking about Marky Mark Wahlberg.

Darnit, what is this guys problem? I can’t believe he’s flashing his headlights at me. I’m not gonna speed up. I’ve made that abundantly clear. You’ve been tailgating me, and now you have to deal with your punishment. Somebody has got to teach you how to be a safe driver. I bet you don’t even have your license, do you? I don’t even want to think about whether or not you have insurance.

Uh oh, that green light up there has been green for a while. I’d better slow down some more in case it decides to go red on me. Looky there! Better safe then sorry. It’s going yellow. Stop time. What is this guy’s deal? He’s honking at me and looking like he’s punching his car.

Seriously man, take a chill pill.

I love that saying. Chill pill. It rhymes, it makes sense, and it just rolls off the tongue. I need to get that on a t-shirt… Oh!  Or a bumper sticker! Oh man, that’d be hysterical.

Really though. Speeding is against the law. He should be thanking me for saving him from getting pulled over.  This is absurd. Sorry big guy, but this is a two lane road with solid lines in the middle. No passing. What in the heck? He’s trying to pass me! Alright 2 fast 2 furious, it’s time for me to awaken the beast that is the Chevrolet Aveo. Just gonna speed up enough to get him to realize that passing isn’t going to happen today… What? He just… Does he know what that finger means? I just… I can’t believe it.

Well just you wait, you jerk! What goes around comes around.

End Inner Monologue

An alternate inner monologue consists of the first 30 seconds of this song:

“Schnuckums!? Are you listening to me?”

“Uh…” You say, your voice waivering. “Yeah babe, I hear you.”

“Are you ready?” the predator bellows, baiting the prey.

“Ready for what… beautiful?” You reply, hoping that somehow the interrogative will provide you an escape while tossing in the compliment at the end to ease the delivery, like the flavoring those bastards put in NyQuil.

“Don’t even try that crap on me. Get off your ass. We’re going shopping.” The snare tightens around your feet. You’ve been caught. Resistance is now futile.

Now that you’ve been reduced to the status of indentured servant, there are a few things you must remember in order to survive. The full moon that is a monthly sale has turned your once kind, sweet girlfriend into a vicious, bloodthirsty monster. A wereshopper, if you will. Like a lycanthrope, but much more subtle in its preferred murderous methods.  You’re about to venture into a dark, dangerous place. Stick with me, and you’ll be stronger, more courageous, and not single when it’s over. Welcome to the jungle.

Do Not Opine
You are about to be bombarded by lies. She will ask you over and over “what you think” about “this dress” and “these pants” and “that girl’s butt.” She will tell you to “be honest” because she “seriously doesn’t care” and “really wants your input.” She will ask if you are “having fun” or “enjoying this time together” or if you think that shopping is still “excruciatingly painful and torturous.” DO NOT BELIEVE HER. She does not want to know what you really think. These are landmines that she is throwing in front of you, like some kind of horrible Super Mario level. To avoid them you must not under any circumstances give your honest opinion. You must tell her what she wants to hear. To determine what exactly that is, a good general rule is to take your actual opinion, and say exactly the opposite. Examples:

Scenario One: Beauty Contest

Her: Babe, that girl is so fat, right?

Your Actual Thoughts: Nope. She’s pretty hot actually. Do you know her?

What You Should Say Instead: What girl? Oh, that porker over there? Yeah. She’s a giant.

Scenario Two: Fashion Show

Her: Honey, how do these pants look on me?

Your Actual Thoughts: Yikes. Looks like half of your ass is trying to escape suffocation.

What You Should Say Instead: How do they feel?
(Based on her response, choose positive or negative)
Positive: For real, I think they frame your figure pretty well.
IMPORTANT NOTE: If she goes negative, that doesn’t mean you can agree with her. Find a way to agree with her without agreeing with her. Sound like some kind of psychological puzzle? Say hello to the female psyche.
Negative: They don’t look bad to me, but you know European sizes can be pretty weird. Why don’t you try on a few more pairs?

Have fun hanging on the rim comrade, because you just scored a slam dunk.

LET VICTORIA HAVE HER SECRETS
This is a survival tip that came straight from Survivorman Les Stroud himself. Your lady might throw some sort of sexy glance at you and say “hey… wanna help me pick out lingerie?” Sounds like a fun idea, right? You are being tempted by the devil. You might think this is like walking into the Victoria’s Secret Catalog you have stashed underneath your mattress, but you are actually walking into weeks of groveling and having to watch Matthew McConaughey movies. You will not be able to say anything right. See something you like? Here’s how her responses will go:

Her: Of course you like that. All that you think about is sex. You’re a pig.
or
Her: Seriously? That? What am I, a grandmother? You’re a pig.

There is literally no way to win. The best way to win is to stay out. Your feet hurt, you’re hungry, you have to call your mother, you want her to surprise you – it doesn’t matter. Piss your pants if you have to, just don’t go in there. Furthermore, you could gouge your eyes out with golden broaches Oedipus-style prior to walking into the store, but it wouldn’t make a difference. She’d still think you were looking at every other girl’s boobs in there. Not even looking at mannequins is safe. Even if she’s right (and she probably is), she’s bringing you into an woman’s underwear store that is literally wallpapered with scantily clad babes. What the hell does she expect? Unless she thought she was dating a eunuch, she can’t expect you to avert your eyes from every cleavage chasm around you. You can’t put metal next to a magnet and get pissed when it gets pulled in. It’s science.

There you have it my brothers. If any of you have any tips you’d like to add to help your fellow man survive this treacherous landscape, please feel free to add them. Until next time, good luck.

Alright, alright. I gotta “analyze” a poem. What the hell does that mean? I’m not an analyst, I’m a Phi Theta Kappa, bitch! Arggg… Whatevs man, let’s just get this done so I can go watch Anchorman with my frat brothers.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
by Robert Herrick

Virgins huh? Alright, alright. I like where your head is at Robbie.

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

I guess this guy plants flowers or something to get virgins to like him. So I guess he’s saying, like, you better get that flower to that virgin chick before it dies or she’s gonna get with some other dude with a flower that is all alive or whatever. Good call with the flowers Robster, I’m gonna use that.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

Here he’s talking about smoking out I think, based on the fact that he says higher. Also, since he mentions the sun I’m gonna go ahead and say this dude is a 4:20 supporter. The last two lines are about doing the nasty, I’m pretty sure. It’s a race to get the freshman virgins every semester. Really liking this Rob guy. He speaks my language.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Man, this part reminds me of this one time we were hazing this total sissy frosh pledge, and right when he was about to start crying we made him drink some goat blood. Pushed him over the edge into baby-crying. I heard his dad tried to sue the school. Totally not PTK material.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.

Okay dude, this guy lost me here when he said “marry.” I’m never getting married unless I can somehow marry myself. You know my motto: “Why buy the cow if you can buy milk at the grocery store?” I don’t care who Tarry is or how hot she is right now, she’s gonna get fat eventually and I’m not going to waste my “prime” on that.

In conclusion, me and Robtastic were on the same page, but then he performed a Rob-erry on me and stole the broness from this poem in favor of being whipped. Two thumbs down.

PTK 4 Lyfe!

CHAD

Saturday night in early June in Southern California, guess what I did?  If you guessed: attended an impromptu Miley Cyrus concert, rode around Sunset Boulevard in a limo, and danced in an over-sized Taco Bell that’s been converted into a night club, you would be wrong.  That was Friday night.  On Saturday, I was sitting at home watching a mini marathon of Bravo’s “The Real Housewives of New Jersey” and losing faith in the future of mankind.

As has been well documented on this site, I am a big fan of trash reality television (Girls Next Door and Shot at Love w/ Tila Tequila being my two favorites).  Trash reality helps us all feel better about ourselves by presenting us with “real” people who, though rich, are less intelligent than the average iPod shuffle (2nd generation or newer).  They are the cable television equivalent of laughing when an old person falls down, and heaven knows we need that kind of humor now more than ever, what with the economy and all.

What I am not a fan of, however, are reality shows that document the utterly uninteresting, thoroughly commonplace lives of people who happen to be wealthy.  I am of course referring to The Hills and all their spin-offs.  I don’t give a damn about the inter-gender drama going on in the local high school cafeteria .  Should I care about the same drama just because it’s happening in Beverly Hills?  This same “gawk at the rich” format afflicts “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.”  They spend hours talking about who’s cheating on whom, who’s been a bitch to whom, and who bought what with what credit card.  There is, however, one notable and disturbing difference.  The protagonists are moms.  Which means they have kids.  Which means they are not only making a circus of their own lives, they are also erasing any hope their children might have of staying out of rehab.

For those of you unfamiliar with the trash TV scene, TRHoNJ is the fourth in an ongoing Bravo series, which films wealthy housewives in swanky neighborhoods across America – from Orange County to Manhattan – while they spend their husbands’ money and compare boob jobs.  As a side note, the fact that the New Jersey show does not feature any families living in meatpacking plants or atop heaps of industrial waste immediately calls the show’s “real” aspect into question.  These Carmela Soprano clones are hardly “real housewives” and the parallels with the mafia matriarch serve only to create the false hope that they might get gunned down by a rival goomba.

But I digress.  Since these women are all mothers, a fair portion of the show depicts their interactions with their children.  As you might expect these women all “love their families more than anything in the world.”  To that end they are more than happy to take their 12 year-old daughters shopping for thongs, get their 7 year-old daughters signed with modeling agencies, openly discuss their failing marriages in front of their kids, and basically do their best to ensure all their children will be pregnant by the age of fifteen.  And the cameras eat it up.

These are women who are operating, both mentally and socially, on the level of  the average American eighth grader, yet here they are, charged with nurturing another human being to adulthood.  Their parental competency is only slightly higher than that of the three drunks in “The Hangover” who wake up to discover a baby in their hotel room’s closet.  At least in the movie, the baby gets returned to its real family.  No such luck for the Jersey kids.

As stated above, I have no problem with people who volunteer to be America’s court jesters.  Reality TV exists to shine a spotlight on all that is excessive, petty, and pathetic in modern Americana, and I – from a purely ethnographic standpoint – am thankful for it.  If Nick Lachay and Jessica Simpson want to film the first two years of their marriage and then act surprised when they get divorced, that’s their business.  If Heidi Montag wants to make her existence the punchline to a joke, so be it.  This is America.  It is their right.   But when kids get dragged into the picture, it suddenly seems less amusing and just plain irresponsible.

In celebrating the gaudy, vacuous lives of this clique of money-pits with breasts, Bravo cannot help but focus on the fact that these women are terrible parents.  Bad parenting makes good television and the parents and producers are happy to exploit it.  But let’s not forget that, with the possible exception of a mid-pregnancy crack habit, there is nothing more destructive to a child’s future than a television camera.  And yet on rolls the Real Housewives series.  Now in it’s fourth season.  For that reason, I have commenced an indefinite boycott of the Bravo channel.  I can handle a television channel stealing three hours of my Saturday night.  I cannot handle one undermining the future of my race.   I will not be an enabler to our extinction.

That is all.

So tell me, how would you best classify the male protagonist in the previous scene?  A social misfit? A sad, lonely little man?  A creepy, potentially dangerous predator?  Wrong, wrong, and mostly wrong. He is nothing more than an overly-imaginative Everyman engaging in a bit of harmless people watching.

One need not look far to uncover a proud practitioner of this ubiquitous hobby these days. Apart from an unwavering infatuation with The Office, and a ravenous hatred of George Bush, there are few things that unite the American populace like people watching. Everyone loves it. Everyone does it. Everyone thinks it’s normal.  Purportedly normal people flock daily to shopping malls, public parks, beaches, and nursing homes to gawk at strangers for hours on end. They pretend to read newspapers and occasionally wear dark sunglasses and baseball caps so that – unimpeded – they might take in the varied and quixotic wardrobes and body types ambling by.  Amusing?  Absolutely.  Normal?  I’m not so sure.

Now, I’m not here to cast stones, or to judge (lest I be judged), or to be a Pharisee, or to ignore the plank in my own eye, or anything like that. I freely admit to willfully and gleefully engaging in people watching. (Usually at night. Often with the aid of binoculars.) This, however, is because I am an exceptionally creepy person.  See, it is not so much the act of watching people that upsets me, it is the social support that this invasive voyeurism enjoys.  Lets face it, silently sizing up passers-by while imagining what their lives are like is a creepy thing to do, yet society does not heap scorn upon the unashamed perpetrators of this pastime as it does other creepy people.

It strikes me as a bit paradoxical that a citizenry as fiercely private as America’s can – in the same breath – decry the evils of the Patriot Act and gush about the inbred family of homeschoolers they observed at the state fair. What is the Patriot Act, if not tax-payer funded people watching? It’s hypocritical. Why is it okay for us to gape at the theatrical homosexuals frolicking down the river walk when it’s not okay for the government to monitor their plot to destroy American values? How can the same girls who sit at outdoor cafes ogling guys from behind dinner plate sized sunglasses get upset about the “lurkster” in the shadowy corner of the bar who has been watching them all night and will probably follow them home? How can people embrace reality television, yet get upset at my attempts to secretly, yet tastefully, film their private lives?  What’s the difference? We’re all creepsters. Why is it that only some of us are subject to social ostracism?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. Maybe no one does.  My intent today was simply to illuminate the hypocrisy of the “people watching phenomenon.”  It seems an unjust inconsistancy in our national conscience, and I felt compelled to address it.  Perhaps you will discover your own answers to these questions the next time you find yourself sitting at the airport or installing a two-way mirror in your bathroom.  Perhaps not.  Whatever happens, I hope no one feels compelled to give up people watching on my accord. That would be tragic.  I hope only that you all feel deeply ashamed every time you do it.