Pet Peeves and Bad Ideas

Yesterday I discussed some really good ideas. Today I venture onto the other side of the tracks. The side where bad ideas are manufactured like Ugg boots in a Chinese factory.

Facial Tattoos

There are a select few times in my life that I have thought tattoos were a good idea. One of them was on Friends, when Rachel got a tattoo and didn’t tell Ross about it and [insert every other plot of Friends here]. In the end, of course, Ross finds out about the tattoo, “unexpectedly” (did you really not see that coming?) likes it, and the two of them rush off to the bedroom to do what couples do in the bedroom on sitcoms (more on that in a second). I thought Rachel’s unseen tattoo was really sexy, mostly due to Rachel being really sexy (this was when she wore skirts every episode and wasn’t cigarette-thin).

The other time, in completely different context, was the other day when I was watching an episode of Entourage. There’s a pool party scene, and Eric, the puny manager, is shown with a small tattoo on his left pec. Dude looked pretty tough. As a fairly puny guy myself, I thought, hey, I could be perceived as being tough merely by having a small tattoo on my chest. Of course, I’m much too wimpy to ever get a tattoo, and I’d probably get a mole in the way and transform an otherwise manly tattoo—let’s say, a lion—into a completely feminine tattoo—let’s say, a scented candle riding a unicorn.

Despite those two examples, I cannot for the life of me fathom why anyone would ever get a facial tattoo. That’s just a horrible, horrible idea. It’s permanent—even if you get it “removed,” you’re always going to have some weird scarring there—it’s on your face, meaning that people will see it when they’re looking at your face, and you will forever be pulled aside while going through airport security. Please, people, have some common sense and don’t get facial tattoos.

Conveniently Placed Covers When Couples Lie in Bed on Sitcoms

There’s a standard camera position on the set of every sitcom that has the camera resting on the ceiling looking down at the bed. We’ll call it the Coital Camera (post- or pre-; it’s used for both). When the couple is in the bed, their nakedness is insinuated by bare shoulders and maybe a bare chest on the guy. However, for some odd reason, the covers are always conveniently placed so they cover up all parts of the person that can’t be shown on television. I know sitcoms aren’t supposed to be realistic, but you’re telling me that after a healthy romp in the sack, each person is going to carefully rearrange the covers say that none of the body parts that were used just seconds before are visible to the other person?!

Sitcom producers, here’s a little insight: Watch an episode of Survivor. On any given episode, a woman will pop out of her swimsuit or a guy will bare a little crack. Instead of cutting footage of those incidents, the Survivor editing team (supervised by Jeff Probst) blurs over the sensitive images. Viola! Problem solved. Give this a try on sitcoms—show the couple lying there completely (and not necessarily attractively) naked, and blur over the franks, beans, teats, and wombs. Show us the true aftermath of sex.

Internet Outages

Today I was ready to make dinner when I decided to check my fantasy baseball stats one more time. This was around 6:20 in the evening. However, when I refreshed my Yahoo page, that dreaded “you ain’t got no internet” message came up on Internet Explorer. I refreshed again. Nothing. I asked my computer to diagnose the problem. The results came back negative.

Even though I literally had no other use for the internet and wanted to go eat dinner, I could not let go of this problem. The fact that I had no internet was gnawing away at me, eroding my will to dine. I had to fix it. I had to get internet.

I recently watched a Southpark episode about this very same issue. I think Caroline said it was based on The Grapes of Wrath. It was really funny, and completely true. The internet goes out across America, and people start moving out west in search of internet. They crave it. They displace their families for it. They sell their souls for it.

I’m not saying I’d go that far. My pet peeve is equal parts disappointment that my cable company took away my internet for 45 minutes and equal parts disappointment that I spent—wasted—45 minutes refreshing and diagnosing and closing and opening in vain. Ugh.

Tomorrow: Something about 30 Rock, The Office, Survivor, or Lost, whichever is better. Why is all television on Thursday?