Being wise and observant, I am often able to spot things that are just plain wrong in the world.

What is wrong with this trash can?

I recently had the joy of using a restroom in a Fort Worth restaurant that had this informative sign taped to the trash can:

What's more bothersome about this sign: The fact that it has turned an unsettling yellow, clearly either having been peed on one too many times, or possibly left out in the rain since 1942--or the fact that it asks you to put "personal items" in it? Should I store my purse in there? My jacket? And why are all these diapers in here? I think the more common term "feminine products" would have been more appropriate. Another extremely bothersome fact is the absence of a foot pedal to open it. I would have to put my delicate hand on this disgusting lid in order to open it and stuff it with the hundreds of feminine products I regularly have in my possession--and no way am I touching that trash can. In fact, as I remember it, I don't think I was even able to pee in this particular restroom. I walked in and became so hypnotized by this disgusting little plastic trash can that I forgot I had a bladder.

What is wrong with this shit heap?

I took this photo yesterday as I sat at a traffic light. Notice the unfortunate fellow pushing his jalopy to the gas station after it shuddered to its demise halfway through the intersection.

Nothing new or remarkable about this scene--unless you look closely. I doubt my behind-the-wheel, across-the-median photography will have enough detail for you to read the windshield, but go ahead and try:

Can you read it? It says, "$600. Runs good." Perhaps the only thing more humiliating than having to push your beater car through a busy intersection is doing so while the window falsely advertises that the car "runs good."

What is wrong with this marketing scheme?

Taco Cabana, in case you've never been there, is absolutely the worst, most tasteless so-called Mexican restaurant on the planet. The food is bland and horrible. The drinks are watered-down and gross. The restaurant totally lacks personality. Up til recently, I felt the only redeeming thing about it was the fact that going there allowed me the opportunity to sing "At the Taco, Taco Cabana" to the tune of Copacabana over and over to annoy my husband. But recently, meeting my inlaws there for a forgettable meal, I discovered there is one other upside. You can buy roofies there for $1.99. They may be small ones, but you can't argue that the price is a fair one.

What is wrong with Marion Barry's mother?

Recently I purchased a big bag of yummy frozen berries from Costco. Since I was just going to use them in milkshakes at home, I didn't really care what kind of berries they were, so I didn't bother to read the bag til I got home. Upon idle inspection while my blender whirred away, I spotted this on the front of the bag:

Some of you know-it-alls are going to call me a big dum-dum for having never heard of anything called a marionberry, but I swear this is my first time seeing that word. I've always wondered why Marion Barry's mom would be so cruel as to name her son Marion, and I assumed it was either because she never wanted kids in the first place, or because she simply had a natural, healthy hatred for men. Now I realize she was simply a great lover of berries, and felt that naming a child Rasp Barry would be too unconventional. Little did she know what an unconventional mayor he was going to turn out to be. (Or would it be fairer to say he was an unconventional crack addict? Either way.)


What is wrong with this toilet?

I demand to know who thought of this design. The little flusher thing is a big, extremely hard-to-push button on the top of the tank.


This is the last thing a germaphobe wants to see in a public bathroom (well, okay--maybe the last thing after a partially decomposed corpse, a sizable pool of vomit, or George Michael looking amorous). As I've pointed out before, I go to acrobatic lengths to make it in and out of public restrooms without having to touch one single surface with my hands. This generally means flushing the toilet with my foot...which is impossible with the poorly designed fixture pictured above. In fact, because the button must be pushed way down into the uh, button-holder thing, rather than simply tapped, you can't even flush with an elbow--even a bony elbow like mine. Nor is it possible--because I've tried--to use an inkpen or something similar to push the button, because these buttons are a bitch to push down--the pen would break before the button would depress even the tiniest amount. There is no alternative but to stick your finger on the filthy thing. And sure, you can grab a paper towel and wrap it around said finger for a flimsy layer of protection, but still, I find this to be a bad, bad design. And because there's no Department of Toilet Design for me to call and lodge a formal complaint, I'll have to express my dissatisfaction in creative ways. Therefore, every time I see one of these ridiculous button-flusher toilets in a public restroom, I will silently protest by leaving a sizable pool of vomit, a partially decomposed corpse, and George Michael in the restroom when I leave.

Labels: I'm sane--the world is crazy