Liz Requested This

I know this seems like I'm video crazy, but Liz requested this. Its our favorite "Who's Life..." bit ever. Watch it, its hilarious.

I have a lot of introverted friends. I married one, I'm related to several, I can't escape them. For a group of people that are supposedly less than half of the population, they're damn persistent. Honestly, I think I'm being followed.

If you take a little peak on the internet, you can find plenty of articles written about the trials and tribulations of being an introvert. I mean, this stuff is everywhere. From books, to self-help pages, to an Introvert's Rights revolution (oh, puh-lease). Googling the phrase "Extroverts Are Awesome," actually turns up compositions written by introverts on how hard it is to be an introvert, and none written about what I searched for. So, this begs the question, why aren't there lots of extroverts out there writing about how hard (or how great) it is to be extroverted? And then it hit me: it's because we don't complain as much! So, a little black light went off above mine noggin,' and I decided to save my extroverted mates from this introverted barrage! Cue the hero music. Oooo....I'm getting of a lot of cold vibrations from the introverts out there. But, please, (as I wink and smile at you in such a friendly manner) you are the calmer and more thoughtful side of human nature, so hold the hate until I make my case, which I will do in a typical, chipper, extroverted kind of way. Because, hey, we may be the largest personality type but we just can't let all these little articles go without a fight. Someone has to ring the bell, carry the torch, jump the shark, row the bow, etc. and proclaim how great or how difficult it is to be extroverted.

I offer you what the legal profession dubs Exhibit A. Did you read that piece? And that's no blogger, either, which I felt was important, because, let's be honest, blogging is basically Whining-On-The-Internet. No, this is a Real Writer. He's writing an Intelligent Piece, but you can't sugar coat a sour personality, even with professionalism. His argument just makes you want to grab your violin and play it for him and give him the most insincere, "Boo hoo, big guy," you could ever muster, doesn't it?

Well, let's move on to Exhibit B, which I will also quote for you here: "Introvert: a person characterized by concern primarily with his or her own thoughts and feelings (opposed to extrovert)." Now, all those posts start to make a little more sense, because that definition, if you ask me, leans a little toward the narcissitic side, wouldn't you say?

So, it's hard being an introvert is it? Maybe it's just that they're all jealous? Maybe us extroverts are just too happy, and the only way to bring us down is complainin'. Look at Jesse Jackson, that's his only tactic! Well, that's what I think is going on. I don't see any dour, tired extroverts sighing and wanting to read about how to cope with introverts. What's next, support groups? Ha!

Yup, about this time I feel like poppin' my suspenders in a self-satisfied way and sitting down to enjoy some coffee. This is another case wrapped up. If you read all these posts and links you can't help but to come to one conclusion, and that is, well, duh. Of course people won't be as friendly to you if you're, you know, whiny and gripy about how opressed you are. Once again, I point to Jesse Jackson & Al Sharpton as examples. Mr. Rogers had good advice about this, he just said try being friendly! It worked for Jesus, it worked for Elwood P. Dowd, it can work for you too. Just talk to people. Hey, even pretend like your interested. Hell, I won't even charge you for this advice. After all, I'm just too damn friendly and extroverted and cheerful and I can't stand the thought of opressing you introverts one moment longer. Someone notify Jonathon Rauch. I just fixed the problem he has been pining about since he published that article three years ago.

Leroy Jenkins!

Leeeeeeerrrrooooooooy Jenkins!

Man, Are We Small!

Holy crap, we're tiny.

Cheap Treadmill Music Video Wows World

I know I'm late to the party here, but this is Ok Go's music video made on a home camera using six treadmills. It was choreographed by the singer's girlfriend (supposedly) and became one of the hottest videos of YouTube. I love it!

Daryl tugged at the clear, ill-fitting plastic gloves on his hands. The sweat always made them uncomfortable, and they always made his hands sweat.

The young man sitting on a bench watched Daryl pass, but he did not know Daryl’s name because Daryl wore no nametag. He did not need to. He was not a serviceman, or one who performs duties that require public interaction. He just pushes the steel framed cart stacked with blank cardboard boxes from lavatory to lavatory. The boxes hold generic toilet paper, and say “Bathroom Tissue” on them in bold, green lettering. This was Daryl’s job. He re-filled the toilet paper in each bathroom in this section of the concourse.

The irony of this, of course, is that I’ve told you Daryl’s name and not the young man’s. In real life, the situation was usually reversed. At least that’s how Daryl felt as he adjusted the sweaty gloves: like a nameless nobody. Daryl didn’t even refill the toilet paper for the entire concourse, only one section of it. He was not singular. He was not set apart, or priceless, or one of a kind. He tried, sometimes, to consider himself as part of a team, but mostly he felt like a nameless cog pushing a steel cart with peeling paint.

The foot traffic ebbed and flowed around Daryl’s cart. It had a pattern, much like the ocean. The wave of people would surge towards him then they would engulf him, pushing him along. He had learned to maneuver his flatbed dolly with skill, but his deft movements did not earn him any applause. On the contrary, they made him blend in. They made him disappear. The crowd did not notice precisely because he was good at not hitting them. He was good at being a cog.

This is a fact Daryl sometimes reflected upon with a feeling of loneliness, though he did not possess enough verbal acuity to articulate his emptiness. That paradox, interestingly enough, was not a thought that crossed Daryl’s mind. He was oblivious to his own limitations.

As Daryl walked by, the young man saw him transposed against the vast black nothingness of the large bay windows behind him. It was nighttime, and undeveloped fields lay behind Daryl, and against the blackness, against the void, the young man thought Daryl appeared to be at home. At this moment the boy felt lonely himself, and wondered how many times Daryl had pushed new boxes from the storeroom to the bathrooms today.

But who am I to speak for the young man, or what the young man thought when I passed him by. I assume the young man thought these things about me, because if I were the young man, I would think these things about me. Perhaps the saddest fact of all is I am not the young man, and I think these things about me now. Probably, he watched me push my cart and never stopped to even reflect on what my name might be, or what my job might be. Maybe he did, though. Sometimes I wish I knew.

I recently received an email from a friend of mine telling me to provide him with the link to "that blog" in which I "debated the color of Jesus' pants." In case you can't pick up on his little stab, he is poking fun at the very nature of the web service we so selflessly provide for you, dear reader, here at Poor Young Things.

His remarks have opened my eyes, and I see now how truly academic minds are scorned by the general public. For some reason, it is now silly to whine about and over-analyze every bit of minutiae that occurs in daily life. For some reason, he feels it's funny to mock the fact that I (or my co-writer) might, maybe, possibly spend our time debating concepts so far outside the realm of necessity that they are hard to see with the naked eye.

But, I will not be held down, unwashed masses! Oh, no. You cannot kill the party, and I, right here and right now, want to have a party: a party of intelligence. Let me unleash my mental arsenal.

As stated above, my friend casually tossed out a reference to Jesus wearing pants. Observe as I perform academia on him and his theory:

My Friend, I'm sorry to inform you that Jesus didn't even wear pants. As anyone who has ever read any important books knows, Jesus wore Jams. They are half trousers, half shorts, Friend, and ideal for the hot climate Jesus lived in. Besides that, the colorful tropical prints brought a little spice to the dull brown and khaki life of the disciples. He is, after all, the light of the world, and that's not strictly metaphorical. Picture, if you will, a wearied but happy Jesus leading his followers in a rousing round of "Kumbaya," the JesusJams emphasizing to all who gazed upon them that He is, indeed, not simply singing mere words like those Pharisee fellows down the block. No, sir. Jesus brings verisimilitude to His message. He has come to make your burden light, and the bright, rainbow Tucan bird on Jesus' leg makes you nod. "Yes," you say, "Verily, he preaches peace and happiness, and thusly he shows it unto me: behold, his Jams."

As you can see, that paragraph above represents true scholarship. So, you, sir, can take your "pants" comment you so casually tossed out and go back to the library. Around here, we bring those blue sparks, and you can observe them spewing forth from the rails as our Train of Brilliance rockets down the tracks at speeds previously thought impossible.

A.P.