DIY: Genderproofing Your Home
What? Another DIY post? Wow. I must really be in the mood to be helpful.
Target, apparently a retail establishment that peddles cheaply-made crap (most of it likely sourced from overseas and presumably made with cheap labor) recently announced it was taking down gender-based signage in their stores. The new policy applies to departments like “toys” and “bedding.” Clothes, apparently, still have a long way to go, baby.
The old way of shopping worked something like this:
“Hey, we gotta get a toy for Pat. The kid is having a birthday soon.”
“OMFG! What gender is Pat? Do we even know?! That’s it, man. Game over. Stop your grinnin’ and drop your linen.”
“Whoa. Easy there. Calm down. We know what it is. Pat is currently a boy.”
“Whew. Okay. Close one. Let’s go to Target. We’ll head for the section labeled Toys For Boys. Make no mistake about it. We will not go down the aisle labeled Toys For Girls. No fucking way!”
At the store: “Now these are toys for boys. Get the erector set, Lincoln logs, Army men, flamethrower, truck nuts, 8×10 color glossy of Mike Rowe, a jumbo jar of Rambo sweat, and box of Cuban cigars.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
Now, thanks to Target, you can shop the new way:
“Oh, noes. The ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ signs are gone. Now we’re forced to choose from aisles simply labeled ‘toys.’ What are we supposed to do now? We’re gonna die!!!”
Don’t go sticking your head in an Easy Bake Oven just yet.
Remember me, the guy who applied for a job?
We got a regurgitation situation
All across the Abyssian nation
The hot new trend on this blog is to scritch up a piece of yesteryear and drag it back into the light of day. Today’s bit of regurgitated kibble comes courtesy of the Abyss “way back” archives. In fact, this was the seventh post I ever wrote. It comes back to the empty nest all the way from September 2009, also known as Abyss Launch Month.
Back then I documented my efforts (in vain) to get away from crappy e-commerce job #2. I was out schlepping around and subjecting myself to the ultimate in extreme humiliation: Going into a place of business and asking for an application form like Oliver groveling for a little extra gruel. And then filling out their endless invasive and offensive forms until your hand shrivels up into a hook hand. A hook hand!!!
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The Crass Boy Scout
Are you prepared? Here I come!
The cries of “Boycott! Boycott!” echoed from sea to denying sea.
You gotta love a free country.
The owner of a fast food chicken company sponsored a defense of marriage conference. Of course they did. The connection between marriage and chicken is self-evident. He also poured millions of his wealth into groups that oppose gay marriage.
Some who supported gay marriage had a bone to pick and cried out, “We must boycott this place!” I guess I must agree, since I’ve never partaken of the bounty of that particular establishment.
Others decried the boycotters, saying, “It’s crass to boycott based on someone exercising his right to free speech.” So they staged a restaurant appreciation day to show their support. Incidentally, that’s also known as a reverse-boycott. Hypocrites.
After their umbrage faded they regrouped to defend Christmas which was under siege of war. But these loyal foot soldiers of freedom only targeted people who truly deserved to be boycotted, such as businesses that didn’t go out of their way to include their holy phrases in advertisements.
And then I bumped into the boy scouts.
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Remember me, the guy who applied for a job?
Dear <Company>,
You recently advertised the position of <XYZ> with your company. I was excited because I’ve been a customer of yours for years (which is how I heard about the job in the first place) and it was just the sort of job I’ve been looking for. I came down and took the time to fill out your extremely annoying application form. You guys sure are thorough, but you did forget to ask for a poop sample. Then I waited.
And waited. And waited. And waited some more. Finally, I gave up. I never heard back from you. Not even the courtesy of a thank you. No phone call, not even a friggin’ rejection form letter.
Shouts from the Abyss 
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