Stuff Is Bad

One warm summer afternoon, I was shooting the breeze with a friend of mine who had just graduated from college.  He had landed a nice high tech job in Silicon Valley, and like the rest of us recent grads, had money for the first time in his life.

"I'm thinking of getting a new car."

"Oh?  What kind?"

"A Ferrari."

"Wh...seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, but then what will you get after that?  A space shuttle?"

Don't Hurry, Be Happy.

A few months ago, Fern was driving me bananas.  Every stinkin' day he would ask the same thing over and over again.

"Can you buy me a shaver?"

"Can you buy me a shaver?"

"Can you buy me a shaver?"

He did not need a shaver.  But the peach fuzz over his lip was just visible enough to convince him that he did.

Then, one day, in a moment of either weakness or generosity (I'm not sure which) I finally broke down and bought him one.  The cheapest one I could find.  He was thrilled.  And because he stopped bugging me, I was too.  At least, at first.  But then he used that dang thing five times a day.

(There is only one guy on the planet who needs to shave that often.  I won't mention names.  But you know who you are, Klip.)