Crude rage faces say it better than my words can at the moment…

…true story.

 I received a chain email yesterday:

The day that Albert Einstein

feared may have finally arrived.

Having coffee with friends.

A day at the beach.

Cheering on your team.

Having dinner out with your friends.

Out on an intimate date.

Having a conversation with your BFF

A visit to the museum

Enjoying the sights

You may have seen this already. Apparently it’s been making the rounds on a number of websites in various versions.

Whether or not you’ve seen it, though, it’s obvious that what this is is a not-so-subtle, inter-generational jab at the youth of today. And, at first blush, it has the appearance of being backed by one of the world’s foremost thinkers.

But once you dig a little deeper you quickly realize that this take on the “idiots” of today’s generation is really more of a reflection on those who perpetuate it.

Take the most obvious point, for example — the Einstein quote. It’s a fake. This is demonstrated on site after site; and really the thing that Einstein feared about technology is how dangerous it has become (in the form of things like the hydrogen bomb, for example). In fact, use of the word “idiot” by Einstein seems highly unlikely. Additionally, the quote in it’s current incarnation doesn’t seem to exist anywhere prior to 2012 (and I remember a reference to something similar dated to around 2000).

In any event, it ain’t Einstein. And you know how people could verify that? Technology, for starters!

But lets assume that the quote is correct, regardless of who said it.

A “generation of idiots”?

The pictures show kids on mobile phones — disconnected from the world around them, maybe, but what about this makes them “idiots”? Well, if a two-way interaction with a screen makes them “idiots”, what does it make the generation that precedes them?

Learning

Spending quality time

 Partay!

Yeah, that knife can cut both ways, and the older edge goes just a little deeper. Besides, the progenitors of these “idiots” are the ones responsible for making them that way (either that, or they’re a bunch of irresponsible goofs).

I also couldn’t notice the use of the acronym BFF in one of the images — something that came about as a result of the need for brevity in text-based conversations on small screens. Kind of ironic. Almost as ironic (maybe intentionally — if only it had been communicated with finesse), as one of the replies that to the thread that was broadcast back out to the email herd:

“Sad isn’t it
Sent from my “contract free” BlackBerry® smartphone on the WIND network.”

I rest my case.

The idea that Ford would easily win a re-election if ousted was making the rounds before the judgement was announced. And, of course, every fool pundit and their dog was claiming that, for sure, he would be re-elected. Hands down. No doubt.

After all, the people of Toronto love Ford and think he’s doing just a great job with everything!

Sites like Canada.com have dedicated more than one column to propping up a man who, by his own admission, can barely tie his own shoelaces. The National Post typically marches in lock-step with the Ford dictatorship, so they’re not shy about showing their own support. And, of course, the Toronto Sun might as well be called The Rob Ford Daily, though that future is uncertain since he recently turned on them.

Yup, it’s pretty much a done deal … if Ford runs again, he’s a shoe-in and his ouster will just be  a huge waste of time! Easy!

Toronto Sun poll (November 26)

Toronto Star poll (October)

Toronto Star poll (November 26)

Metro News poll (November 26)

Globe and Mail poll (November 26)

Global Toronto poll (November 26)

Globe and Mail poll (October)

Hamilton Spectator poll (November 26)

So…yeah…there you go; when it comes to Ford, the bullshit just won’t stop. The media lackeys … erm … pundits, may not have learned that lesson, but at least it looks like the voters have.

Bask in the Fordish wisdom:

The birdcage liner aimed at Toronto’s avid knuckle-draggers really outdid itself today. I am now no longer able to distinguish it from other vaunted tabloids like the Weekly World News (more interesting), or the Onion (more funny).

Story goes: dude walks up, sees other dude with bag on seat, screws up face, takes a photo, hobbles off on account of a gimpy leg. Didn’t ask for the seat, didn’t motion like he wanted to sit down, just cast a glance like, “who the hell are you to be taking up my seat with a bag?” Breaking news reported to Sun News who interview gimpy leg dude in the street; now front page of Toronto Sun and most likely running on high rotation on Sun News Network alongside the hot dog rat story.

And look, as of this post, 95 people registered their rabid displeasure at the event — that’s three times as many as the story in which a three-year-old boy kills his dad with his handgun.

The song on the P.A. system in the shop was Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train”. The place was Smoke’s Poutinerie, a tiny hole in the wall serving the generally agreed-upon definitive Canadian food consisting of fried potatoes topped with cheese curds and gravy. The recipe is pretty simple and Smoke’s doesn’t deviate too much except to add things like beef, peas, or other fitting toppings.

I stick with the tried and true peppercorn beef — sliced beef with a peppercorn gravy. Except that tonight it would be a large, for me and Sarah, with less gravy on her half.

Seemed pretty simple.

I gave my order, including two cokes and a plastic bag, to the bespectacled fellow manning the cash register and he cheerful acknowledged. After hovering over the register for what seemed like five minutes he finally managed to type in my instructions, but not before the guy in the kitchen, overhearing my request for half the gravy on half, managed to toss out some jibe about filling half a pool with only half the water.

Whatever.

I stood back for a bit, remarking on my luck at being the only one in the place. And before I could blink, my order was on the counter. Great!

“Close it up for you?”, asked cash register guy, pointing at the opened paper box of poutine.

“Umm, is that a peppercorn beef?”, I asked, noticing a complete absence of any beef on the meal. Usually the beef sits conspicuously on the top so it was hard to miss.

“Yup!”, replied register.

“And are you sure this is a large?”, I asked again, noticing that this was definitely not the large box.

“Oh, umm, you wanted a large?”, said cash register.

“Yeah, I said. But you know what? If you wanna just dump this into a large box and top it up, we can call it a day.”

This really stumped cash register guy. He stood there for a very long time, finger on his lips, deciding how best to handle the situation.

“Are you sure?”, he asked, “I only have a regular on this order.”

“Pretty sure”, I replied. “It’s for two people. But like I said, if you wanna put it into a big box and charge me the difference, I’ll by on my way.”

At this point the guy in the kitchen piped up. “How about I just put it into another regular box? If I dumped it into a big box, it wouldn’t taste as it was intended.”

“Sure”, I shrugged my shoulders, “why not?”

Back to register; “Okay? Great, so I’ll just charge you for another regular one then.”

“Umm, no”, I retorted. “I just want one large one. We can’t eat two and it’s more than I was expecting to spend.”

“Okay, so, umm, hang on a sec”, said cash register, holding up a finger. “Okay, so I’ll just charge you the difference, an extra two dollars, and we’ll get you a large one. Sound good?”

“I mean, sure, I guess. But it’s really no bother if you want to just take this one here and stick it into a large box and top it up. Really.”

“No, that’s okay. We’ll get you two regulars and charge you for a large”, replied kitchen guy, clearly the one in charge of the place.

Fine by me.

A few more minutes went by and poutine number two emerged. Except this one looked startingly different from number one — it had copious helpings of shaved beef and mushrooms (as it should).

Register held them both up to examine them. With a puzzled look on his face he remarked that they don’t look the same.

No they don’t, I said.

He called out to kitchen guy, asking if poutine number one was correct.

“What do you mean?”, replied kitchen guy.

“Well, isn’t it supposed to have beef or something on it?”, replied cash register.

I didn’t bother pointing out that I had said this at the beginning. I was really more interested in seeing how this would all play out.

“I can’t see anything from here!”, replied kitchen. “Pass it over.”

Register passed it back through the order window and under the consternated gaze of kitchen who seemed instantly to recognize that half of order number one was absent. In the meantime, I payed the difference.

A couple of additional minutes went buy as kitchen disappear behind the counter. Not sure where he went because it’s only about chest high, but he stayed there for an unnaturally long time.

Then he re-appeared and passed back a completed poutine. Both were slapped on the counter in front of me in a state of glorious completion.

“Close ’em up for you?”, asked cash register once again, beaming a “we finally did it!” smile.

“Sure”, I replied.

He did so with a little trouble (in his defense, those things aren’t easy to close), and slid them in front of me.

“There you go! Sorry for the trouble. Have a great day”, he half-waved.

“Did I order a couple of cokes too?”, I asked, not sure what the hell he’d punched into the register at this point.

“Oh yeah! Let me get those for you…and here we are. Have a good one!”

“Thanks”, I smiled. “Don’t suppose you have that plastic bag back there somewhere too do you?”

“Oh shit!”, blurted out register. He pulled one out and slapped it on the counter, red-faced. I thanked him again, bagged my dinner (at that point I decided it would be asking too much), and left Smoke’s.

“Crazy train” was just finishing up as I left the premises.