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How the Hell Do You Seque from ‘Air Conditioners’ to That?!

You know, sometimes I worry about people’s sense of priorities. I’ll give you an example.

I installed an air conditioner in our bedroom over the weekend. As I was flipping through the instruction manual, laughing and snorting at the way you’re ‘supposed‘ to do it — yeah, ‘screwdriver‘… riiiiiiiight — when I came across the following warning about the power cord:

‘Improper use may result in death, fire, or electric shock.‘

Really? Death. Fire. And electric shock. In that order? Because that really steals the thunder away from a horrible, painful electocution, don’t you think?

I mean, sure, normally the prospect of having six million volts of hot blue love shooting up my fingers and out my ass would be… well, unsettling, at least. Frightening, even. I can envision some pants-wetting happening there, just at the thought of it.

But really, now — after you’ve hit me with ‘death‘ and ‘fire‘? Dude. Bring that ‘shock‘ bullshit on. I don’t care — me and my smoldering, charred corpse could give a shit about ‘electric shock‘. Clearly, if you want me to worry about ‘electric shock‘, you should be putting that shit at the beginning of the list, not at the end, after the lethal stuff. That’s just foolish.

See, I think it ought to be ‘electric shock‘ first, then ‘fire‘, and finally ‘death‘. Right? Build that shit up — everybody knows a good electical hazard warning has to have some suspense. You wanna be sitting there, thinking:

‘Damn… ‘electric shock’? Shit, that would hurt — ain’t no way I need my undies melted to my ass. Still, if that’s the worst that —

Whaaaaa? ‘Death’?!? Goddamn, these people are serious! Why the hell would they sell me an air conditioner with some sort of death-dealing homocidal cord attached to it? I’m just trying to stay cool and keep my ass sweat-free — I’m not signing a goddamned suicide pact. Screw this — I’ll buy a fan. Shit.‘

Okay. Maybe that’s a little much. But you get the idea. Priorities. Suspense. Build it. Honestly, you don’t go out on a date and tell a woman:

‘Hi there! I’ve got one enormous penis! And I’m loaded! Oh, and hey, your hair looks nice, too.‘

See? It just doesn’t look right. You save the big guns till the last. And then, if you don’t need ’em, you save ’em for a rainy day. It’s simple. First, the ‘nice hair’. Then, if you need it, the gobs of money. And then — and only then — do you bring in the huge honking trouser Howitzer. And if you’re already ‘in’, then you save that for a rainy day. Or a moonlit night. Or a drive-in movie. You get the idea.

Anyway, where the hell was I?

Eh. Screw it. In other news, Scrubs is on. I’ve tried to watch Scrubs before — I feel like I should like it, after all — but you know, I just can’t get into it. It’s too silly, or snarky, or something. We just don’t click.

But damn. I mean, DAMN. Christa Miller and Heather Graham? Holy Christ, people. Are the producers sleeping under my damned bed, jotting down the names I moan in my sleep, or what? Shit.

(Just kidding, honey. I only have the dreamy-time eyes for you. Kisses, now!)

Anyway, we should find out in a couple of weeks whether those fuckers really are spying on me and putting hotties on the show just to get me to watch. ‘Cause if they are, we’ll all be treated to a guest spot from Allyson Hannigan wearing a bubble wrap bikini and toying around with the defibrillation paddles. Ooh. Baby.

I’ll tune in if you will. Just don’t tell my wife. Shhhhh.