So it’s going to be a busy week. It would be in my best interest to get this column written so that I can move on to the next thing and try and get ahead.
So what am I doing instead?
I’m reading a story on the Internet about how the human brain loves procrastination. Stupid brain! It’s always getting in my way.
Also, my stupid brain is preoccupied with this whole Trump impeachment thing. The senate has just acquitted him. The result of this is that my Facebook newsfeed is exploding like a supernova. If there were a way to convert anti-Mitt Romney vitriol into fuel, I’d have enough to power the entire earth for the next three centuries.
Unfortunately the vitriol to energy conversion formula has yet to be invented. I guess I could get on that, but the whole reason I went into journalism is because my brain hates math.
Also, my brain is divided at this point. Part of it wants to believe that Romney voted according to his conscience. The other part assumes a guy who was part of the plot to destroy KB Toys has no conscience. Seriously, I haven’t had a reason to go to a shopping mall since 2002 thanks to Bain Capital.
One thing I can’t afford to procrastinate at this point is to reiterate that even though I occasionally use terms like “senate,” “congress” and “unwanted sexual advances” this is not a political column. The last time I mentioned the word “impeachment,” someone got really busy and started sending us faxes — hundreds of pages of them.
The most definitive political stance I’ve ever taken here is the time I made the case for Transformers being better than Gobots. That wasn’t even controversial, because everyone knows Gobots suck.
So this fax onslaught makes no sense.
All of these faxes were printed off of the Internet. Which means rather than just pushing a button and forwarding me this stuff on email like a normal person would do in 2020, someone out there took the time to print it out, and fax it to me a page at a time. Whoever this was spent a lot of time and effort for my benefit. I almost felt guilty when I threw it all away.
“What!? How dare you?” one might ask.
I have this little rule. If you’re not willing to put your name to something, I really don’t care about it. It’s not my fault. That’s just how my stupid brain works. In all these pages of wasted fax paper, there was not one cover sheet indicating whom this was from, or why they were sending it to me.
I mean sure, if you’re afraid you’ll lose your job because you’re feeding me information about a local elected official stealing office supplies, cheating in a fantasy football league or kicking puppies, of course I will hold your identity in confidence. I’d be obligated to do so, even if it meant I had to go to jail to protect you as a source, which according to the liberal media is the dream of all true journalists.
However, if you want me to distribute your political views without accountability for you … [insert buzzer sound here] … wrong.
Were they trying to educate me on impeachment? Convince me that Adam Schiff is the devil? Or where they trying to show me the inherent bias of right wing media sources? I really don’t know.
Besides, it was a little upsetting for the fax machine to come alive like that. I don’t think anyone has sent or received a fax since about 2002. Our secretary is still having heart palpitations from the scare it gave her.
How would you feel? This dead lump of plastic suddenly starts spitting out page after page of copyright protected information.
I was going to send a get well soon card to her, but I’ve been procrastinating. Follow David Anderson on
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