The Decline… er, Recline of Western Civilization
The end is nigh. No, I’m not talking about “the Nae Nae,” a new Kardashian app, or Donald Trump. No, I’m referring to a much more reliable harbinger of the end times—that’s right, I’m talking about the Squatty Potty.
I’m 150,000 percent sure you’ve seen this one on Facebook. Apparently it’s a good idea to squat when you’re dookin’. This is relatively uncontroversial information and I’m pretty sure I’ve had at least one proponent of Eastern medicine tell me it would prevent colon cancer or maybe it was AIDS. No, I’m pretty sure it was colon cancer. Anyway, the good people at Squatty Potty have been pumping a slickly produced commercial for their new product, which is indeed groundbreaking. Or rather was groundbreaking, the first time it was invented some 50,000 years ago. It’s called a stool.
And they’re flying off the shelves at anywhere from $25 to $80 a pop. Which of course is revitalizing the milk crate industry as they attempt to repurpose and rebrand their wares. That’s right, welcome to the future. Now line up and pay $80 for a stool.
Is there any way they didn’t agonize over choosing “Squatty Potty” over the “Stool Stool” as a name for this ingenious product?
There’s an App for That
Armed robbery suspect Dashawn Cochran is the inaugural recipient of the Butch & Sundarwin Award for criminals whose capture can be seen as either evidence of brilliant ingenuity or incredible stupidity. You see Cochran walked into a convenience store with a gun, demand all the money in the register, and then beat feet to his getaway vehicle—an Uber he had pre-hailed.
Once it was discovered that neither the driver nor the other passenger was involved in the crime, they were both released and Cochran booked on armed robbery. No comment yet from Uber, who is surely still torn on whether this is good news or bad news for them.
Shame Blue Balls
Don’t feel bad about feeling bad that Dr. Walter Palmer (aka the guy who shot Cecil the Lion, aka Satan) won’t be charged by the Zimbabwean government for his now famous hunting of the beloved animal. As I’ve previously catalogued in this very column, there’s nothing wrong with feeling righteously upset over the majestic creature’s killing.
Though this might be a great time to point out that in the end, even the Zimbabweans agreed that he basically did nothing spectacular, had all his papers and permits in order, and had simply been duped by unscrupulous guides. Putting aside for the moment that people were never really too interested in his technical legal standing so much as they were incensed by the concept of big game hunting, isn’t it sort of insane how much the Internet mob completely ruined this guy’s life and he hasn’t even done anything prosecutable?
He lost his business and remains in hiding, and in the end the only thing separating him from the thousands of other wealthy foreigners who drop into Africa annually for a weird and expensive hunting thrill is that somebody had named the lion he shot.
Sort of puts things into perspective, particularly vis-à-vis naming the frozen turkey before you cook it at Thanksgiving. Am I right? I’m looking at you, Mom…
By Sidney Reilly