High School Reunion

All over the city at the moment there are ads for a reality show called High School Reunion. The ads feature adults holding an old Polaroid yearbook photo over their face, each Polaroid™ having something written across the bottom such as ‘The Ugly Duckling’ or ‘The Football Star’. Now, at first I was very strongly against this program existing, as it seems like just another attempt by television executives to cash in on the lowest common denominator found in people by lowering the rapidly-plummeting bar another notch or two. The simple fact is that most people are fairly nervous about attending their high school reunions, as the human brain seems to have a very hard time grasping that what people think of you means pretty much nothing, especially if the people in question see you once every five to ten years, depending on how often you all bother to show up at functions organized by your old high school class. But people approach these things with apprehension, desiring to put on a show to impress some panel judges that never reveals itself. By making this show, the television producers are hoping that this irrational fear will get people to watch their program, turning a base horror into money via a process far more evil than alchemy. But then I thought about the Polaroids™ over the faces in the ads, and I realized that everyone in the world can be lumped into narrow, easily-recognizable categories, as these advertisements suggest. So I guess it’s all okay.

Why Not?

This one time, when I was quite a bit younger (Probably around 8. I'm not really sure), I went to a local attraction we had in the next town over from me called Santa's Land (How this place stayed open is beyond me. My town had about 1200 people living in it, and we were not exactly half an hour away from a thriving metropolis. Maybe they sold coke in the elf workshop or something). Anyway, this place was basically a mini zoo, with a very limited animal selection (Holy (word)! Deer! Just like in the woods!) and some simple Christmas-themed attractions, as well as a mainly breakfast-based restaurant called the Igloo Pancake House (Whose primary menu item was chocolate chip pancakes with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, served with pure maple syrup (At least this is what I always ordered. Hey, I was eight). It's a wonder I'm not diabetic). The two things they had that could not be considered entirely native to the region in the zoo-ish area were lemurs and a camel. One of these was significantly more exciting than the other. But there is only so much capering about a small enclosure one can watch before it becomes stupefying, so after a while I would inevitably drift over to the camel pen to watch the severely bored animal walk around and poop. But this day was not like the others. For on this day, I walked over and the camel had a steely glint in its eye, a look of resolve plastered across its snout (Or whatever you call a camel's face). As I approached the fence, it approached me from the opposite side, until we were a mere ten feet apart. And that is when the camel reared back its head and spit on my shirt. And that's why I hate camels.