The Egg? Really?

It saddens me greatly to have to admit that one of my favorite—indeed, iconic—sources of information has been unmasked as just another hallowed American institution that seems to think that truth is nothing just another bug to be pitilessly squashed on the sidewalk of corporate advancement.

It’s not that this is a rare occurrence anymore. The media, taking their cue from their own main source of fodder, the federal gummint, has for years been playing with, pandering to and outright lying at consumers of their product. But they have now gone too far.

A recent article on CNN’s web site brought this to my attention. Turns out that the egg came before the chicken, which means that Playboy’s cartoon years ago featuring a smug chicken and a dissatisfied egg laying side-by-side in post-coital stupor was poorly researched at best, a deliberate attempt to mislead the public at worst. (The egg is mumbling “guess we answered that question.”)

Rush Limbaugh lying? Okay. The New York Times plagiarizing? Fine. But Playboy?

I suppose—in this era of exemplary researcher and prose craftsman extraordinaire Dan Brown and his brilliant exposés of the Illuminati, Opus Dei and other malevolent organizations—that I shouldn’t be surprised at this sort of finagling with the truth. Still, it’s a little like finding out that not only isn’t Santa Claus real, but he was made up by, say, evil extraterrestrial gremlins (perfectly shaped to slide down chimneys) with the intent of having gullible parents and lobbyists gather booty into easily collectible bundles once per Earthling year.

And it’s been going on for years, is the thing. This is not just Jason Blair making stuff up to justify his expense account or Rush Limbaugh flagrantly misquoting Patrick J. Fitzgerald; this goes way deeper than that, right to the core of American history.

We may never know all the lies, all the half-truth, all the evasions we’ve been spoon fed by the media and the government, but I will say this: At least we have Dan Brown.

Common Sense and Courtesy

I have come to the conclusion that we’re simply not as much fun as we used to be. We’re far too busy. I suppose, in a world gone mad (and I wouldn’t argue with you if you described us that way), there is little to grin about.

I hang out sometimes in a restaurant and bar a mile or so down the road from my house. Like most such places in this area, it is primarily staffed by what my father would have called “the younger crowd.” One of the crowd is a busperson, an attractive young lady who has, for my money anyhow, one of the prettiest smiles I have ever seen, the kind of smile that melts hearts, causes birds to suddenly appear and fosters a belief in Powers-That-Be. I have seen this smile a half-dozen times at most. And while I understand that cleaning up plates and wiping down tables is not the sort of activity that creates an overabundance of joy in most people, I find this paucity of pearly whites distressing.

Anyhow, it occurred to me that maybe this young lady is a metaphor.

I asked her about this the other night: “Cindy,” I said, even though—in long-standing tradition—that’s not her real name, “have you ever thought about the fact that you are a metaphor, perhaps, for the world-at-large, a society gone mad with multi-tasking, a world too busy and self-involved even to smile?”

“Aw, hell,” she said, “did the towels run out in the men’s room again?”

“Well,” I replied, “I suppose you could put it that way. If we take the men’s room as a symbol for the current world-state and the towels as, say, common sense and courtesy….”

She gave me a weary look. “Bill, it’s Friday night. I’m a little busy.” And sure enough, for the first time I noticed she was carrying a high chair and balancing a large tub full of dirty plates; servers and managers were calling for her from all around.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You know how I get sometimes. I just got to thinking about something and thought maybe you could help me.”

“I’d love to,” she said earnestly, “but your timing could be better. Maybe tomorrow?” She arched an eyebrow and gave me one of her nuclear grins.

I nodded, I think, thoughtfully. “Sure. That’ll be fine.”

“So what about those towels?” she asked, rearranging her grip on the tub of plates.

I shook my head as a very loud and proudly obese family pushed us out of their way, heading for the exit.

“The towels are fine,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, not unkindly. She headed for the back of the restaurant. “You know what?” she called over her shoulder. “You should smile more.”