If you’re
growing more uneasy about how public everything you do and say has become, I’m
here to help. This column nearly ended right here, because I’m not in the habit
of attempting the impossible.
I’m old
enough to remember a time when “Big Brother is watching you” meant that I had
to spend the day babysitting my younger siblings. Now, I’m not here to wax
nostalgic about how life used to be less complicated because it was, but I
think that’s where we’re headed.
(IMPORTANT
SIDEBAR: Just so you all know, except for what I’m doing right this second, I
don’t “text,” and I can’t even think about anyone who will text while they are
driving. They apparently missed that Sir Isaac Newton class on what happens
when a dumb object meets an immovable one.).
There are
ways on the internet (I’m not telling you how, because that would make me an
accomplice in fanning the flames of your paranoia) to not only see where you
live, but to click along a photo-logue of your street to your house. I’ve just
done it to myself, and yep, there’s my front door, my tippy porch chairs, my
snowplow-flattened hydrangea, and the neighbor’s dogpoop on my lawn for everyone
in the world to see. Looks like I’m not home, but let’s see if you are:
Aha! I see
you! It seems that my friend Ray still hasn’t hauled away that rusting lawn
tractor, Betty really needs to get after those rain gutters, and Teresa has a
new birdfeeder. And, hey, Robert! So, you can afford a new roof, but where’s
that fiver you owe me?
Uneasy enough yet?
I’m
thinking about where I went today, and I conservatively estimate that I was
photographed at least 100 times. A simple walk through one downtown and a drive-through
another for a few errands, and tonight I’m a star in the video highlight vaults
of stores, banks, town halls, post offices and parking lots.
There’s now
undeniable hard on-camera evidence that I like pizza with extra cheese, I took
TWO Hershey’s kisses from the bank teller’s bowl, I used the bathroom at
Wal-Mart, and I didn’t return my shopping carts to the corrals. There’s also a
strong presumption of proof that I had too much coffee this morning before
leaving the house, because I also used the bathroom at the town hall and the
supermarket.
I’m
recklessly assuming that I was only filmed entering said bathrooms, and not
while I was in there. If I was, you’ll notice that I did wash my hands and put
the seat down.
Personally,
I’m not worried about being spied upon by the USA. We’ve been assured that this
is not happening, and that just because Uncle Sam has the ability to eavesdrop
on our phone calls, he wouldn’t. I don’t care. If fighting terrorism and world
peace can only be achieved by my government spending 20 minutes listening to me
trying to enunciate clear enough for my electric company’s crappy voice
recognition software to understand what “YES…I…PAID” means, that’s fine with
me. Spy away.
Sorry, but
unless you’re willing to get rid of your computers, credit cards, automobiles,
bank accounts, licenses, phones, utilities, mortgages and jobs, you’re forever
now in the roving eye of public domain and I can’t help you (mission impossible
accomplished).
Still, the
government is a rookie sleuth compared with the advertising biz. There are
people out there devoted to discovering that I’m a creamy not chunky peanut
butter kind of guy, then filling my spambox with creamy peanut butter offers, which
then generate a counter-offensive from their own chunky division.
And, as
this information is out there being sold and re-sold, the inevitable jelly ads
start to roll in.
I also
expect, now that I’ve gone public about my bathroom breaks, that the coffee
coupons aren’t far behind.
* * * * *
Senior Wire News Service syndicated humor columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes
from Bethlehem, NH. Copyright 2017, all
rights reserved. Used here with
permission. You may contact him here via this blog. His new book: "DEAR WITBONES" -- Ask A Humorist! is now available on Amazon, via Kindle and Paperback, and via his
blog at witbones.com.
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