by by Gillian Brassil, Jonah Delmar, Tarah Knaresboro, Kaela Myers, Katie Okamoto & John Szymanski

illustration by by Drew Foster

Things, historically speaking, go badly when only one person is allowed to have an opinion. It’s how dictators happen, and Hugo Chavez’s variety TV show. Ask any Fukuyama enthusiast and he’ll tell you, maybe spitting a little, that democracy is the way to go and democracy is the way it will inevitably be. This week, Indy Opinions fulfills that ethnocentric, problematic destiny and brings you, citizen, not one but several little tirades.

Objection to the mechanics of pants
I object to getting stuck in my pants when I try to take them off while wearing my autumnal boots. This happens. I like to change pants over the course of a day, but the boots are comfortable, and I’m also in a hurry. My choice to not remove the boots prior to removing the pants demonstrates that I value my time and the clean efficiency with which I can achieve my goals. I seek to eliminate redundancy. If I am going to put on my boots
again, they ought not to be removed at all. It is therefore a cruel irony that circumventing the re-shoe inevitably leads to a difficult and frustrating situation. My feet become stuck inside of my pants and my mobility becomes impaired. Please do something.

Objection to how you all dress
Do you remember when we first met, Brown? I remember thinking that you were more than just smart and a good financial match: you were a pretty face. But now you’ve really let yourself go. Always wearing your Ugg boots and your Northface. It’s like you’re perpetually going to the gym, but you’re not going to the gym. I’m not saying, “Get fit, Brown!” What I’m saying is, “Class it up, Brown.” I want to see you sharply dressed, looking good,
stomping around the Ratty in your thigh-high boots. So get with it, Brown. Bring the fashion back. Bring the sexy back. I know we can rekindle the flame.
Sartorially, and with love,

Objection to objections to winter
At some point this semester, it will probably get pretty damn cold out. When this happens, please put on a coat. Use long underwear when prudent, mull up some cider, and eat something hearty. Just don’t complain about the weather. Old man winter can hear you, and like the prankster uncle who comes around every Thanksgiving to get your goat, he feeds on your weakness. If you show any cracks in your shell and let him know he’s getting to you, the bombardment will continue. The cold winds will blow through, bringing frigid sleet down your neck to your most tender interiors. Seal off the cracks! Layer yourself with insulation! Stoke your internal fires with fatted meats and spiced toddies! Comfortable in your seamless cocoon of animal warmth, you may stride effortlessly with proud-beating heart through the depths of a season now bored with its fruitless attempts to chill your bones. You may even find yourself exuding extra warmth, radiating through to the outside. It will be obvious from out

Objection to time
I object to time. Sometimes it drags you like water whirling into the maw of the cracken. Appointments with important people or medical specialists are like this. Other times, you can’t get time to pick up its peg leg and hobble through the boredom hours. This happens when you’re reading Melville, trapped on a boat listening to men with salt water dried in their chest hair talk about whales, or on blind dates. Therefore, I object to time.

Objection to the editor of Malcolm Gladwell’s August 10th piece in The New Yorker
I don’t know who you Yanks have been talking to, but the proper placement of the apostrophe in “y’all” is most certainly not between the A and the L. It’s rare enough that this gem of a word enters your hallowed pages, so in those brief, beautiful moments when it’s allowed to sully your frou-frou prose, let it have its day. Y’all is the buttermilk-drenched back-of-the-throat copulation of you and all, you plus all, Y + ALL, so toss that apostrophe ’twixt the letters where it belongs. Yes, I’ve read those pseudoetymologies justifying the disgusting mid-word cleft: “It could be a contraction of ye and aw!” Explain to me, please, how Y-E-A-W becomes the sanctified Y-A-L-L, and further: do I look like I’m talking to ye aw? Was Jim Folsom, good ol’ boy that he was, saying “Ye aw come” when he spoke to huddled crowds? No, he was speaking to you all, all y’all, every last one of you goddamn sorry souls, so kindly lay down your mangled contraction and raise the almighty apostrophe high between the Y and the A; let it hang in the sultry air of Southern hospitality.

Objection to automatic staplers
Thank you very much for trying to make my life easier. I really appreciate it. You’re so nice. A lot of times I sit around, thinking about all the essays I have to write, the tests I have to study for, and the papers I need to staple, and I think to myself, “Wouldn’t life be so much simpler and less chaotic if someone or something could do my stapling for me?” Stapling, is, after all, a really strenuous and difficult task, and sometimes if I have to staple too many papers all in a row, like maybe I need to deliver an essay I wrote to 10 whole people, and my stapling muscles become utterly exhausted. It’s horrible. But you, Friend Automatic Stapler, you solve all my problems! Who cares if you sometimes (all the time) prematurely e-staple-ate and make my lab report look like recycle bin vomit? Who cares if you sometimes (all the time) make terrifying noises that aggravate my startle reflex? Who cares if you are a terrifying, metal-spitting beast? You are saving, literally, multiple milliseconds of my time. Because isn’t the whole point of an automated object to do things that are actually difficult for humans to do? You’re delightful. So is your buddy the auto-flush toilet, who is considerate enough to attempt to flush me down at times (premature e-flush-ulation) in its youthful eagerness to get its job done. You are both adorable. Keep automating things that are so terribly hard for humans to do, world.

Objection to space (in a middle school gym)
I object to space. Sometimes there’s too much of it and he’s on the other side and not looking and she’s there, too. Wobbling around him, too close, smelling like an idiot, as is her custom. That’s not remotely watermelon. Permeating your mall trips. It’s too far to walk there and taxi drivers are unreliable men. Five calls mini-mum. This is an example of distance. Mom’s needing their space from Alan because he is distant, you’re not a child anymore OK? Don’t look at her when she comes in at night to arrange your curtains and mutter the things she’ll say at the window. And would somebody tell me who lets Mr. Werner chaperone even though he looks at everyone’s butts, leans to see our papers, bucking and hemming with breath down his chin until there’s far too little space and I object to it all.
—Anonymous B’19