by Joe Buonfiglio

America suffers from “Optionitis.”  We simply have too many options, too many choices, when it comes to “product.”

More is not always better, people.  It’s not making us happier.  It’s just making us crazier.  It is punishing our simple evolved-monkey brains and we make horrible decisions as a result.  It is why we do otherwise inexplicably dumb shit such as pick an outlet to receive our daily news based on the attractiveness of the news anchor and side with a political party with an agenda that works against our own self-interests.  We know in our hearts that simplification of our lives — downsizing and, quite frankly, just getting rid of shit — is the answer to most of our stress-laden problems.  Yet, we just keep piling it on until our minds are as mushy as the innards of an overcooked sweet potato.

Just look at our television-viewing options.  Do we really need all the channels on cable or dish PLUS everything streaming off of Netflix and Hulu and Amazon PLUS all the options we can download from YouTube and iTunes and and and and and….  I mean, Jesus, how many cooking shows can one person take in before they are found half-unconscious on the floor drool-mumbling about the secret to the perfect flambé dessert?  How many back-to-back pawn-shop shows can we endure before deciding to end it all by continually shoving  Willie Mays signed baseballs up our ass until we die from either internal bleeding, unforgiving constipation or cowhide poisoning, whichever rears its ugly head first.  Do we really need more than one home-shopping channel?  I don’t have any sort of inexorable desire to comparative shop my turquoise dolphin statue by channel surfing ten different networks dedicated to the “mood-ring nostalgia special” and Uncle Binky’s homemade clover honey, thank you very much.  And I like sports as much as the next guy; but when you try to take it ALL in right down to the “World Gurning Contest” — literally the sport of making and holding a silly face — it’s time for us to all don our best “Extreme Ironing” competition shirts and call it a life.

No, that’s not a joke.  I didn’t make that up.  I couldn’t be THAT creative if I wanted to be.  There really is the sport of Extreme Ironing … as in clothes … fucking ironing clothes as a competitive sport.

Bet you’ll never express disdain for the sport of Coney Island competitive hot-dog eating again, will ya’?

Hell, add all the gaming options into the “screen time” viewing mix and the sensory overload pretty much guarantees a distracted nation mindlessly and aimlessly wandering Earth unable to even decide if they want sprinkles on their doughnut or just simple glaze, let alone make the type of thoughtful decisions required for things such as jury duty or even “Duh, am I too drunk to drive with the baby in the car?”

Speaking of cars, how many fucking options do we need for auto makes and models?  For the love of God, it’s four wheels under a hunk of metal.  How about if we don’t use vehicles to flaunt wealth, show the world how much or how little we value the environment, or as overcompensation for unimpressive genitalia, and just get a simple auto option that we can use to go from fucking Point A to fucking Point B?!

You want more options?  Okay, you can get it in black, white or silver.








Hell-fucking-no, you bumblebee-lovin’ motherfucker!  Geez, what is wrong with you people?

It’s a car.  It’s just a fucking car.  Vroom-vroom.  Get me to work.  Get me to the bar.  Get me home to bed.  Wake up and get me back to work again.  I know we’re a nation of people for whom throttling a car feels better than throttling your private parts, but how many options do we need to go out to pick up a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk?

What about the countless number of options created for no other purpose than to get you off?  How many types of sex toys do you really need?  Fifty different kinds that vibrate, a hundred different types that rotate, and an infinite number of choices to insert into a bodily orifice including one big enough to brace a sagging foundation, let alone a sagging libido.  Whatever happened to get naked, kiss-kiss-kiss, lick-lick-lick, take care of business, smoke a cigarette and get some sleep?  Now there are so many options for sex with inanimate objects, perpetuating the human race with actual “real” sex could become more problematic than picking an apple at the supermarket.

Ten shades of red ones, five shades of yellow ones, two green, then there are the organic ones, the genetically modified ones, the the the….   Sex?  Please!  “50 Shades of Grey” is simplicity itself compared to deciding on an apple for your kid’s lunchbox.

Apples?  We haven’t really explored food and other groceries.  I mean, how many different brand options in toilet paper do you need?  You only have one ass.

The myriad cookies and chips and ice cream and trail mix and yogurt balls and chocolate-covered pretzels and every other mutant-hydrogenation sin against God and nature lining the aisles; it’s no wonder we’re all such fat bastards who are insulin-injection bound.  Hell, the number of different cheese choices alone could drive a person to collapse into a puddle of their own urine.  There’s even spray-cheese in a goddamn can!

Too.  Many.  Choices!  It’s a wonder this nonstop pursuit of wretched excess doesn’t lead to a nation of citizens with an inability to stop seizing every time they need to pick out a pair of shoes.

The “freedom” of choice?  More like the TYRANNY of choice, if you ask me.  I yearn for the days when the only choice you had at the single-screen movie theater was whether you wanted popcorn with or without butter.

Goobers or Raisinets?  They’re just a slippery slope to nachos and churros, my friend.

Too many blogs, you say.  You’d like to see a few less choices there.

Well, let’s not get crazy.


© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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