The Random Yak

Clicked on the Internet this morning to see my homepage had changed to something called “iGoogle.” 

Now, I didn’t set my homepage to “iGoogle,” partly because I hate cluttered homepages (and partly because I didn’t know iGoogle existed…not that the knowledge would change my decision).  I did set my homepage to Google, primarily because most of the time, if I’m heading to the Internet I’m looking for something, and I’m not into middlemen.  That, and for all their faults Google does know how to produce a nice, clean page without a lot of clutter.  (iGoogle notwithstanding.)

I don’t particularly care whether Google wants to create a cluttered, overpopulated opportunity for individuals to customize their Google experiences.  You want ten thousand things on your screen, knock yourself out.  I do, however, care about companies that try to tell me what I want.  I detest having my homepage (or anything else on my computer … or elsewhere … ) changed without my consent and against my will. 

Not to put too fine a point on it, I loathe anyone and everyone who presumes they must know better than me what would make my life complete, and feels entitled to force me to experience their choices (however lovingly made on my behalf) without giving me the opportunity to decide what I want for myself.  (Note that this loathing compounds exponentially when it involves something I’ve already evaluated and decided I’m not interested in.)  Yet it seems society is moving increasingly in that very direction: anyone and everyone feels entitled to tell me how they think I should change.

In the past 24 hours, I have had my homepage “automatically” changed, two solicitors calling my office to tell me I need to change my telephone service, a “helpful” clerk trying to tell me why I really don’t need to plan The Random Spouse’s birthday dinner the way I’d like and an undisclosed (and fortunately unread) number of obnoxious e-mail communications trying to sell me everything from a new mortgage to miracle pills (miracle not included). 

In fact, I’m starting to suspect my “leave me alone” button is broken.  (The “personal liberty” button ain’t working too well either.)

The phenomenon isn’t new (nor is the response, if I have to speak truth), but from time to time the cage gives under the pressure and the snark breaks free.  While it’s out, let me deliver the following Friday message to the world:

I’d like to say “Google, if you change my homepage one more time I’m done with you permanently,” but we all know that’s not happening, so I’ll leave it with “Stop! Or I’ll say Stop Again!”  To everyone else:

I like my computer.  I like my office.  I’m not crazy about the telephone, but if I’ve got to have the nasty thing ringing in my ear all day I’m satisfied with the make, model and service. 

I don’t carry a mobile phone – with or without streaming video – and I don’t care about having a GPS system.  Sometimes I like being lost, because in a life full of disappointments I can appreciate the little victories – like finding my way home.  

It’s my spouse’s birthday, and I get to decide what present I buy and what dinner we’re eating, and the fact that The Random Spouse picked out both in advance doesn’t lessen the fact that I’m the one making this decision, Mr. Store Clerk, NOT you.

I know the burger and fries I’m going to eat for lunch contain enough trans-fats to drop a yak, and I’m going to eat them anyway.  Test me and I’ll follow them up with an ice cream sundae just to spite you. 

Don’t interrupt my day with your fabulous offers, your lifestyle improvements or your spurious promises of a better life filled with more hair, wine, women and song.  You don’t know my life and you don’t know me.  What’s more, you don’t actually care.  As long as you sell your miracle pill, you’ll go home to your smoke-filled room, eat your cheeseburger and fries, and watch The Biggest Loser with a bowl of ice cream and a handful of M&Ms at your side, pleased as punch that you made your quota.

I won’t buy your pill, listen to your advice or change my plans.  I will, however, make you the following deal:  you leave me alone, and I won’t actually apply for the permit for that bear pit.  I’ll remove the spikes from the traps in the yard, stop training the neighborhood dogs with solicitor-shaped dummies, and dismantle the taser I’ve set up to deliver ten thousand volts through the telephone line.  I’ll unload the trebuchets, dig up the anti-personnel mines and sell the attack dogs on eBay. 

OK, so maybe the bears are all the teddy variety and the spikes merely sticks I haven’t gathered off the lawn.  I might just think about training the dogs, and my engineering skills can’t quite accomplish a telephone taser (though you gotta admit, it would sell like hotcakes).  The trebuchets are real, though they only shoot peanuts, and although the mines are real they sit on the lawn courtesy of the neighborhood dogs … who I can’t actually sell on eBay, though I’d like to.

But if you do leave me alone, I’ll stop living in the kind of fantasy world where I could actually do all those things, and treat you with the common courtesy and respect due a human being.

Maybe.

Trackposted to The Pink Flamingo, Perri Nelson’s Website, third world county, Right Voices, and The Pet Haven Blog, thanks to Linkfest Haven Deluxe.