I don't know if there's been some terrible misunderstanding, where you got the idea that I'd really like the prospect of coming home from work and spending my valuable free time taking part in your stupid idea about sausages, or tea, or washing bloody powder, or pretty much anything else for that matter. But here's the thing. I don't. I don't want to make a film, or draw a picture, or nominate a friend. Or compose a soundtrack or re-edit your advert. Really, I don't.
Also maddening are food magazines that insist I visit their website to get a recipe. Haven't I purchased your product already, thereby entering into an explicit understanding that you would in kind provide any and all recipes referred to within the confines of the printed, collated, and bound matter lying open before me without demanding that I perform yet another action in order to find the information I was promised?
In other news, why do some ladybloggers refer to intimate family members by names like "Husband" and "Baby," as if their home lives are a roleplaying exercise devised by a corporate human resources department? It smacks of vassalage to me, in which the womenfolk have assumed the overlord reins. Nicknames or name replacements used in the interest of privacy I understand, but something like "Husband just sold Toddler in order to finance his rooftop beekeeping venture" seems a little off the rails. By erasing given names and omitting the association provided by the simple use of "my," are they not reducing whole persons to a singular purpose defined solely by the relationship? Or maybe they're trying to be Amish.
Ack! (says Cathy), the internet is driving me bats.