One of the cool things about writing a weekly column is you can fool yourself into thinking it's art ("Like the writers before me, I need to share my thoughts with the world.") or commerce ("At least on a part-time basis, it's my job to bring this to people's attention.") when, in reality, it's just me complaining.
Man, have I got it made, or what? I mean, very few of you get to subject anyone but your immediate, eye-rolling family to your rants, and I get to do it weekly on the editorial page of an actual newspaper! The First Amendment -- incredible, or really, REALLY incredible?"
And while I usually resist the urge to turn this into a weekly version of Festivus (obscure "Seinfeld" reference; feel free to Google it), I've got a grievance and you all are going to hear about it.
So, when did receipts start consisting of as many pieces of paper as your average home mortgage?
I mean, we live in a virtually paperless society. I get a paycheck, but I never actually see it (literally and figuratively, but that's another grievance) since it's directly deposited into my bank. I don't write checks since I have a debit card. I pay bills online, go online to see what I paid, realize I paid the wrong thing out of the wrong account, try to un-pay it, have to contact the Call Center in Mumbai, sit on hold for 30 minutes and then determine that, no, they don't' even know where my money went, but since the lights are still on, Skynet must have figured things out.
To the certainty of death and taxes, add that you can file and pay your taxes online. I can browse for a book, buy the book, read the book and lend the book to a friend and never actually touch the book, because it's all online.
I can read this paper online.
We don't even get the "paper" option at the grocery store. It's all "plastic," now. And, while I'm technically not a "tree-hugger," I'm about as tree friendly as someone can be without being a Lorax.
Then I make the mistake of buying something or paying for dinner and I might as well be Paul Bunyon.
Take, for instance, the other day. The lovely Mrs. Smith decided we needed to reward a couple of folks (or buy them off; I can't remember which) with gift certificates to a fast-food restaurant. So I was charged with the actual purchase of the gift cards, which I did with a debit card.
Now I want you to stop and think about that. I used a plastic card to buy other plastic cards. No physical money, therefore no paper, was exchanged. When the folks we give these cards to use them, no physical money will change hands. That's about as paperless a transaction as you can imagine.
Which doesn't explain why I wound up with 27 receipts. That's a receipt for each card, even though I bought them together, plus a receipt that showed I paid for them, plus a confirmation of the total, plus a warranty/instruction manual for the card's use, plus a disclaimer in the event someone actually used the cards for unhealthy food and got sick, plus a copy of the Magna Carta because it was Important British Documents Month (OK, that's a complete lie), plus a list of upcoming special events and promotions, an offer for a strange fried cheese thing made into a quasi-ethnic dish by the addition of a vowel at the end of the name and, finally, an invitation to take a survey about my customer experience. Online, of course. Apparently, taste may be dead in the fast food industry, but irony lives.
At this rate, when you go through the drive through, you're going to get a bag filled with your food and another filled with your receipts. The fact that the nutritional value will be virtually the same is probably a conversation for another time.
Now, I'm sure there's some technical and/or legal reason I need 15 pieces of paper to confirm that I did, in fact, buy and consume a double-double cheeseburger with extra cholesterol and a side of fries. And in the interest of always looking on the bright side of life, I will say that all these receipts provide me with plenty of scratch paper I can use to write down important stuff like what I need to forget to pick up at the store (because I lost the paper or can't read my own handwriting) or the location of my car in a mega-parking garage. All of which I do on my phone.
There. At least I got that off my chest.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 04/24/2014