Sure, you could talk about today's Reality Check in political terms and rant about people who voted for off-brand candidates or didn't vote at all because, unlike the rest of us poor slobs, they're smart enough to have figured out that "they're all alike," or you could get into a whole discussion of the deep-seated insecurity of people who feel compelled to hate any innocent pleasure others enjoy.
You could also point out the absurdity of iconoclastic individuals who all dress alike. (They used to pull that one on us in the Sixties, not realizing we were joking about it ourselves.)
But, come on: It's a funny gag, and all you need to appreciate it is to have met a bright high school junior who has figured out that the common myths we cite are fallible and has concluded that obviously, therefore, the myths we reject are completely correct.
Or a college freshman who just encountered Rousseau and Berkeley for the first time and has realized that, oh wow, all reality is an illusion.
One way to look at it is to rail against nitwittery and declare these nihilists the enemies of civilization.
Another is to chuckle affectionately and remember back to the days when you knew everything.
Or to consider that everybody poops.
But only some of us sincerely believe that our poop doesn't stink.
Adam@Home has been trying to satisfy a craving for circus peanuts and has gone to an old-fashioned candy store. I find very little deep meaning in this, but I do sympathize with the concept.
That is, since we knew what chocolate was supposed to taste like back in the 1950s, it's unlikely we'd have eaten very many Hostess cupcakes if they tasted then like they do now.
And the "throwback" soft drinks confirm that, yes, Pepsi and Mountain Dew were better before the Cuban sugar embargo and the rise of corn syrup.
But I'm betting circus peanuts are a constant.
Anyway, let's not overthink this. I'd rather think about places like the Farmer's Museum with old-fashioned candy stores that sell horehound drops and rock candy, which you got because they were strange and interesting and different.
Which means you were a little hipster in training, I suppose.
Anyway, you can still get a lot of the candy you grew up with, and, in looking for that peanut picture, I came across a site I'd kind of forgotten about, where, several years ago, I put together a selection of nostalgic things like Fizzies and Turkish Taffy for my younger sister at Christmas and blew her mind.
However, I note the smallest volume of circus peanuts they sell is a pound and a half, and, given the unit weight involved and the likelihood that about three of them are going to scratch the itch, Adam would end up with a lot of uneaten circus peanuts.
Let's hope the guy with the handlebar mustache has some smaller packets.
Adam isn't the only one who likes treats, and Ben speaks truth today.
But, even with him, I didn't carry treats on walks.
Pragmatically, the argument against treat-training is that, when you run out of treats, you lose control of the situation.
You could argue that "schnorrer" is closer to the mark, but, while schnorrer literally means "beggar," a schnorrer in common usage is more of a cheapskate and a conniver, while a noodge is simply a pest.
At the park where our dogs run free, a number of them have turned into noodges, having learned that, when someone calls their dog, there is a strong possibility of treats, so that the dog being summoned may find, upon arrival, four or five others already sitting in an arc around the owner, waiting for doggy cookies.
My own hound has not only made this connection but will go and sit hopefully in front of anyone who simply takes their leash out of their pocket, knowing what is likely to come next.
He also adores the letter carrier in our neighborhood, and I would say "our" letter carrier, except that I have had a post box since well before the dog was born and the letter carrier has never come to our doorstep.
Nonetheless, the dog has figured out that he carries doggy cookies and, if we are walking around the neighborhood and see any letter carrier on the route, I'm lucky not to get my arm jerked out of its socket.
It gets worse. The dog recognizes postal vehicles, which he responds to the way kids respond to the Good Humor van. And he's figured out that a lot of UPS and FedEx drivers also carry cookies.
The other day, he was checking out the fuel oil delivery guy, but I told him he was probably pushing probability.
Anyway, the dogs at the park all know I'm not packing and so, while they will greet me upon arrival, they save their most dewy-eyed devotion for more likely marks.
(And, yes, as Ben suggests, new people are greeted and classified with an inquiring nose to the pockets.)
Now here's your moment of gimme gimme: