America, the land of unlimited possibilities! Where else in the world could you purchase a giant body pillow with Tupac’s face on it, an industrial strength power-drill in pink, and a frozen pepperoni and chorizo pizza at two in the morning? No matter what you want and when you want it, no dream is too big for the land of the free. So, dear American friends, riddle me this: How is it that when you offer the fulfilment of any (at least materialistic) desire on a silver platter, do you make it impossible for me to open doors when I have both hands full of the very goods you provided in the first place?
I’m speaking, of course, of the incessant use of door knobs. Why, dear Americans, do you still stick to such a horrid contraption? Whatever happened to a good old handle, you know, one you could easily open with just your elbow should you not have a free hand? Some doors shall forever remain closed, I guess.
“Maybe there is some good to the knob”, the inner optimist suggests. Maybe this is your people’s way to encourage exercise: Pick up your items, walk to a door, set the items down (first squat), open the door, pick up the goods (second squat), walk through the door, set the goods down again (third squat), close the door from the inside, pick the items up once more (fourth squat), continue your journey. Four squats a door keeps the doctor a-shore.
But even if I acknowledge that there might be a noble intention underlying this insufficient utensil, let’s just take a little mental journey together, shall we? Suppose it’s a nice, sunny Saturday afternoon, I have nothing else on the agenda, so I decide that this is the day to fix the radiator in my car. It has been bent out of shape for a while now, but you know how it is, there’s always something more important that comes up. But not today, today I’ll get to work, yes sir! So I’m standing there, merrily tinkering about, when all of a sudden it occurs to me that I have had almost a gallon of water that now wants to exit my body in a timely fashion. “No problem”, I think, I’ll take a quick trip to the toilet and I’ll be back to work in no time. I enter the house through the open garage door, just a few more steps until I can relieve myself, when I look down: a cold, silver knob guards the entrance to the place I long to go. I reach out my hand, but it is covered in car-grease, and no matter what I do, my hand slides right off the polished steel ovoid. I try again and again, my own face staring back at me from the silver knob, distorted in an almost demonic fashion, taunting me, mocking me in my calamity. Of course I cannot just get the grease off my hands, the sink is on the other side of this very door! I keep trying for a little while longer, but when it becomes clear that this barrier remains impenetrable, and my body can no longer hold on to the fluids inside it, I run back into the garden to do my deed there. Covered in shame and a little bit of pee (because such is the glorious reality of female outdoor urination), I return back to the car, my spirit somewhat broken, my ego somewhat bruised. I’ll never be able to look at the neighbourhood cat the same way again, as Tommy bore witness to the entire ordeal, looking me straight into the eyes during my lowest moments.
I plead to you, dear Americans, abolish the knob! For the dignity of your people, let them take matters into their own hand-le!