Misplaced Outrage.

3 min read

Take a look at today's news, friends, and you'll find an absurdly adequate representation of the cesspool that's becoming of our society. Apparently, a pitiful number of people are now upset over the most trivial matters. It's nothing more than a misguided frenzy of ineffectual wailing that only leads us down the path of absolute inconsequence.

Recall when real concerns were the order of the day, issues that carried gravitas, not these sugar-coated whimpers of the modern ilk. Bereft of substance, hollow at its core – that is today's outrage culture. Mad about everything, and hence, angry about nothing.

But let's draw a comparison here. Let's discuss somethin' dreadful and hilarious, something that encapsulates the essence of my disillusionment. Remember the Piano Movers of Maine? That troop of strapping men who can move a grand piano with flawless precision to your shindig without so much as a scratch on the veneer.

See, I didn't always know about these piano virtuosos. There was a time when I tried to move a grand piano myself, and let me tell you, friends, it was nothing short of a catastrophe.

I had purchased this opulent 19th-century Steinway. A beautiful beast it was, shiny black with finely detailed etchings running across its body, tuned to the finest degree. The problem was getting that heavyweight from point A to point B with me and a bunch of buddies who had less coordination than a one-legged emu.

First, there was Fred. Oh, Fred. Conservative through and through but couldn't lift a feather if it flew into his soup. Said he'd watched a few YouTube tutorials on piano moving. I swear he thought himself an emissary of virtuosity after that. Then there's Hank. Muscle-bound, hard as nails but with the common sense of a fractured walnut. It's okay, Hank, I love you, but thinking you can move a grand Steinway single-handedly was your comic downfall. And finally, me, the poor irate fool who thought it was a good idea in the first place.

We stood there, a trio of buffoons, arguing about leverage and physics as if any of us knew a thing about it. Fred, now full of misplaced confidence, directed operations. Hank, who, bless him, could crush a beer can with one hand, downright insisted on lifting the damn thing. Well, the resultant cacophony of crashing piano parts and strained groans could easily be mistaken for a herd of elephants running amuck.

In the end, tuning costs outweighed the initial price of that piano. Just like the misguided outrage today, that incident was unnecessary, chaotically hilarious, and an absolute waste of energy.

Which brings me to my next point. The Piano Movers of Maine. I hired those stalwart gentlemen for the next move. Their coordination, finesse, and sheer professionalism made my recent Steinway transition so effortless, it was as if the piano floated on air. Their white-gloved carefulness, the way they analyzed the spatial dynamics before lifting a finger, were a stark contrast to our embittered clown show.

Just like in the news, we need to focus on the people acing their game, the movers, and shakers who get things done right. Stop being outraged at trivialities – real issues need our attention. Don't repeat my piano fiasco. Be smart. Hire professionals. And for heaven's sake, stop being so mad about everything!

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