"Because that would make sense."
"Because that would make sense."
"Because that would make sense."
"Because that would" -smack-
That's what my roommate Matt (to whom they are favorite words) would say shortly before I go crazy, and transform from my ordinary identity of generally sane, if somewhat distressable, guy into Rrargh Rarrargrharghh. The fact is, a bunch more things make sense than any one of us understand. I've spend most of my life (since I was five and wondered why oatmeal was so bland) trying to figure out these bits of nonsense, and I discovered that most of them do have some sense (such as when I was twenty-nine and saw that some people like bland). If they were constantly being explained to everyone who wondered we'd have no end of it, and if they were posted on signs next to the supermarket aisle or highway exit or office building or computer case or space program or television set or (especially) microwave oven, then life would turn into exposition, and as we all know or should, exposition is annoying, boring, aggravating and unaesthetic-ing.
Further, most of the reasons, once you get them uncovered, turn out to be antagonistic. Smart people knowledgeably making choices they know are good for them, bad for you. Maybe they moved the printer paper away from the printers because they were trying to push another brand that was hidden on a sale shelf a little closer. It turns out that your favorite senator voted against your favorite bill because he was using it as a concession for votes on some other piece of legislation he likes but you don't. Workmen merrily laying the groundwork for that new super-hyper-ultra-highway by your bedroom window, giving you a cheery wave of their hands as they go. Companies leaving out the purposeful misfeatures of their electronic products from their advertising so you'll end up buying upgrades and add-ons. The entire "razor blade" marketing philosophy that's given us printer ink refills that cost more than the printer. Anti CD-copying measures that make them impossible to play on computer players, and when you write to the company about them their reply reads, condensed: "So?"
Decades of reason have shown to me just how often this happens, and how the rules are bent in favor of those who do it, because if they weren't they wouldn't be. Sense seems to be failing us, so I'm pinning my hopes on nonsense. With my pogo stick, I now go forth to pester the local Wal-Mart drones until they chase me out. Wish me luck!