Of the many silent killers, perhaps none is more deadly than the sun. In our heliocentric universe, the sun insists on being the center of attention, so when people choose to ignore its awesome power, it punishes them with burns, melanomas, and poisonous overdoses of Vitamin D. I value my life, so every morning I massage my bare flesh with a homemade sunblock (a combination of zinc oxide, titanium dioxide, shredded beeswax, coconut oil, and just a touch of whatever cured meat I have laying around to give it a pleasant aroma). Once the ointment is thoroughly rubbed in, I put on my polarized sunglasses, step outside, and stare death in the face - not in a taunting way, just in a "hello old friend, I realize that you have the ability to boil my skin and I respect that, but I'm not going to hide from you, because I've already had rickets once and I'd prefer not to go through that again," sort of way.

As impressive as the sun is, if I were going to be a silent killer, I'd definitely be a mute, employed as an assassin. My so-called handicap would actually provide me with a deadly advantage - a chip on my shoulder that compels me to prove to the world I can do anything and everything as well as a regular person, especially murder. If they ever brought me in for questioning, I can guarantee you, no matter how hard they interrogated me, I'd never say a word. Best of all, if I were the first mute assasin, they'd pretty much have to give me the most rock and roll nickname of all-time: "The Silent Killer!" And long after I'd hung up my killing shoes, I could live out the remainder of my days as a symbol of hope, not just to other mutes, but for all the physically disadvantaged.

1. Stop using boats.
2. Drain all the oceans, lakes, rivers, canals, gigantic puddles, etc.
   

• The glorification of pirates by the media must cease immediately.  I suggest we do away with the light-hearted pirate jokes so prevalent in modern comedy, the boozy good times promised by Captain Morgan, and of course, Jimmy Buffett.

• Build Long John Silvers all along the Somali Coast (and perhaps the entire Horn of Africa).  These restaurants will create a boom for the fishing industry as well as provide employment opportunities for out of work pirates looking to change their ways.

• If a pirate is caught marauding, don't make him walk the plank--that's exactly what he wants!  Put him a hot woolen suit, chain him to a desk, and make him do data entry for the remainder of his life.  Then take pirate children and give them a first hand look at what happens when you pursue a career in piracy.  It's called "scaring them straight" and if it worked for my gay uncle Fritz back in the old country, then it can work for a bunch of punk kids too.

• Stop calling the widespread practice of illegal song and movie downloads, "piracy."  Yes, illegal down-loaders are criminals and should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law (maybe even above and beyond the full extend of the law), but there's nothing "swashbuckling" about illegal downloads and so the name is complete misnomer.

• Finally, if you travel the high seas, and you're trying to determine whether or not someone might be a pirate, look for automatic weapons and ignore the classic myths about pirate appearance.  The common belief that parrots, eye patches, peg legs, etc. are still the defining features of pirates has been greatly exaggerated by the family of Robert Louis Stevenson in order to continue their highly profitable pirate costume and souvenir business.  That being said, if a pirate does enter a hospital missing a leg, under no circumstances should he be given a wooden peg leg, because that just enables him to get back on his feet.  He'll be raping and pillaging in no time.]]> tag:www.nbc.com,2009:/The_Office/dwights-blog//26.6077 2009-03-20T00:13:24Z 2009-06-19T02:00:17Z
  The time of the year where everyone whines about getting sick is finally coming to a close. Some refer to it as "flu season," I call it "scheming industry out of a free day away from work season." Although I...
  The time of the year where everyone whines about getting sick is finally coming to a close. Some refer to it as "flu season," I call it "scheming industry out of a free day away from work season." Although I know my name for it is not as catchy, it is much more accurate. I find it disgraceful when people take sick days on the company dime due to their illnesses. Corporate America will be relieved to know that I have a plan to tackle this abomination.

  I propose that companies provide a quarantine and medical unit to treat sick employees (I got the idea when I watched 28 Weeks Later and an episode of M.A.S.H. back to back last weekend). Instead of calling in sick, wasting time, and lowering productivity, employees will have no excuse but to come in and work in a controlled environment where they can receive medical attention. In my office, I think they should quarantine the annex. As it is now, the office runts work in there, so there's no real loss if they get infected. Of course, should this proposal ever be carried out, these units will need leaders, people with experience in the medical realm; a post I'd be honored and adequately qualified to fill.

  I am an authority on dealing with the sick. I spent my youth as an apprentice under Abelard Schrute, my Großonkel and the farm doctor. Since his death (he died of a broken arm), I've taken over his role. I've tended to snake bites, treated whooping cough, and once attempted to perform a circumcision, so I feel confident that I can take care of an accountant's flu, a large salesman's diabetes, or the receptionist's scoliosis (I'm assuming she has scoliosis by the way she walks). Plus I have a huge supply of homemade penicillin, so not only am I qualified to handle the sick, I am also prepared.

  Corporate America, this is your opportunity to end the era of companies being exploited by sick employees. Adopt what I am proposing and form a quarantine/medical unit in your offices STAT. You'll save money and increase productivity. ... and you'll have me to thank. You're welcome.

  ]]> tag:www.nbc.com,2009:/The_Office/dwights-blog//26.4781 2009-02-19T17:00:00Z 2009-06-19T02:02:46Z
  When choosing which foods to consume, I generally seek the most nutrient-rich provisions. My rations serve as fuel, which I use to power my complex, highly efficient, ass-kicking machine. I especially enjoy protein-rich foodstuffs full of real down-home flavors: be...
  When choosing which foods to consume, I generally seek the most nutrient-rich provisions. My rations serve as fuel, which I use to power my complex, highly efficient, ass-kicking machine. I especially enjoy protein-rich foodstuffs full of real down-home flavors: be they salty, gamey, or grizzlish. I've even been known to enjoy goat milk iced cream, which manages to be both salty and gamey! What I don't like and what I will not tolerate, is Mose's recent infatuation with this God-awful frozen yogurt craze.

  My nephew, Bastian, returned from his Rumspringa and turned Mose onto the white stuff. Now, I consider myself an open-minded person. I'm willing to tolerate the concept of yogurt, if only because of the obvious health benefits of eating live bacteria cultures and absorbing their life force. But frozen yogurt, at least the variety Mose and Bastian fancy, is made from a powder and contains no live bacteria, no nutrients, and not even a trace of flu virus that could exercise the immune system. In spite of its frivolousness, I might be willing to indulge Mose's misguided addiction now and again, if the frozen yogurt wasn't so girly. Mose has a hard enough time being respected by fellow males without a public obsession with spa food. Plus it tastes disgusting!

  Of course the frozen yogurt store does its best to cover up the horrible taste with a variety of toppings, both sweet and fruity. Although, when I asked for beets on mine, they looked at me like I was requesting ketchup. Oh yeah, like a delicious Pennsylvania vegetable is a weirder dessert topping than some exotic fruit that doesn't even grow in the contiguous United States--what kind of idiot uses coconut for anything other than fighting off predators or dissenters on a desert island? And regardless, the very notion that you can mask the too-tart taste, is kind of like putting a suit on a lion: no matter how you dress it up, if it comes into contact with your body, it will wreak havoc on your intestines. It gives Mose horrible gas. So do yourself a favor, avoid frozen yogurt at all costs. If you have a friend or family member who eats the stuff, help them beat the habit the Schrute way: mercilessly ridicule them until they lose their appetite altogether.
  

  ]]> tag:mt41-blogs.nbc.com,2008:/dwights-blog//26.682 2008-12-25T17:15:46Z 2009-01-08T19:06:54Z
  Froehliche Weihnachten faithful readers! Many of you have requested I divulge information regarding the Schrute family’s annual Christmas traditions. Initially I thought, what my family does in the privacy of our compound does not concern you, but then I had...
  Froehliche Weihnachten faithful readers! Many of you have requested I divulge information regarding the Schrute family’s annual Christmas traditions. Initially I thought, what my family does in the privacy of our compound does not concern you, but then I had a change of heart after watching a special Christmas television program with Mose. In the program, a skinny green monster impersonated Santa Claus, broke into the homes of an entire village, and repeatedly committed felony burglary. I realized that this sort of lawless behavior is lauded by our society as exemplifying the “Christmas spirit” and it made me sick. So rather than stand by idly and watch mankind continue to emulate the skinny green Christmas monster, I’ve decided to share my family’s Christmas customs in the hopes that they may serve to exemplify the true meaning of the “Christmas spirit.”

  Christmas Eve is a particularly holy night for my family. An Austrian priest, Joseph Mohr, penned a poem exploiting my family’s tradition of the “Silent Night.” As the title suggests, no one is allowed to speak or make any noise, without facing the bitter taste of the switch. The satisfaction we all got when someone accidentally spoke and was switched is still one of the greatest memories of my childhood.

  Our Christmas day traditions are pretty mainstream. We wake up early to exchange small, handmade wooden presents and to slaughter our dinner—the Christmas goat. And of course, if a Schrute has been particularly good that year, then Kris Von Kindl fills his stockings with coal, a highly desired source of fuel during long, cold Pennsylvania winters.

  And since our Christmas festivities are so much fun, we carry them on for another day, which we call, “Boxing Day.” In between feasting and personal meditation, the day is spent engaging in fierce hand-to-hand combat with our loved ones. Unresolved familial issues that have crept up over the course of the year get settled once and for.

  Thus, after three gruelingly delightful days spent internalizing the Christmas virtues (love, obedience, and endurance), our family is ready to ring in the New Year with the true Christmas spirit etched into the musculature of our hearts.

  May you and yours have the best of battles this holiday season,

  Dwight K. Schrute.

  ]]> tag:mt41-blogs.nbc.com,2008:/dwights-blog//26.681 2008-11-26T22:07:20Z 2009-01-08T19:06:53Z
  Surrounding us are networks of undercover agents that go undetected by the average citizen. I, however, am not the average citizen. I have the rare ability to detect spies using a finely honed sense of paranoia. This gift never fails...
  Surrounding us are networks of undercover agents that go undetected by the average citizen. I, however, am not the average citizen. I have the rare ability to detect spies using a finely honed sense of paranoia. This gift never fails me, as demonstrated a couple weeks ago when Mose and I came across some spy equipment.

  We were completing our weekly militia training (which we see as fulfilling an American duty) in the woods. While doing our usual rife drills, I instinctively missed the target (a scarecrow dressed as Sean Penn). My bullet ricocheted off a tree in the woods with an alarming “ding.” In an instant Mose and I were on the ground with our rifles pointed. We cautiously crawled toward the tree for inspection. It looked like this:

  

  Initially we thought it was a camouflaged nuclear anthrax rocket, or anthrax rocket with a conventional warhead, or, perhaps, most disturbingly, an actual metal tree. But after hours of poking it with a stick and throwing rocks at it, it became obvious that it was a device used to spy on me. Clearly the work of the Russians, Russian Separatists, Al Qaeda, Jim, We Got the Beets (a rival beet supplier), or some combination thereof.

  Ever since I checked out Harriet the Spy from the library for Mose, I’ve suspected that I was under surveillance. After dark, Mose and I crept into the woods and took down the tree. Breaking through the surrounding wires and cement was not an easy task, in part because Mose digs with his hands and teeth.

  The following day, the police blotter of the local paper listed a report that someone had vandalized an artificial tree that served as a cellular phone company antenna. Since wireless providers have 128,000 antennas made to look like trees across the country, this seemed plausible. A little too plausible if you ask me. Thus further investigation will continue.

  ]]> tag:mt41-blogs.nbc.com,2008:/dwights-blog//26.680 2008-10-23T20:17:43Z 2009-01-08T19:06:52Z
  A month ago, my lazy sloth of a Great Uncle, Stoffel, invaded my home. Schrutes are obligated to provide lodging for family members, so long as they’re willing to hunt, slaughter, and/or cure meat in exchange for their room and...
  A month ago, my lazy sloth of a Great Uncle, Stoffel, invaded my home. Schrutes are obligated to provide lodging for family members, so long as they’re willing to hunt, slaughter, and/or cure meat in exchange for their room and board. Stoffel refuses to do any work of any kind. He just sits around on our wolverine-skinned couch, drinking tea, reading books, and shivering. The man is truly a 104 year-old menace to society and an example of what happens when a Rumspringa lasts from the Roaring Twenties through the Swinging Sixties.
  ]]> Stoffel’s continued hedonistic lifestyle is a symptom of a pandemic sweeping the globe: with the spread of modern medicine, the elderly continue to live longer and longer, surviving despite their deteriorating bodies and minds, and burdening society with their “needs” (Note: insulin is a privilege not a right). A person should only exist as long as he proves beneficial to his community. Schrute children adhere to this rule by the age of 6 or else they’re permanently reassigned to a weaker, more tolerant family. So why can’t old people abide?

  Unfortunately, humanity seems to lack the backbone to demand that the elderly continue to contribute until they terminate. Instead we both indulge their laziness and demean them, locking them away in retirement homes while they slowly rot in a medicated stupor. The thought seems to be, the elderly, like most minority groups, enjoy being grouped together in a designated living area. But what if we stripped them of their pills and deprived them of their Rascal scooters, perhaps the elderly would stand up and face death like a man: head on, in a battle royal. Win or lose, they’d be more alive than they are now, even if the exertion caused them to cease living.

  I’m proposing we take all the seemingly washed-up old geezers sucking at society’s teat like wrinkled old leaches and put them on some remote island. There, they would compete for survival in a format not un-like the popular television program Survivor, only there would be no challenge rewards, medical assistance, or immunity. Just old men and women working together to battle time and Mother Nature, reliving their glory days in some treacherous tropical paradise.

  Some would surely die, many immediately, but at least they would die with dignity. Plus there would be those that rise to the occasion—that fight and triumph against the odds. They would of course be welcomed back to our youthful society as conquering heroes, free to live out their days however they see fit. I only pray that if my body ever shows any signs of corrosion, that I’m given such an opportunity. There’s no way I’m going out like old Stoffel, annoying my relatives as I slowly expire. Better to die living my life with honor: sabotaging my opponents, crushing my competition, and surviving no matter what the costs.

  ]]> tag:mt41-blogs.nbc.com,2008:/dwights-blog//26.679 2008-09-19T02:44:15Z 2009-01-08T19:06:52Z
  Although I may not agree with all polices made by the government, I still try to respect them. I oppose bans on AK47s, but I abide (even though they would come in handy when Wilson Farms inevitably attacks). I begrudgingly...
  Although I may not agree with all polices made by the government, I still try to respect them. I oppose bans on AK47s, but I abide (even though they would come in handy when Wilson Farms inevitably attacks). I begrudgingly pay my income taxes. I try to tolerate a woman’s right to vote. But restrictions on one’s property rights are something I cannot accept. I believe it is every American’s right to do with their land what they please. That is what our forefathers believed. That is what Davy Crockett believed. I believe that’s what Clint Eastwood believes. I wish Dale Hegarty, the Wayne County zoning officer, honored this view, but he does not. Instead of respecting an American’s property rights, Mr. Hegarty chooses to stifle our freedoms by requiring us to get ridiculous permits. Did Gutzon Borglum need a permit before he carved Mount Rushmore? Probably not.
  ]]> I want to build a moat around Schrute farm for 6 reasons. 1) It would discourage trespassers (I’ve had it with the pilgrims that mistake our farm for a satellite of the Yearning for Zion Ranch). 2) Adding a moat would drive the local agrotourism community wild. Then I can add a “Private Beach” to our list of amenities. 3) The farm’s waste needs to go somewhere else. 4) My piranhas are out growing their tank and need to learn how to hunt for themselves. 5) Mose has the habit of chasing butterflies into the woods and getting lost. A moat surrounding the farm should keep him from wandering as he developed aquaphobia last summer when he tried to play with his reflection in the pond down the road and nearly drowned. 6) The last and most obvious reason for a moat would be to protect the farmhouse. Without it we’re vulnerable to invaders, be it the beet weevil, Wilson Farms or the French. Despite the apparent need for a moat, the zoning officer prohibited me from filling my hole up with water. That idiot deemed the soft earth surrounding the house as “unstable quicksand,” and “geologically unfit” for a moat. Hogwash.

  What the zoning officer fails to understand is that I come from a long line of moat diggers. It was my ancestors that constructed the moat surrounding Heinzburg Castle, which was the toast of Bavaria until the castle sank with the queen in it. And it was my uncle, Barnabas Schrute, that dug the first moat in Honesdale. I’m proud to say four trespassers have died in it and counting. Moat digging is in my blood, so it troubles me that a zoning officer with no history of moat engineering can decide whether or not I am allowed to build a moat. What does he care anyway? Should anyone drown in the moat I’ll be the one held accountable. Mose knows how to perform CPR and, if need be, how to embalm a body. If something happens to any of the guests staying at the bed & breakfast we’re legally covered; at check-in they’re required to sign a 33 page waiver. I am a responsible land owner and moat digger, so I take great offense to a system that allows a loser like Mr. Hegarty to compromise my property rights by telling me what I can and cannot build. If the house collapses into the moat and we all die it’s my problem not Dale’s - and it’s my right to have that problem. I think the zoning officer is just jealous because he doesn’t even own the land his house is on. Well, screw you Dale! Your wife’s fat and your barn sucks!

  ]]> tag:mt41-blogs.nbc.com,2008:/dwights-blog//26.678 2008-08-21T16:42:58Z 2009-01-08T19:06:51Z
  Every summer since before I was even a young Schrute, my family has dug out an area in the Northwest fields to use as a swimming hole. We fill it with water and a variety of unmarketable beets (to use...
  Every summer since before I was even a young Schrute, my family has dug out an area in the Northwest fields to use as a swimming hole. We fill it with water and a variety of unmarketable beets (to use as flotation devices) and then all of the Schrute children are allowed to visit the pool once a week. Swimming in Schrute Hole is purely for instructional purposes. Since the loss of poor Great Cousin Cordula to a horrific drowning accident in Lake Wallenpaupack back in the early Sixties, it is a family requirement that all Schrute children learn how to swim. Unfortunately for me, I hate swimming.

  My swimming lessons were simultaneously extensive and short-lived. I was eight years old, which is the age all Schrutes begin their aqua-training. From the very moment I was thrown into the center of the swimming hole, I knew that I was not meant to be a swimmer. As with all things for Schrute children, however, I had no choice in the matter. My father took on the role of swim instructor and began teaching me. I hated every second of it except for the fact that it was the first occasion I had ever spent time alone with Father.

  ]]> After the first day, I had to hide in the barn because I didn’t want anyone to see me crying. Crying leads to shunning and at that point, I had already had all the shunning a young boy needs. The process of swim instruction usually takes three full months of weekly three-hour sessions at Schrute Hole. During my second lesson, I was having such a miserable time that I decided to defy my father. Instead of treading water, I sank to the bottom of the swimming hole and dug my heels into the mud. Faced with the choice of letting his strongest son drown or teaching me a lesson for defying him, Father made an incredibly wise decision. He allowed me to stay down there long enough to pass out, but then jumped in and brought me back to consciousness once back on dry ground. When the shock of almost dying wore off, I offered my father a compromise. I would complete the entire Schrute Swimming Course if he could condense it into a week’s worth of lessons. Much to my surprise, he agreed. For the next week, before and after the farm work was completed, I took the full battery of swimming lessons. At the end of the week, not only was I a proficient swimmer, I was an incredible swimmer. And I hated every second of it.

  Ever since then, I have not stepped foot in a swimming area of any sort – be it pool, hole, or anything else. Yes, I was accidentally driven into a lake once, but that was not my choice. Being a hero that day was also not my choice, but I accept it for what it is.

  I don’t know exactly what it is about swimming that I dislike so much. I believe it has something to do with the fact that I was often left in the bathtub in my youth and forgotten about. The terrible memories of my skin wrinkling until it could wrinkle no more are enough to make me avoid any large collection of water. Other than that, I think there are more issues at play. For most of my life, family members have told me that I quite resemble Great Cousin Cordula, especially in the mouth area. Her lips were apparently very admirable. Sometimes, Grandmutter would say that she can sense a little bit of Cordula in me and I think I’ve always been afraid that she was right. If Cordula’s spirit is in me, I have subconsciously believed that I could befall the same fate as her. This is all a stupid psycho-babble way of saying that I don’t swim because I don’t want to die.

  So now, the only time I spend at Schrute Hole is when Mose wants to go swimming. I dutifully stand by as his lifeguard, because, in truth, Mose is my favorite companion at home and I would hate to see him die a terrible soggy death. It is the image of Mose drowning in that murky water that makes me such a vigilant, amazing lifeguard.

  Today you have seen into the darkest places of my heart. Don’t think that this will become a regular occurrence.

  Yours in Text,
  Dwight K. Schrute

  ]]> tag:mt41-blogs.nbc.com,2008:/dwights-blog//26.677 2008-07-17T19:46:27Z 2009-01-08T19:06:50Z
  Attention readers: this web log will be doubling as a public service announcement because people are literally DYING out there. We are in the thick of summer, people. The sun, while a huge ally of the Earth, also serves as...
  Attention readers: this web log will be doubling as a public service announcement because people are literally DYING out there.

  We are in the thick of summer, people. The sun, while a huge ally of the Earth, also serves as one of our biggest enemies. It provides light that we use to see, but it can also scorch your skin into a red blistering mess. There are so many heat-related illnesses that it’s almost impossible to name them all: heatstroke, heat rash, heat cramps, heat exhaustion, heat edema, heat tetany, heat syncope, heat mumps. The list goes on and on. The sun lurks silently in the sky, waiting to claim its next human victim and it’s up to us to stop it.

  In the wintertime, nobody bothers to care about the sun at all. That’s because it’s busy resting. Just like bears, the sun hibernates in the sky during the winter. Sure, it still provides sunshine – but just enough to get us through the day. When the sun wakes up, usually around mid-April, it begins a program of solar destruction that takes so many lives each year that it should be at the top of every Most Wanted list in the world.

  I feel that it is my duty to combat the sun’s evil efforts by providing you with this list of helpful sun-fighting tips.

  ]]> • The sun can only hurt you if you leave your skin exposed. Wearing a neoprene wetsuit will cover up most of your vulnerable skin. You’ll also look like a superhero, so that’s a double bonus.
  • Sunscreen is sold by the pro-sun lobby. They want to create a market based on your fear of the sun. While your fear is very real and legitimate, their products are essentially a creamy snake oil. You’re much better off using a solvent made of beet juice reduction and white wine vinegar. It may smell delicious to you, and if you’re ever making salad dressing these are two ingredients you don’t want to leave out, but in reality the combination is like kryptonite to the stupid sun. It sends those dangerous rays right back where they came from and sends a message to that big yolk in the sky. It says “Hey Sun, not on MY watch!” So don’t waste your money on sunscreen, it just gets funneled back to pro-sun activities.
  • Wear a floppy hat. They might look goofy, but so will you when your face is the color of my childhood wagon/portable beet showroom.
  • Never leave your house without at least a gallon of potable drinking water. Drinking water makes you more resistant to the dangerous intrusion of the sun. The sun’s goal is to actually deprive you of water. If you drink water, you’re replacing the very substance that the sun is trying to steal from you. Plus, our bodies are comprised mainly of water. The sun is made up of zero percent water. So remind me, who invented all of the technology on Earth? Humans or the sun? It was humans. The sun never invented anything. That’s why I’ll not only trust humans over the sun, I’ll do everything I can to set myself apart from the sun. Number one on the list of ways to set yourself apart: drinking water.
  • Stay indoors between the hours of 9am and 6pm. This will prevent contact with the sun when it is most vindictive.

  I don’t know what the sun has against us. What I do know is that the sun is a killer. People die from sun-related problems every single day during the summer and even though I am only one man, I feel the need to do my part. Don’t let the sun catch you off-guard. Be prepared. One day, we will tame the sun and make it do our bidding. Until then, we must always be vigilant.

  In Anti-Solar Solidarity,
  Dwight Schrute

  ]]> tag:mt41-blogs.nbc.com,2008:/dwights-blog//26.676 2008-06-19T16:25:46Z 2009-01-08T19:06:50Z
  Good June to you, or as we say on Schrute Farms: Guttenjuni! There is a topic I’ve been meaning to bring up and this appears to be the appropriate time. I have noticed many more people taking photographs of things...
  Good June to you, or as we say on Schrute Farms: Guttenjuni!

  There is a topic I’ve been meaning to bring up and this appears to be the appropriate time. I have noticed many more people taking photographs of things now that the true start of summer is nearly upon us. Photography is an “art” that I do not endorse. If you’d like to see how something looks, go see it with your own eyes. If you want to see a representation of something, then go look at a drawing or painting. Grandma Mannheim was especially adept at illustrating Strullpeter stories, so don’t try and tell me that photographs are better than drawings. Photographs merely replicate the human visual experience as a frozen moment in time and that insults the eyes and the memory.

  When I was a tyke, my family did not have a camera. The general belief was that if a camera were introduced into our lives, our eyes would revolt, leaving us all blind and unable to operate our farm. Now that I’m an adult, I realize that this is unlikely. The eyes are very rational and I think they would adjust to sharing their optical duties with a camera, if a person chose to use such a device. I, however, still refuse to use a camera out of pure ocular respect.

  ]]> The rise in popularity of so-called “digital cameras” is a direct affront to human biology and it angers me to no end. Traditional film cameras at least have a built-in limit. You can only take photos as long as you have film. When the film is used up, you’re out of luck. On top of that, film is fairly expensive, as is photo development. These costs made liberal camera use cost-prohibitive. Not the case with digital cameras.

  Digital cameras allow the amateur photographer the freedom and ability to take six thousand pictures of a baby. Babies should not be photographed in the first place. They never grow up to look anything like they did as a baby, so what’s the point in having a picture of them? You might as well take photos of a small pony because that’s about as close a resemblance as babies have to their future selves and ponies are at least attractive creatures. But I digress. Digital cameras have all the negatives of traditional film cameras with none of the limitations. They’re like a mutated virus – attacking humanity without an antidote.

  The biggest problem that I see with digital cameras is that they cause people to place so much less significance on a single image. If Leonardo Da Vinci finished the Mona Lisa and decided he didn’t like her barely detectable smile, would he have just thrown away the entire painting? Of course not. If the Mona Lisa was a digital picture, however, he easily could just pressed a button and the masterpiece would be lost forever. This is the plague of digital cameras. What once was permanent is now digitally expendable.

  This is all to say that, even though I savor the taste of victory, I have interest in keeping the digital camera that I won by calling into Froggy 101. If you want to buy this worthless device, go ahead and make me an offer.

  That. Is all.

  Yours Truly,
  Dwight Kurt Schrute

  ]]>