Looking at the stats of some recent posts, I noticed that the one with the highest number of views - 40 as of right now - is the little post I made on New Year's Day in which I complained about catching my pant leg on the divider between the vinyl floor and carpet in my living room the night before.
By contrast, my "Happy New Year" post, which prominently features a drawing of a woman's shapely backside, has only 13 views.
So a random complaint about stumbling in the dark is nearly 4 times more popular than a picture of a woman's butt.
You guys are weird.
Showing posts with label statistics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label statistics. Show all posts
Monday, January 07, 2013
Saturday, May 10, 2008
I Don't Even Make A Good Statistic
Earlier I forgot to mention something that happened last night.
I was in my kitchen when I heard my doorbell ring, so I looked to see who was at the door and saw some woman I didn’t recognize holding a clipboard.
I figured it was probably some kind of census thing, but she had a kid with her, so I thought it was possible that it was someone selling something or looking for some kind of sponsorship. Either way I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so I just stayed quiet and pretended not to be home.
I could tell that before she went away she left something on my front door, so after a while I opened it to check.
It was, in fact, some school census thing, with her number on it telling me to call “even if there’s no one under 20 living at my home.”
So eventually I did.
“Do you have any children living with you?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, her voice now considerably less friendly and positively dripping with disdain, “so no kids?”
“Nope!” I said, in the most cheerful voice I could muster.
“Well,” she said, the disdain not at all dried up, “that’s all I needed to know. Thank you for calling.”
I got the distinct impression that I was supposed to feel bad about not having kids, and that my lack thereof made me less worthwhile as a human being – or even a statistical data point.
Oh well.
I was in my kitchen when I heard my doorbell ring, so I looked to see who was at the door and saw some woman I didn’t recognize holding a clipboard.
I figured it was probably some kind of census thing, but she had a kid with her, so I thought it was possible that it was someone selling something or looking for some kind of sponsorship. Either way I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so I just stayed quiet and pretended not to be home.
I could tell that before she went away she left something on my front door, so after a while I opened it to check.
It was, in fact, some school census thing, with her number on it telling me to call “even if there’s no one under 20 living at my home.”
So eventually I did.
“Do you have any children living with you?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, her voice now considerably less friendly and positively dripping with disdain, “so no kids?”
“Nope!” I said, in the most cheerful voice I could muster.
“Well,” she said, the disdain not at all dried up, “that’s all I needed to know. Thank you for calling.”
I got the distinct impression that I was supposed to feel bad about not having kids, and that my lack thereof made me less worthwhile as a human being – or even a statistical data point.
Oh well.
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