Climate-conscious automaker Ford is curtailing its use of toxic paint by no longer printing numbers lower than 30mph on its speedometers. Eliminating 0-29 saves 0.00014 grams of paint per vehicle, which is roughly 3% of the weight of a gnat’s you-know-what. Multiplied by the 2,613,162 new Ford cars clogging the roads each year, this paint reduction translates into a savings of 3.4 pounds of climate-killing CO2 annually.
Will that save the world?
Well…a car owner might divert more CO2 from the atmosphere by simply refraining from burping while driving. Yet these minimalist speedometers are attracting HUGE support. Since U.S. tailpipes pump 1,545 million metric tons of CO2 into the atmosphere each year, the tiny 3.4 pounds saved from the paint cutback is so insignificant that even the staunchest anti-global warming people willingly rally behind Ford’s trivial move. It creates a win-win situation, where deniers can avoid being attacked for appearing environmentally unenlightened, while everyone gets what they really want: carte blanche to drive over 30mph in those irritating school zones, residential areas, and construction sites.
The freedom from being nagged about pesky speeding laws brings the joy back into the American pastime of driving. Nissan reports that it will soon make a competing move to mix environmentalism with pleasure, when it drastically cuts plastic pollution by eliminating turn signals. The DMV reports that only backseat drivers remember that turn signals should even be used, so this is another practical decision.
After Peace Corps missions, seminary studies, and a stint teaching preschool conflict resolution, I discovered a truly socially redeeming career as a construction site Catcall Consultant. I tutor 200 apprentices, polishing their catcalling techniques so they can shower confidence on underappreciated females who pass job sites pleading for personal validation.
My competency comes from innate catcalling skills that emerged in my youth. Documents show that my first word was “mamacita,” and my first musical instrument was the wolf whistle. Neighborhood mentors taught me incredible kissy-smack lip noises that brought HUGE reactions. The girls’ camouflaged gratitude plunged me into the bizarre world of the female psyche, which, frankly, is a swamp that sophisticated males should not bother trying to understand. Case in point: one sloppy-sounding air-kiss, or a coy “Hey sexy,” and I could count on a whack upside the head from even the shyest of those budding dunderheads. God knows where girls hide so much muscle, though there is doubtlessly plenty of empty space just north of the eyebrows in most of those princesses. Not to worry about their whacks of course, since they all punch like a girl, but I must mention that if street cred is based on how many black eyes a guy receives from hot-headed hotties, well then I’m the Man. Those chickies couldn’t keep their paws off me after my compliments. I persevered proudly though, knowing that I was their only source of self-worth. After this childhood training, I expanded my resume with internships in a university fraternal order, and on a naval vessel. I am now a sensitive professional who grasps that women crave rudeness, making me supremely qualified to be a Catcall Consultant.
Before going on, let me offer tips to help even non-construction workers speak sleazily, and thereby liberate America’s insecure women. Although 98% of females have received unsolicited sexy hoots at least once in their lives, only 42% report getting noticed monthly (Hess). A mammoth harem of babes is going unsatisfied, because of a lack of professionals properly trained in uplifting chicks’ egos. With instruction, novices quickly advance to having those little vixens lash out, all a-quiver, when a really juicy catcall comes licking into their ears. So first, concentrate on that idea of licking: you want to be extremely invasive when catcalling. Chicks desire deep, sloppy, penetrating connections with strangers. Develop a crude leer so they feel you undressing them from across the street. Maximize a girl’s thrill from feeling vulnerable and endangered, by following her briefly after your first whistle. Corner her in an alley—her face might say to cut it out, but inside she’s begging you to rip away a little more of her privacy and security. Use appealing phrases that you collect from listening to teenaged scholars binging at keggers, or from taking your sister to visit inmates exercising in prison yards. If your vocabulary gets too explicit, just fall back on intelligent-sounding tributes like a drawn-out “Dayummm!” when a girl walks by, or a French compliment about the bounce of la derriere. Comments on her hotness are music to a girl’s ears.
Today, supporting catcalling is more crucial than averting nuclear war, because whiny liberals are fighting to silence us. Their attempts include widespread video-outing of catcallers on social media (Robinson), and campaigns for bystanders to yell, “That’s not acceptable” when guys merely whistle or meow (Lee). Their suppression is misguided, since high-quality catcalling empowers women, and the world needs more empowered women. A good catcall is not the publicly-sanctioned abuse that some low-watt thinkers claim it to be; it is a gift to a woman. It reminds her that although few people will ever know she has a brain, the rest of the world is obsessed with staring at her big plump booty. Such appreciation builds a woman’s confidence, professional assurance, and overall mental health. I am proud to be boosting women’s egos, elevating them like a candy-apple red lace triple-silicone padded cleavage-cuddling pushup bra. This is a dream job.