Even before I looked into the history of Daylight Saving Time, I knew it had a business background.
It carries that unique corporate cadence, like “ethical oil,” “clean coal,” or “awesome asbestos.”
So I wasn’t surprised to learn that it comes from the industrial revolution, you know, that delightful period of time when men were moustachioed, women carried parasols with impunity, and child laborers knew not to ask for anymore bloody pudding, OLIVER.
And so, once again, we come to it: “spring forward,” a perky upbeat phrase that belies the soul-sucking tradition of having an hour of sleep yanked away from us.
It’s like how people claim that being pooped on by a bird is good luck. There’s nothing lucky about that. That is an awful, bad, no-good thing to have happen to you.
No one in the history of humanity has ever been shaken out of a funk when they were pooped on by a bird, and went on to great things.
Einstein would have given us cold fusion before he died, but the day he thought about formulating it, a bird pooped on his head. That’s just a fact.
You know it, I know it, and you better believe the birds know it, the psychopathic feathered little crap-cannons.
So too with “springing forward,” a low-key Maoist phrase if I ever heard one, and Daylight Saving Time.
In fact, there’s no variation on the word “save” that doesn’t fall apart under scrutiny, too. Think about it:
- Who are we “saving” time from? Is there an evil time thief, not unlike the hamburglar, threatening to robble robble our minutes away? Does he have a charming moniker as well, like the Clock Catcher, or the Seconds Snatcher?
- If we are “saving” time for a rainy day, why do we always end up paying it back later? Aren’t we, in effect, creating a time deficit?
- If we save time, and the cheerleader, do we save the world? Is that reference too dated?
And I know, I know, I KNOW I’m preaching to the choir here, I’m picking the proverbial low-hanging fruit by standing up to Big DST, hanging out with the poll groups that say 90 per cent of us just want to sleep like humans.
But dang it, those clouds aren’t going to yell at themselves, and as a rapidly aging semi-white man I consider it my duty — my absolute Lard Tunderin Jaysus DUTY — to point to the things that make me crotchety and speak at them in the language of shotgun blasts and creaking rocking chairs.
In short: I want my nappy, and I want it NOW.
Is that too much to ask?
Welcome to Ford on Fridays: a weekly column where Victoria Buzz staff writer Tim Ford offers his thoughts on life, love, and the pursuit of the perfect joke.
This column is for comedic purposes only. Please feel free to send feedback, thoughts, and [constructive] criticisms to email@example.com.