New Starbucks Opens In Rest Room Of Existing Starbucks

“CAMBRIDGE, MA—Starbucks, the nation's largest coffee-shop chain, continued its rapid expansion Tuesday, opening its newest location in the men's room of an existing Starbucks.”

“According to Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz, the new location represents the beginning of a long-term expansion plan:
"Eventually, Starbucks rest rooms everywhere will sell coffee," Schultz said. "But that ambitious scheme is at least five years down the road. In the meantime, we plan to open an additional location in this Starbucks' ladies' room within months, and are already drafting plans for a fourth restaurant along the corridor leading from the main seating area to the rest rooms. At some point a 'Star-bucks Express' window will eventually open in the walk-in closet of the men's room Starbucks."
"Drink our coffee," Schultz said. "Drink it."

These are quotes from an article by the Onion about Starbucks corporately cannibalizing itself.
(Brilliant topic—everyday on my 3 minute walk to the metro I pass THREE Starbucks coffee shops).

Click here for the rest of the article.

Photo Credits:i169.photobucket.com/albums/u206/aarif_iman/BrokenMug01.jpg

Pirouetting around Portable Dishwashers…

Definition of “Apartment hunting amnesia:” forgetting how tiresome the entire house hunting process is until your lease is up and the possibility of being homeless looms like an incandescent light bulb.

I get it every time I need to move.

House hunting is a draining process: you scan Craig’s list or the paper, spot a breathtaking apartment, and then you immediately ask/hound/stalk/threaten (in that order) the potential landlord in order to see the place. You get to the apartment building, meet the landlord, and immediately set out to woo him/her like so: “Oh, I love paying bills on time…early even! I have this disease where I just can’t sleep until my bills are paid…I acquired it at YALE… What’s that? You like renters that are Yale graduates and have the paying-rent-early disease? What a coincidence! We’d be a great match”— it sounds mindless but landlords eat that stuff up. Finally, you walk through the apartment: after a few KING KONG sized termites drop from the ceiling into your head, you drop the Yale act and start the house hunting process again.

The last apartment my roommate and I visited was a severe place that looked like a former army barrack—it’s only claim to sophistication was its beautiful view of the Potomac River. As we walked around the no-frills apartment the landlord gave us little tour-guide-style tidbits:
“The master bedroom has a wall of mirrors because the apartment used to belong to a World War II ballet dancer—this room used to be her dance studio.”
Then she stole a quick side glance to see our reaction. Sensing what was needed of me I immediately lit up and tried to look like I was imagining myself in a tutu doing pirouettes around the room. She seemed satisfied.

Then we saw the bathroom. She bluntly advised us to crack the door open when we showered. In response to our delicate inquiries about this she explained that if we closed the door while bathing, the bathroom would immediately mold.
At this point I felt uncertain about the place and made the mental decision to stop wooing her because once a landlord admits the possibility that a future tenant might have to speed dial Hazmat, said future tenant immediately has the upper hand.

Then she took us to the kitchen. It was small and in need of renovation. She made promises to paint it and strip the floors. Then she walked over to the corner of the kitchen and with much fanfare showed us: a portable dishwasher.
My roommate and I were immediately impressed, but not quite sure why—the term portable dishwasher just sounded cool.

In an effort to give us a tutorial on how to use it, she grabbed the dishwasher and dragged it over to the sink. Then she seized a corrugated rubber tube from the dishwasher and tried attaching it to the mouth of the kitchen sink faucet.
“…See all you have to do is connect this like so…” she muttered as she tried to shove the mouth of the faucet into the tube. To her dismay it didn’t work.
“…and when you want to do dishes you just turn on the faucet and leave it running for about an hour and all the clean water will run into the pipe and then down into the dishwasher…” (The tube still wouldn’t attach to the faucet).
“Where does the dirty water come out?” I asked feeling simultaneously amused, fascinated, and disgusted.
“Um… well this rubber tube also has another hole, so the dirty water will come out of the dishwasher, up into the tube, and then into your sink. I guess…” (The tube still wouldn’t connect—at this point she had begun holding the tube up to the mouth of the faucet and sort of casually acting like it was attached).
“Some people in the surrounding apartments have actually installed permanent dishwashers into their kitchens—but I’m never going to do that,” She added laughing nervously.

As soon as she turned her back my roommate and I exchanged: “Will-it-be-tacky-if-we-sprint-out-of-here-while-her-back-is-turned-as-fast-as-Michael-Johnson-did-in-the-1996-Olympics?” glances.

Staying one step ahead of bathroom mold I can handle, but I draw the line at portable dishwashers that don’t even work—just because the apartment was built during World War II doesn’t mean one should live as if World War II is still happening.

Photo Credits: http://apricot.files.wordpress.com/2007/12/arabesqueserenade-shangaiballet.jpg

For Future Reference...

If you have children you should only talk about them publicly if they have done something completely marvelous or extraordinary. Let’s be honest: it’s the only way an acquaintance will be genuinely interested.

NOT ACCEPTABLE:
"Little August is really interested in letters. He loves to write with his crayons."
(YAWN)

ACCEPTABLE:
"Little August is really interested in letters.
Yesterday he wrote PAP SMEAR on the living room wall with his crayons. I was quite impressed with his penmanship."


Photo credits: http://pictures.spacebar.org/images/feb2006/crayons.jpg

Hanes: The Official Underwear of Academics?

While walking to the Ballston metro station on our way to work yesterday my roommate and I got stuck behind two OLD men.
They looked like distinguished professors in their 60s: they had white beards, glasses, and worn looking suits.
They were carrying gym bags and as we walked behind them, we noticed one of theIR bags had opened and the contents were spilling onto the pavement.

My roommate immediately called out after them and they instantly turned and stared at us blankly, taking a moment to process what was happening.
She began picking their items off the ground; I followed suit, and picked up the item closest to me: it was a crumpled pile of brilliantly white material.
As soon as I lifted it into the air I realized what it was:
A large, cotton, Hanes-brand tighty-whitey.
AND it was DAMP.
I looked from my roommate to the companion professor, and then to the owner of the underwear—the realization of what the item was dawned collectively on their faces at once. Our stances became clear: My roommate, the companion professor, and I were thoroughly amused; however, the owner of the underwear was thoroughly embarrassed.
As I returned the clammy tighty whitey to its owner I tried to stifle a smile; he looked back at me with scarlet cheeks and thanked me rather awkwardly.

While telling a friend later, she looked like she wanted to gag.
Me (Unconcernedly): Why? It’s not a big deal. They were BRILLIANTLY WHITE. I didn’t mind picking them up.
Friend 1: Who cares if they were brilliantly white? They were DAMP.
Me: No matter. Would you rather pick up BRILLIANTLY WHITE underwear that is damp, or CRUDDY YELLOW underwear that is dry?
Friend 1 (Without missing a beat): Cruddy yellow underwear. Think about it: Why were they damp? BECAUSE OF BUTT SWEAT.
Me (Skeptically): No000000oooo! From what?!
Friend 2: THE GYM. He just got back from THE GYM.

And that is when it all clicked and I hurled.
Okay I didn’t hurl, but I wanted to shed the epidermis on my hands, just like snakes do with their outer layer of skin.

photo credits: www.nlcnet.org/admin/media/images/bangladesh/harvestrich/hanes_underwear_label.jpg

The British Nationals You Find at the Bus Stop

So I’m running late for work on Tuesday morning and as I approach the bus stop the only other person there is an attractive guy in a suit. This was an anomaly—this never happens at our bus stop.

I immediately notice the suit is European cut—which impresses me—but since he’s standing there posed like he’s in a Gucci ad campaign (who stands at the bus stop at 7:30 in the morning right in the middle of a flattering beam of sunlight) and I’m slightly irritable (because I’m late) I immediately think: “Okay Gucci guy. I will not be impressed by the fact you are in your twenties and you are wearing a well-cut European suit instead of wearing a dirty, plaid shirt and an old hoodie like most twenty-something males of our generation. Maybe I would have been impressed if I saw you yesterday, or maybe I would be tomorrow, but today? No way.”

So as soon I get to the bus stop, I pull out my commuting headphones. They are huge, ugly, BOSE-like noise canceling headphones that should only be worn by a person in a shooting range, recording studio, or an insane asylum. These clunky headphones say to the world: OBVIOUSLY I AM SHUNNING YOU, SO DON’T TALK TO ME. JUST SO YOU KNOW: I AM CURRENTLY LISTENING TO HEAVY METAL BECAUSE I’M ANGRY AT THE WORLD AND MY INTENT IS TO SHUT EVERYONE OUT (even though I’m probably just *really* listening to Colbie Caillat or the Cardigans).

As I’m pulling them out, Gucci guy turns to me and says: Do you have any idea when the next bus is coming? With a look of concern on his face.
Then everything changed.
I noticed the sun was out, the birds were chirping, and my irritability dissipated like a cloud of white smoke.
I immediately pulled a disappearing act with my headphones and slid them back into my purse; it was done so suavely it must have looked like a magic trick. Why did all of this happen? Because he had spoken with a British accent.

An authentic accent that isn’t native to the country you are in is one of the most magical, powerful tools an individual can have. An accent can blow open a million doors instantly. An accent can’t be bartered or bought. Yes it can be faked, but when it’s genuine, it’s one of the most endearing and charming physical traits a person can have. Accents significantly increase personal marketability and eligibility status. An accent paired with a European-cut suit, and a boyishly handsome face will get you everywhere you need to go. Just like a Visa card.

We chatted all the way from the bus, to the metro station, to the metro stop where I had to get off. He was from Winchester, England; he had just spent the week working in a soup kitchen in New York and now he was having a smashing time interning for a Senator on the Hill and would return to England in July.

While on the crowded metro, I was so enthralled that I slightly lost control of my salad I had brought for lunch at work. An older woman in a pencil skirt with a calculated gleam in her eye interrupted our conversation in an unnecessarily LOUD manner to let me know my salad might tip over. She said it with 15 percent concern and 85 percent I-want-to-point-out-to-this-English-boy-that-you-are-kind-of-clumsy-because-if-I-can’t-have-this-much-fun-at-8:00am-in-the-morning-then-neither-should-you.”
I sweetly thanked her but my underlying subtext was “I know you are jealous that I’m talking to the only, charming British guy in the metro car, but I’m three long distance phone dates away from becoming the Duchess of Winchester and neither you Mrs. Banana Republic pencil skirt, nor my innate clumsiness will stop me from becoming local British loyalty.”

And then it all got deflated 5 minutes later when I discovered he was about 21-years-old—which in American means: based on his age I’d probably be more suited to be his nanny than his duchess.
Explanation: He was ending his gap year and going to Cambridge in the fall.
(A gap year is a year off British students take between completing their A-levels and going to university that combines work experience and travel.)

But two seconds after my initial disappointment, I realized something: it wasn’t about me anymore. What I had on my hands was bigger than me. I had a young, impressionable British National in front of me and I needed to stop focusing on my grand duchess dreams and instead focus on making sure he had a proper Washington, D.C. experience. I triumphantly decided that my friends and I will take young Thomas G. Davenport out and show him America! We have to do a distinctly American activity with him, in the words of a friend: “Do something wild and reckless that will leave his hair messed up and (maybe) will make him unbutton his suit jacket and abandon his proper English roots, if only for a moment.”
And we will. For the sake of our British foreign policy, it must be done!


(And besides: what if young Thomas Davenport has older siblings who also go to Cambridge?)

Uncles...

‘Uncle Jay.’
That’s what Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin’s daughter Apple calls media mogul Jay Z.
Smart move. If you are naming your kid Apple, you’ve got to make sure she has uncles in high places because without connections, the name Apple isn’t getting her out of any situation where she needs street cred.

I have all kinds of uncles. The loving and incredibly patient uncle I lived with during my terrible teens, the uncle that introduced me to the addictive world of movie theatres, the uncle that’s cool enough to send me the CDs of cutting edge indie musicians, the uncle that told me he’d be my prom date if I needed one (weird but endearing), and the uncle that consistently walked into a room full of important grown ups—and even though I was an invisible 7-year-old girl—immediately found me and made me feel like I mattered more than they did.

Sadly the word uncle can also have an unpleasant connotation. I’ve had some creepy non—blood related “uncles” too—particularly the uncle of a friend who would hug me about 10 seconds too long and try to get me to sit on his lap (when I was in college).

The Associated Press writes obituaries for celebrities and big personalities that haven’t died yet. It boils down to efficiency, news worthiness, and timeliness—if a big name person dies, they want to be the first ones to break the story and then cut short the attention by quickly breaking another story.

When a loved one dies it feels as if the whole world should stop. McDonald's should stop making Big Macs, amusement parks should close, TV stations should put on syndicated shows instead of new episodes, and everyone should, at least for a day, honor the fact that a person with such a sparkling spirit has passed.

Obviously this can’t happen. Too many people die each day for this to be possible; the world would be on permanent hold.

But despite the fact that others can’t care—to you the person you lost means everything.

I lost my uncle Phillip quite suddenly last weekend.
He was only 37.
He was the uncle that made me feel like I mattered when I was invisible in a room full of adults.

Today McDonald's is currently making more mediocre hamburgers, amusement parks across America are still selling tickets, and the world has moved on to the next thing.
But I won’t dismiss the memory of him.
Because he was wonderful—and it’s my turn to show how much he mattered.

A Side of Sweat with that Sandwich Ma’am?

There is a gargantuan pink elephant in the Cosi on 15th and K.
All the 9-5ers that work in that area walk into that Cosi, order flatbread sandwiches, experience something terrible, and walk out without ever acknowledging to each other what we experienced. But now the silence is stifling me and I’m going to shatter it before I suffocate.

It all started about a month ago. I went to Cosi, ordered my flatbread as usual, and waited for it to be prepared. The motherly looking lady who took my order was hot. I mean really hot—every part of her upper body was sopping with sweat.
She grabbed a tray of flatbread from the oven. Plump drops of sweat began rolling down her neck.
She started cutting the flatbread. Beads of sweat rolled quickly from her forehead to her chin.
She started searching for foil to wrap the flatbread in. Thin streams of perspiration from her upper lip snaked down the sides of her mouth.
She was like a one, giant, ice cube melting in the middle of the Sahara.

I watched in breathless fear, waiting for her upper lip perspiration to drop onto the flatbread. It felt like I was waiting for hours.
Then the unexpected happened—the upper lip perspiration didn’t drop; instead, she raised her gloved hand and wiped away the sweat, not with the back of her hand, but with her glove. The glove she was using to hold my flatbread.
Traumatized, I inwardly screamed in agony and disgust.

Sadly, this exact scene has happened to me and many other patrons numerous times in the past month. Each time you walk into Cosi, sweaty Cosi lady stands there dripping from head to toe. I even went into Cosi early one morning hoping to avoid her. It was about 7:45am, the restaurant was empty, and there she was, saturated in her own perspiration.

The worst part about sweaty Cosi lady is that you can NEVER avoid her. Cosi is like a food factory; it’s set up like an assembly line. You order your sandwich from one person, they cut the flatbread, the next person adds the cheese, the next adds the meat, etc. She’s usually the flatbread lady and unless you want a BLT wrapped in just lettuce, you have to go through her.

The adage: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you (or sweats on your flatbread)plays into this because without sweaty Cosi lady, there would be NO Cosi on 15th and K. Sweaty Cosi lady runs that place. She tells the bread makers how much dough to use, she hurries along the assembly line during rush hour, and I’ve even seen her have a stern word or two with the manager. She makes that Cosi efficient—but it’s at a steep, sweat-drenched price.

I wanted to reject the sandwich but two cruel realities gripped me. First, how often does this happen to food you order in restaurants? Probably a lot, you just don’t see it because you aren’t in the kitchen. And even if I did ask them to make it again, she would just drip sweat all over the next sandwich too. Secondly, it's not her fault that she sweats profusely while making our sandwiches; she can't help that.
If only she would wear some kind of sweat face-guard.
Rip Hamilton, Jason,and Hannibal Lecter all had face guards. It wouldn't be too much to ask.
It would make things better.

But this Cosi thing—it’s like the horrible cycle of lunch life. Every time I’ve gone back—their flatbread is amazing, you’d go back too—sweaty Cosi lady has been there commandeering the kitchen. She never takes a day off. And as I stand in the lunch hour line that goes out the door and down the block, I *know* everyone standing in that line is PRAYING that sweaty Cosi lady will have:
a) Taken a sick day or b) Been transferred to another Cosi or C) Miraculously have gotten her sweat glands surgically dried up.

This morning on my way to work I decided I wanted a bagel from Cosi. I couldn’t handle the sweat thing though—so a bright idea came to me: I’d go to a different Cosi, the one on M and 17th.
I was too focused on the menu board to look at the server while ordering.
When I finally trained my eyes on her, I couldn’t believe what I saw. It wasn’t sweaty Cosi lady from 15th and K… it was her protégé.
She also had a motherly demeanor, and there she was, face dripping with sweat, even though the Cosi was empty. Right before she cut open my bagel open she wiped the sweat off her face with her gloved hand.

Seriously?
Can’t Cosi round up all the sweat-drenched servers and put them in one, central sweat-logged Cosi location that everyone can avoid?

The Ups and DOWNS of House Hunting...

Each morning as soon as I wake up, I anxiously open my eyes and look around to check if our house has caved in and my bedroom has fallen into the kitchen. Then, when I see no rubble or kitchen utensils around me, I breathe a sigh of relief and joyously jump out of bed, thankful for another day our house hasn’t collapsed.

It’s not that the house isn’t big, charming (in its own way), or in a great neighborhood—actually it’s all of these things. But simply put, it’s an old house that has been neglected by its landlord and needs extreme renovation—badly. It leaks when it rains, mold that was sneakily hidden by a coat of paint is breaking free and bubbling up on walls, the hardwood on the upper floor sighs like it’s about to hold up it’s final occupant, and there's a distinct layer of 80’s grime that even Mr. Clean himself couldn’t scrub away.

Last night, in the midst of a housing search I got an email from my roommate with the subject line “haaaaaaaaaaaaa”— this seemed odd. It was a listing for a charming, brick home in an upscale neighborhood; the description of the house was divine. It was every renter’s housing dream. It had a sun-filled dining room, lots of skylights, Berber carpeting in the sunroom, a clean, updated kitchen, and a basement study with original pine paneling + built in shelves.
Marvelous!
I had to get all the way to "the house has a picturesque, garden-patio spiral staircase to the second level" before I caught on.
This was OUR HOUSE.
I laughed so hard I fell off my chair—which actually kind of hurt, but didn’t caulk my laughter.

The ad should have read like this:

This house has:
*A sun-filled dinning room (if you are in the dinning room between 11am and 12pm)
*Lots of skylights (if you are fortunate, the sun will stubbornly filter through the dead leaves that have accumulated on the skylights)
*Berber carpeting in the sunroom (when it’s dark you won’t notice the Berber looks like a bunch of Serengeti animals trampled on it)
*A basement study with built-in bookcases (that look like Bob-the-Builder was the lead contractor for them)
*A clean, updated kitchen (hahahahahahahahahhahaha—can’t even tackle that one)
*A picturesque, garden-patio staircase to the second-level (nicknamed by current tenants as ‘the spiral staircase of death’—taking these stairs is a wonderful way to ensure you break a leg or spine or some other body part that will inconvenience your daily regimen if broken).

This house is complete with a soft-spoken landlord that doesn’t return phone calls about tenant concerns and occasionally hires make-believe fairies to fix real problems.
At the lease-signing a hard hat is included for each tenant at no additional cost—to avoid landlord liability in the case that the house caves in while the tenants are sleeping.

Photo Credits: www.stirlingmc.co.uk/images/bigstockphoto_mortgage_key__162982.jpg

Falling for a Pansy

So I’m walking down M street on Monday evening and this disheveled guy, (who kind of looks like Pigpen from Charlie Brown) walks up to me.
He has some wilting flowers in his hands and he begins speaking to me. I have headphones on—which are usually a deterrent to unwanted sidewalk conversations—but when I see the flowers I am instantly curious and remove my headphones.

(SIDE NOTE: I am horticulturally-challenged. The only flowers I recognize are sunflowers, roses, dandelions, and maybe tulips (if my contacts are in, I’m wearing aviators, and the shadow of the sun is on my left). Every other flower falls into the category: colorful, generic plant. You could hand me a bunch of reeds, tell me they are hydrangeas, and my face would light up like a Christmas tree and I would gratefully curtsy for you because I’d have no idea you were pulling the wool over my eyes).

So, Pigpen is standing there with a bunch of “flowers” and he says (actually mutters) to me:
“Do you know what these are?”
Before I can shake my head he says: “Pansies.”
Then he immediately launches into a long, nonsensical explanation about pansies that impresses me because of the boldness of his delivery. It sounds something like this: “In the 1900s pansies saved us in the civil war because of their extraordinary healing powers…Michael Jackson…Greta Van Sustren……burning fires…pants on fire...grown on pansy farms……and in conclusion, this is why pansies are a rare flower.” Then his eyes—which are kind of moist at this point—look directly into mine and I’m thinking “Caution! Caution! Look away! Look away!” but I can’t and I tiredly give in and realize: Pansy man has got me. They always get you when your eyes meet theirs.

At this point he solemnly hands me one pansy—truth be told---it looked a bit ugly and crushed (and it had dirt on the bottom but I thought nothing of it at the time). Honored to have a pansy from his pansy farm I say “Thank you,” and take it from him.
And then he says without blinking: “Please give me a dollar for that pansy.”
And for a moment I feel a little jarred and confused. The analytic part of me thinks: Money? Money?! This was a gift, not a business transaction! But the emotional part of me is still under pansy man’s “These pansy’s saved our nation” spell and I really want to support his pansy farm so I disregard his attitude of blatant entitlement and check my pockets for cash. I have none.

I look at pansy man and distraughtly say: “I have no money! I’m really sorry! I really, honestly don’t!” and I feel like my heart is going to combust because i feel so emotional about it and I brace myself to hear him demand I give back my magical farm pansy.
He looks at me disappointedly for a moment and then finally says: “That’s okay; have a great day.” and walks away, leaving me with the pansy.

So as I continue down M Street, I’m feeling kind of crappy because I’ve failed pansy man and his farm, so in a downcast manner I stare at the pavement. And then I notice something…there are landscaped flower beds all down M Street… and they have ALL been UPROOTED…and in the beds are the crushed remains of a few PANSIES that were left behind.
(I’ll skip over the thought that came to mind when I realized what had happened. Let’s just say if this was a cartoon strip my thoughts would be represented by a black cloud and an exclamation point).

And even worse I just googled a picture of a pansy and I’m not even sure the flowers he offered me actually were pansies.

City people and their TREACHEROUS LIES!

Photo Credits: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/101/294080887_1b86a4b93a.jpg?v=0

Mosquito Alarms...a Buzz Kill?

Me: Have you heard? They’re making whistles for kids now. They make this horrible, high pitched sound that only kids can hear. When kids hear it they run away because it hurts their ears!
J: That’s horrible!
F: Like dog whistles? I don’t believe it. They can’t make that for kids. It’s not possible. They have the same ears we do.
Me: Seriously they are! People in small towns across America are using them on kids to stop them from loitering.
F: This is one of those things I would believe if I had read it, but I haven’t so I don’t believe you.
Me: It’s true! The ACLU just hasn’t fought it yet. I don’t know how the whistle works though.
L: It probably just works on a frequency that kids can hear but adults can’t. Maybe kids and adults receive different frequencies?
J: This is just terrible!
Me: Nope, I think it’s awesome. People are using it to stop kids from loitering.
J: Loitering where?
Me: I don’t know…like parks and stuff....
J (Slightly on edge due to lack of sleep, suddenly SCREAMS): KIDS ARE SUPPOSED TO BE IN PARKS!
L: Yea, aren’t they the ones suppose to ride swings and stuff…
Me (Pause and consider this for a moment): But not at midnight!
J sighs LOUDLY.
Me (Trying to gain sympathy and support for my cause): Look, if I had a kid whistle it would have saved me the other night when that teenager tried to bully me! I would have just blown the whistle and he would have run away. And NO ONE else would have heard it.
J: He was high, I think. (Goes into an extensive explanation about why she thinks he was high that involves someone eating a lot of chocolate—the explanation doesn’t make sense, but what can be expected from someone who went to bed at 4am and woke up at 7am?)
Me: Either way, if I had a kid whistle it would have saved me. I wish they would mass market them. Kid whistles could be the new mace!
F: I mean, I like the idea of it. I just don’t believe these kid whistles exist.
Me (Defensively): They do! I read it in an article!
F: Which paper? Was it a real one?
Me: Now I don’t remember which one it was.
L: Was the paper named after a fruit?
Me: Huh?
F: Like… “The Onion”? (smirks)
J :If you read it in The Onion, it's not true."
Everyone laughs.
Except me.
I just sit there plotting how I’ll prove them all wrong.
Here are the facts:

The mosquito alarm (as the device is called) was created by Howard Stapleton.
Apparently when he was 12 he worked at a factory in London and couldn’t stand the high frequency noise the equipment emitted, but all the adults around him couldn’t hear it. He eventually created the mosquito device as a controversial way to break up youth gangs and stop kids from mischievously loitering in stores and he tested it in Wales. The sound the mosquito alarm emits “is designed to irritate young people so that after several minutes, they cannot stand it and go away.”

Look who's smirking now.
DOUBTERS.

Photo Credits: http://wwp.intruder-alarms-uk.com/

"Let Them Eat...Pizza?"

Hilarious article by The Onion titled Potential Employee Uprising Quelled with Pizza.
Actually read it on a day my office had just bought everyone pizza…

Photo Credits: www.bangormetro.com