Whistlers

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You people who whistle—I mean while strolling down grocery store aisles, while changing your clothes in gym locker rooms, or just generally whistling around perfect strangers—what the fuck is up with you people? I’d like to know if anyone ever says to you people, “Oh, what a lovely whistle, please continue.” And why are you whistlers always middle age or elderly men? Fifty years ago, did everybody whistle wherever they went every time they left the house? Is this the cultural effect of Snow White’s Seven Dwarfs? And why always men? Have you ever heard a women randomly whistle in public? Does some law forbid it? I’m not talking about whistling at beauty. That seems to’ve fallen out of fashion in most civilized communities. But whistling for the simple enjoyment of it, you’ll still hear it every now and again. I’m sorry, but there is too much noise pollution in the world as it is—what with sirens, car horns, stereo speakers, jackhammers, cicadas, cell phone chatter, barking dogs, etc. On top of all that, who needs your uninvited, self-generating, lip-blown Muzak? This is a habit we need to stamp out of existence. Ladies and gentlemen, I urge you to join me in the global effort to whistle, yes, whistle, at the whistlers! [PASS OUT PEA WHISTLES HERE.] Every time you cross paths with such an offender, blare one of these at them until they knock. it. off. Methinks they’ll get the point tout de suite. You gotta think most will. But if they don’t? If they stroll over to the next grocery aisle and start up again? You follow them and you keep on screaming your whistle. Don’t do it for me. Do it for them. Because if this doesn’t work, I might have to dust off my poison dart blowgun. 
15 April 2005



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