travis.andrews@washpost.com
When I was born I was put on a list, ranking me seventh of sixteen.
Since then I have made it my business to destroy all lists.
Because ranking things is unAmerican.
Because compiling attributes or collating characteristics is puerile.
Because tabulation leads inevitably to deterioration.
This is especially true of a definitive list, which is among the most destructive and sinister of all agendas.
When I find a list lurking in an alleyway I grab it by the throat and throttle it. Or I douse it with patchouli and watch it shrivel up into a wooden nutmeg. Sometimes I run it out of town on a rail, or frog march it down to the station house where the cops can give it the third degree before sending it to Gitmo.
I tried being nice to a baby listicle once. I took it into my home and fed it cream of rice cereal and licorice. I sent it to school in brand new clothes, and gave it a warm comfortable bed in a cozy alcove near the soapstone stove. But it eventually turned on me, enumerating my faults and tallying up my skin tabs -- so I sent it away to the salt mines in Nebraska.
You can't trust a list or turn your back on a ranking.
Never believe anything you read on a checklist. It's all as thin and flimsy as a set of steak knives on QVC.
Join with me, comrades, in eradicating all lists and rankings from the earth! You have nothing to lose but your catalogs . . .
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