Category Archives: Muddled Musings

The Cliche Machine


can you buy isotretinoin online yahoo They ask the impossible, and we pretend there’s an answer.

order isotretinoin online consultation I was watching soccer this week when I came to this epiphany, right in the middle of a dim-witted sideline interview. The player had barely caught his breath before a reporter stepped in, microphone poised to spoil the moment.

“How did you find the confidence to take that last shot?”

“How did you dig deep and find the heart to push through?”

“Where did you find the inner strength to keep going?”

These aren’t real questions. They’re abstract riddles in the costume of journalism, designed more to kill air than to enlighten. We’ve accepted them as part of the postgame ritual, but the moment you really listen, you realize they’re impossible to answer.

An athlete doesn’t pause mid-run to ponder the depths of his confidence or deliver a TED Talk on resilience. He moves because movement is his only language. He runs because stopping isn’t an option.

Yet the microphone always appears, begging for a magic formula: “What was going through your head?” As if the player had time to draft a sonnet while hurdling defenders. The honest answer — nothing — sounds too plain, too true for broadcast TV.

These questions echo across every sport like a chant. You could shuffle them up and fling them at a hockey goalie, a sprinter, or a tennis player, and no one would blink. The rookie on the bench? “What gave you the mental toughness to stay ready?” The pitcher who just threw a shutout? “Where did you find the inner fire tonight?”

We crave the myth of the warrior poet. We want to believe these athletes dwell in a realm of unearthly focus, conjuring ancient spirits of grit. We ask them to explain it so we can taste a piece of that magic.

But sport lives in the present tense. The greats don’t think; they vanish into the act itself. The zone is an empty room, not a confessional booth.

Maybe we ask these questions because we’re afraid of silence. We can’t bear to let a moment breathe. We can’t let the stadium roar or the hush after a missed shot hang in the air. Instead, we force players to stitch together a story on the spot, to speak for a feeling that refuses to be pinned down.

And in doing so, we flatten them into cliché machines. The defender who made a season-saving tackle? Maybe he’s just relieved it’s over and wants to call his mom. The striker who scored in extra time? Maybe he just wants a burrito and a nap.

Imagine simpler, more human questions: “What’s the first thing you want to do now?” Or even better — “How did that happen?” and then shut up. Let them decide if they want to say more.

We keep begging for an explanation of courage when the answer already ran past us in cleats, dripping sweat. They live it. We watch it.

And that should be answer enough.

The Word That Won’t Shut Up: ‘Impact’


There was a time when impact was a thing that happened when your car hit a tree. Now it’s something that happens when Becky updates her résumé.

“Seeking high-impact opportunities in the wellness optimization space.”

Translation: She got fired from the smoothie bar and wants to manage an Instagram page about crystals.

We used to use impact for actual force. Collisions. Catastrophes. You know, reality. An asteroid has impact. A divorce has impact. Death is only impact.

But your team’s Q2 synergy meeting? That’s just a conversation with a PowerPoint and dead eyes.

It’s like someone took a useful noun, beat it senseless with a TED Talk, stuffed it with buzzwords, and turned it loose on corporate America like a motivational ferret in a pantsuit.

Now everything’s about “maximizing impact,” “delivering impact,” “creating impact at scale.” Christ, even toothpaste commercials promise “gum health impact.” Who knew minty could be so violent?

And don’t get me started on impactful. “The retreat was so impactful.” No, Chad, it was a weekend at a Ramada where your boss cried during goat yoga.

We’re told to measure impact. Leverage impact. There’s social impact, brand impact, environmental impact. At this point, even your mother’s casserole has impact, because it made everyone shit themselves.

The problem is, when everything has impact, nothing does. Words matter, or they used to. But now, we’re allergic to saying what we actually mean. You didn’t make a difference. You didn’t help. You didn’t even do anything. You just had impact. It’s vague enough to sound important and slippery enough to dodge responsibility.

“This ad campaign had real impact.”

Yeah? Like a tooth?

People don’t actually want impact—they want the illusion of it. They want the brand of impact. Like those asses who post photos of themselves picking up a piece of trash on Earth Day, wearing $300 sneakers made of “recycled hope.”

You want to make an impact? Turn off your phone. Talk to someone. Feed a stray dog. Write a check to a teacher. Something that doesn’t come with a hashtag and a LinkedIn endorsement.

So here lies impact, a once-honest word, inflated into a balloon animal of self-importance and corporate cotton. It didn’t die. It was overused. Which, in America, is the same thing.

Rest in Fluff, Impact. You were briefly meaningful. And then Becky got ahold of you.