Scenario A: You’re sitting in your room, deep in focus, studying for that Orgo midterm, maybe writing that Astronomy paper, and you are in The Zone™. You’re on a roll – unstoppable, unflappable, and unbreakable… Until you hear it. The whistler.
Scenario B: You’re at the Ratty, pumped that you’ve stumbled upon salad bar tomatoes that don’t look like they’ve been stewing in their own juice for a week. You’re meeting a friend here, one with whom you kept having to reschedule lunch because you’re both just so fabulous and in demand. This is your damn day. Everything is falling perfectly into place… Until you hear it. The whistler.
Scenario C: You’re in the club. You’re tipsy, and feeling hella good about it. You’re tearing up the dance floor, all eyes on are on you. Feeling sexy and fun and carefree, you’re going as hard as you can after crushing that Orgo midterm (or Astronomy paper). You’ve got them moves like Jagger, you’ve got them moves like Jagger, you’ve got them mo-o-o-o-o-oves like mother fucking Jagger… Until you hear it. The whistler.
The whistler is a vile creature, one who has no regard or consideration for those around them. It lives for disruption and wreaking havoc on others’ eardrums. It roams the earth, disguised as your average human friend. It’s completely undetectable until it purses its lips, makes a teeny tiny hole, and then…
Do they think you can’t hear them? Impossible. That shit carries, and everybody knows it. There’s no such thing as whistling quietly. That would be like stalking casually, or eating ice cream sadly, or sleeping enoughly. There’s no way they can’t tell they’re inflicting aural damage onto everybody within a half mile radius of them. So then why?
The unfortunate truth is, the poor whistler lacks the ability to recognize how completely obnoxious and disruptive it’s being. It thinks it sounds good. It thinks that just because it physically can whistle, it can also whistle well. Which is not usually the case. And let’s pretend we happen to stumble upon the one in a million whistler who actually possesses some semblance of talent for whistling on pitch – that’s still no reason for it to put their talents on display every damn opportunity they get.
Imagine, if you will, a scenario in which whistling was replaced with harmonica blowing. Imagine if somebody physically possessed a harmonica, but had never learned how to control the sound it makes when blown into. Would they play it in public, loud and proud? Probably not. And if they did happen to master the fine art of the harmonica, would they feel compelled to strut around, harmonicing their life away? No! So why should whistling be any different?
Good point.
Thank you.
So next time you find a whistler, please, help them out. Lean over and tap them on the shoulder and let them know how truly terrible they’re being. Together, we can make this happen. Together, we can defeat the whistlers.
