Thinking Inside The Boxes
I just filled out my census, and boy are my arms tired!
Well, technically I’ve only opened the envelope. But I’m already trembling.
The Census is, after all, the BFD of the USA—that decade-on-decade tradition of writing down your name. So you’ll have to forgive my forearm tremors—it’s my first time “census-ing,” and I want to get it right. I want to make it special.
It’s comforting to know that the Census Bureau is trying as well. They’ve shelled out $340 million to convince folks to participate in the survey, including $2.5 million spent on an incomprehensible Christopher Guest TV spot that played during the Super Bowl.
The Bureau’s print campaign has been similarly aggressive, albeit disappointingly straightforward compared to its televised counterpart. Billboards and bus ads alike now pose questions like “If we don’t know how many people we have, how do we know how many hospitals to build?” Or, “If we can’t count the assholes, how can we build enough Spencer’s Gifts?”
So much effort. So much money. All designed to get this in my hands: Bluish-gray. 8 1/2 by 11. Kind of smells like old people’s pants.
The Bureau is committed to efficiency. The front page promises that my “burden” will only be five minutes; should I find I’ve spent more time, they suggest I snail mail complaints to <<Paperwork Reduction Project 0607-0919-C, U.S. Census Bureau, AMSD-3K138, 4600 Silver Hill Road, Washington, DC 20233>>. I guess they count instances of irony in a different office.
That’s fine; let’s move on. If you haven’t already done your census, roll on down to your mailbox. It’ll be more exciting if we do this together (plus, these jokes might actually make sense). Got it? Bam. Now let’s do some good.
’Cause we are doing good, after all. Or at least what everyone likes to think of as good. The census is the bureaucratic equivalent of stopping for an ambulance. Sure, it helps people, but you don’t actually do it for that reason. You do it to feel smarmy and justifiably self-righteous. That’s why I always pass hospitals when I’m driving other people—I’m an exhibitionist civil responsibilitarian. And I’m guessing you are too, so help me out. We’ve only got four minutes left.
Question 1) Full name.
See byline. The T stands for Theodore, by the way, if you want to get me an inscribed watch celebrating this occasion.
2) What is my sex?
Insert easy joke here.
3) What is your age and birth date?
Actually, guv’ment, by subtractin’ my birth date from the current date, you can figger my age yourself!
4) What flavor of Mexican are the members of your household? Mexican, Mexican American, Puerto Rican or Cuban?
To be safe, I follow my friend Brian’s advice. “Make each of your roommates a little Mexican. It lets them know you’re not a racist who wouldn’t live with Mexicans.”
4a) Are you a racist?
Yes!
5) What is your race?
I’m glad our country’s moved past this whole race thing. But I guess we can’t exactly skirt the Constitution: “And a census shall be took of all Americans, sorting them soundly by the color of their skin. And also note the Mexicans.” I’ll admit to being white. See attached photo.
6) Do you live in this facility MOST OF THE TIME?
Like inside of it? Like do I not go out? ’Cause I don’t have anything else to do? I’m sorry; I’m confused. Maybe if you’d used more caps lock I’d understand MORE COMPLETELY.
7) What is your exact address MOST OF THE TIME?
Much too paranoid to fill this out.
8) Did you enjoy this Census?
Like a bowl of cake. See ya next decade.