The mystery, of course, is why Staples has only sold a million of them. After all, America is the land of FedEx and liposuction; there's nothing we desire more than instant gratification, and of course that goes double for Las Vegas, where, ever since a handful of legislators bet the state's future on games of chance and quickie divorces, the shortcut has reigned supreme. Indeed, gambling is the greatest economic Easy Button ever devised. In less-enlightened realms, grocery stores that want to boost their profits focus on case-pack optimization or better category management of variable weight perishables—here, they just add slot machines. And not the kind you have to feed nickels to in between wrist-breaking pulls of a resistant lever. These days, any slot machine that demands more than a credit card swipe and the push of a button is practically manual labor—you might as well get a job at McDonald's.
Beyond the glow of the Strip, however, there are disturbing trends afloat. Indeed, if only one million Americans have purchased an Easy Button, that means approximately 295 million haven't! Sure, some of them are probably holding out for a version that does more than just sabotage their careers, but what about all the rest? Do they really embrace hard work more dearly than any other value? And if they do, do they realize their folly? It wasn't hard work that turned us into the world's wealthiest nation—it was laziness, our collective appetite for an easier way to get from here to there, a less arduous way to make dinner and wash the dishes, a more efficient means of amassing huge collections of pornography.
Ironically, today's most popular high-tech gadgets aren't Easy Buttons at all. BlackBerries, laptops and cell phones don't make your work disappear with a single, satisfying click; they tie a digital noose around your neck that your boss can yank any time he wants. The consequences of this phenomenon are getting dire: 60 Minutes reports that despite our growing fondness for 80-hour work weeks, we're actually less productive per hour than the French.
Unfortunately, the new vogue for joyless labor starts at the top. Last summer, when high gas prices had us so shell-shocked we actually expected the government to wage a War on Service Stations, President Bush neatly defused such presumptions in a series of publicity appearances. "I wish I could just wave a magic wand and lower the price at the pump; I'd do that," he told the crowd at a biodiesel refinery in Virginia.
With this response, the president put to rest any doubts about his competence: If he had a magic wand, he wouldn't mistake it for, say, a midget's cane—he'd recognize it for what it was: a tool for fixing the energy crisis. And he convinced us of his resolve, as well: Unlike, say, climate-change zealot Al Gore, who might not even use a magic wand if he had one, simply to teach us a lesson about energy conservation, President Bush would totally use a magic wand to fix gas prices. Probably even preemptively, if necessary. And once again, it was clear why we elected this man twice. Not because he was a genius or a workaholic, but because he reminded us of us—just another lazy clock-watcher dreaming of an Easy Button.
Until now, that is. In the past, Dubya's Augusts have been reserved for posing with cowboy hats and weapons of bass destruction, but this year he's taking a break from his standard month-long holiday. "With Republicans nervous about keeping control of Congress and Bush's own worries about the future of Iraq, Iran and North Korea, White House officials have decided too much is at stake this year for Bush to spend so much time on vacation," the Associated Press reports. "He will spend some time at his ranch in Texas, but it will be less than during previous summers and will be interrupted by more road trips."
Less vacation time? Road trips? And nary a mention of magic wands? It's almost as if the president is saying he believes in hard work. Sure, it's just campaign-season posturing, but, inevitably, that sort of attitude rubs off on the masses.
Case in point: the cruel remarks Ashlee Simpson endures every time she takes a shortcut to perfection. Studio wizards sculpt her voice into an upbeat shrieky croak, a plastic surgeon beautifully remixes her nose, and her critics act as if these are crimes against nature. But, really, are the pleasures of beaky, tuneless pop stars so great that they should be preserved like historical landmarks or endangered species? Simpson's efforts to improve herself don't just make her life better; they make society better, too. She should be applauded for her enterprise, not scorned.
And how about those professional cyclists who use EPO and other physiological Easy Buttons to upgrade their engines? Top contenders Jan Ullrich and Ivan Basso were forced to withdraw from this year's Tour de France simply because they may have been part of a blood-doping scandal—no one's proven them guilty yet—and to what end? Sure, blood-doping can lead to heart failure and other health complications, but it's not as if dodging drunken Belgians at 30 mph on narrow, bumpy roads is risk-free, either. Snapping a collarbone, repaving a street with your thigh—these are constant dangers on the Tour—so what's one more hazard? The reward is speed, and with even the shortest Tour telecasts spanning two-plus hours—a veritable eternity in the age of YouTube.com—any technique that can shave a few seconds here and there should be mandatory.
Also earning scorn for his adventures in performance enhancement: Rush Limbaugh, who was rudely detained by left-leaning U.S. Customs officials last month after they discovered a bottle of Viagra with his psychologist's name on it in his luggage. Eager to kick the controversial pundit while he was flaccid, liberal elitists tried turning this into some sort of major felony. But, really, is it a crime that, after three failed marriages, a tiny flicker of desire for tender, rock-hard intimacy still burns within the caverns of Limbaugh's well-worn heart? No, it's not a crime. It's a triumph of the human spirit, and it should be celebrated by poets and high-school marching bands.
Indeed, the only scandalous aspect of the Limbaugh penis-medicine brouhaha is that he's using so few of the little blue babies. "I had this bottle of Viagra in my briefcase," he told his listeners after the story broke. "I've had it in there since December. I forgot it was even in there. There were 30 pills prescribed, and when they counted them out, there were 29."
So either Limbaugh isn't getting much action, or he's undergone some dramatic psychological transformation that makes the pills unnecessary. If it's the former, so be it. But what if Limbaugh has actually worked through his problems and healed himself in some deep, profound way when he could have simply resorted to Viagra, one of the most effective Easy Buttons available now? What a terrible message to send to a nation on the verge of losing its faith in the shortcut!