A quick glimpse at my Facebook reveals a number of requests for causes and groups. I learned a long time ago to avoid “liking” these groups after giving the thumbs to a group about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. My status read, “John Spencer likes Sudden Infant Death . . . ” I think I lost some friends that day.
I start out unsure if I should create a Teachers and Educators Against Mnemonics-Acronymns (TEAM-A) or an anti-Comic Sans group. However, after a best of three coin toss, I determine that Fate is leading me toward and anti-Comic Sans crusade.
The first step involves marketing. I start with a general look. It has to be professional-looking. Definitely Century Gothic font on this one. Oh, and it needs to have an apple. Not sure why educators choose a symbol that beckons back to the Fall of Man, but it works. So, I start with the following:
In order to prove TACS as a bona fide club, I take the following measures:
- A sign-up list for members
- Brochures explaining the dangers of Comic Sans
- Copies of ridiculous Comic Sans examples in our school district. These include our safety sheet (because chemical spills aren’t all that funny) and the curriculum guide with the words Holocaust and Genocide in bold-faced comic sans.
- A list of websites where group members can go to learn more about the history of Comic Sans and its connection with Microsoft BOB.
- A heavily biased sheet of talking points, including Comic Sans’ role in the pansy-fication of American youth. (Would Chuck Norris use Comic Sans? I doubt it.)
- Membership cards
Armed with my propaganda, I prepare to start the first TACS Club.
“Hey, want to join my club?” I ask a primary grade teacher.
She thumbs through the literature (not sure why propaganda is called “literature,” but if the Tea Party gets to have literature, this can be literature as well). She shakes her head and explains, “I can’t join this, John. Sorry.”
“Do you mind telling me why?”
“Because comic sans is really helpful for young students. The letter ‘a’ is exactly how they write it. Some of my students need that
type of help.”
“Yes, but fire and mercury spills and bloodborne pathogens aren’t comical,” I point out.
“So, maybe this helps them relax,” she says.
“I guess it can be pretty disarming.”
* * *
Later that lunch period, a teacher stops by and says, “I agree with you. I hate that font. Hate it. I think it’s from the devil.” Alright, a moral crusader.
“Yep, the Gates of Hell itself are written in Comic Sans,” I add.
“Agreed,” he says.
“So, will you join?” I ask.
“Okay, but what will the club do?”
“Complain about Comic Sans,” I explain.
“Sounds kind-of boring,” he responds. It’s a disappointing answer from a man who thinks Comic Sans is satanic
“Maybe you can put it on your resume or vitae or whatever you want to call it.”
* * *
When I tweet about this idea, five people instantly agree with me. This proves I’m not crazy; which is ultimately one of the greatest strengths of social media. With so many people on the network, you can suggest pretty much any insane idea and run into a handful of people who agree with you. For what it’s worth, I gather a meager three signatures, leaving me with five members. I know Javi the Hippie hates Comic Sans as well, so I’ll see if he will join the group when we have a pint on Thursday.