Matt Lesley has started an erotic subset of the Brony community he calls UniPorn. You can imagine what the horn is.
Tracey Dolan Portwine brings all the boys to the yard, and many are still buried there.
Keith Seichrist chops down his own Christmas tree every year. Lucky for him he always finds one right in the neighbor's living room.
Erin McSpadden sings a haunting song that lures chipmunks to their watery death.
Mike Muszynski ran a successful hamburger blog until he mistakenly rated a turkey burger as the best burger in Frederick, MD. He now spends his days eating Necco wafers as penance.
Jordan Riccio yells "Play Freebird!" at every concert he goes to. He has also been the recipient of an atomic wedgie a world record 42 times.
Scree! Scree! Jeff Tolbert scort scortt SCREEE! That's right, even dolphins mock you.
Jesse Howell's acting career really turned around after he started going by the stage name Melissa McCarthy.
Laura Brockmeyer learned at a young age that you can never wear enough sunscreen. Or mayonnaise. Either one is good.
Samantha Wentling was kicked out of a Juggalo convention because even they have standards.
Christopher Law went to a Halloween party as Inspector Gadget in 2005. He hasn't gone out of character since, which slightly impedes his career as a dance instructor. Go Go Gadget Jazz Hands!
Bridgett Heard has been known to hypnotize goldfish at the pet store to do her bidding. They have been less than effective at robbing banks to secure her fortune.
David Wendig writes Perfect Strangers erotic fan fiction under the pen name Sexy Poppinfresh.
Sharon Waller keeps a lucky Dutchman's foot on her keychain.
Matt Quimby found fruitful work as the token white guy in Tyler Perry movies.
Elizabeth Friedel spoke in a fake British accent for seventeen years after seeing the movie Snatch came out. It come out in the year 2000, so her friends will finally talk to her again come 2017.
Jamie Doud Lasko was fired from the Teddy Bear Hospital for practicing medicine without a license.
Anela Collazo knows every word to Louie Louie and refuses to share.
Jacqueline Slosky once fought a chair to the death.
Karmn G. Rod is the reason Steven Weber hasn't gotten decent work since Wings.
Nancy Fisher North has been trying desperately to get the nickname Nan C. Westside.
Hanna Gribble's main work credit is as the final script supervisor for every Adam Sandler film since 2001.
Joel Van Goor will make millions when he discovers a way to tattoo an animated GIF of Rerun dancing.
Christopher Beasley has spent his life proving that The Song That Never Ends will someday do just that.
Clare Zuraw was excommunicated from the church because she couldn't stop making raygun noises anytime anyone said the word "pew".
David Gregory is the Peep Eating champion of Korea.
Katiedid Langrock is reading this on a laptop she fashioned from Gobots and cat hair.
Margaret Randall Alldredge thinks tube tops and overalls are the next big fashion trend.
Margie Webber still cranks dat soljaboy at all weddings and bar mitzvahs.
Gus Medina's version of the song "My Favorite Things" would make Red Foxx blush.
Zach Rothstein is known as "The Man of 1000 Faces". He keeps most in his freezer.
Katie Sill gives sandwiches to the homeless. Ghost pepper sandwiches.
Mike and Layla Asplen describe their style of parenting as "Monkey Torture". They refuse to expand on the matter.
Andrea Buntz Neiman coats herself in margarine every night before bed. When asked why, she says that butter is too fattening.
Laura Wienand has been barred from every high school football game in Pennsylvania for excessive taunting. The lewd gestures were icing on the cake.
Valerie Sedai bullied me through college because she refused to believe I was prettier than her. She might have better hair now though. Might.
Travis Shaw is revered in most archaeological circles for once getting so far into the zone that he passed out. When he woke up the site he was excavating was filled back in, but a completely accurate recreation of Peewee's playhouse was built on the site out of pottery shards and pipe stems, and was inhabited by the bones of an indentured servant dressed as Cowboy Curtis.
Emily Miller became the first American in 100 years to get scurvy after her macaroni and cheese diet somehow went awry.
Katie Cavallo's career as a professional luchador will start and end next week.
Elizabeth O'Sullivan was fired from her job at Chuck E Cheese for banishing noisy children to the Ball Pit after getting drunk on power and Mad Dog.
Natalie Litofsky only drinks 10 ounce beers, because she knows those last two ounces are the devil.
Jodi Bailey will be the last thing most of us will ever see.
Julie Stricker won't drink red wine because she says it goes right to her head. That may be because she tends to inject it into her eyeballs.
Annelise Montone's one woman version of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants has been called "haunting", "pointless", and "graphically violent".
Ryan Protos is proud to announce he has been officially sponsored by FourLoko.
Bodine Boling created the whip, but has disavowed the Nae Nae.
Kurt Lewis will not leave his house until he remembers where he put the activator for his jericurls.
Angela Desmond proudly owns America's largest collection of Bumpits, outside of Texas that is.
Joyce Phelps believes that the most tragic character ever written is not Willy Loman, but Dumb Donald. Read her 200 page college dissertation to find out why.
Steve Nickerson's music video for his band's most popular song "Everybody's Twerking for the Weekend" has a shocking 36 views on Youtube,
Scott Humburg wears pants less than Winnie the Pooh.
Christopher Neu successfully held out his goth phase until he turned 31.
Vicki Fisher will be miserable once I find an old gypsy woman to make everything she eats taste like newspaper. Vicki could evade this if she finally admits she tried to hit me with a Snapple bottle when we were little.
Megan Usilton is still angry that she lost the role of Dobby in Harry Potter, even though she looks the part.
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Dear Gin Blossoms
All of our lives we are told to not judge a book by its cover. I've found, most of the time, I can make a fairly decent judgement of a book by the cover design. That's how I initially judge every Kindle deal I get in the email. If the cover has a beach scene or a horse, I don't buy it. Shaky writing, bicycles, or cool art, I read the description. Fabio shirtless with a wench, well, that's a buy no matter the price. Maybe the whole point of the idiom is to not make snap judgements, but whoever made it up should have been clearer.
Before Thanksgiving, I was able to relive the '90s twice in a week. On a Thursday, a local ska band called The Smizokes was having a reunion show in Baltimore, and on Saturday the Gin Blossoms were playing in Delaware. I idolized the ska band in high school, and my New Miserable Experience cassette was worn down through middle school. I had high expectations for both shows, so surely life was going to kick me in the nards.
I saw a flyer entering the Ottobar for the Smizokes show announcing that the ska show was downstairs, while The Insane Clown Posse was having a party upstairs. Visions of juggalos danced in my head as I walked in to the venue as the first opening band greeted me with forgettable, bland third wave ska an a sparse crowd egregiously divided between thirteen year olds and thirty five year olds ignored each other. The teenagers were dressed in their finest punk concert gear: shiny leather studded jackets, concert shirts, and Chuck Taylors. My peers were more hodgepodge in jeans, buttoned shirts, and sensible comfy shoes. Ska isn't dead, it just goes to bed at a more reasonable hour.
My fears were unnecessary. The worst makeup I saw was not from a juggalo, but from a misguided teenaged girl who used a beautician's shotgun to apply eyeliner. The Smizokes played hard, well, and all ages joined each other to dance on the floor.If the band or their fans had gotten 18 years older, neither showed it, at least until 10PM came around and we all shuffled home to read and get a good night's sleep.
Clearly if the local band had emerged triumphant after almost two decades, then the Gin Blossoms, who constantly tour, would put on one hell of a show. My girlfriend and I drive out to Harrington Casino with my 90's playlist shuffling through the Ipod. We got to the casino, grabbed some dinner, played some slots, and went to the auditorium about twenty minutes before the show was set to start. Things were immediately amiss. The place was packed, and a line at least fifty people long snaked from the bar. We didn't really think that when the tickets said that the doors opened two hours before the show that everyone would show up then. I quickly assumed that this was some sort of reverse concert. The cool people all showed up super early, most people were seated, and the cool thing to do was to wear your tshirts tucked into your jeans. Alarmed and confused, we sat in the last row, in two of the only open seats.
The weirdness continued as a nicely dressed man took the stage. He announced that the show was about to begin, yet the crowd ignored him and continued to chat. Reading from a list, he counted down the acts that would be playing soon. No one heeded him until two magic words were uttered, "Garth" and "Brooks", and nothing short of a standing ovation occurred. How in the bland sterile halls of IKEA hell does a crowd set to see an alernative rock band cheer that loud for Mr. Trisha Yearwood. Not even in Delaware. The next biggest cheer came when for some reason Wal Mart was mentioned. Oh wait, the reason was that this was in Delaware. Anyway, the band came on, and immediately the entire crowd sat. A whole sea of people sat extremely still as the ban d launched into their set, well, all except for the two morons in front of me. He, a stout lad in his late thirties, kind of shimmied while trying not to drop his beer. She, a stouter muffin topped, tramp stamped lass of the same age, tried to bounce up and down but somehow failed even at this. I decided that if everyone else was going to be a drag, so was I, so I tapped the guy and asked him to sit down. Had I a cane and a hearing aid, I couldn't have felt older.
You, the Blossoms of Juniper, did not help matters. Yes, the show was good, and you were proficient with the songs. Something, however, was practiced, unemotional, and sterile. After one of my favorite songs, Found Out About You, the lead singer kind of leaned back, sighed, and said "That was some good rockin'" like he was remarking about the weather or a peach harvest. If the band isn't really getting into things, how the hell should the audience? The damning part of the evening was when, during some banter between songs, the lead singer asked how many people actually knew who the band was. I chuckled until some furtive hands shot up. Shockingly few hands. Maybe 20 out of the whole very large crowd. This didn't phase him at all, like he was used to large casino crowds coming out to their shows as an alternative to staying home and watching reality tv or throwing rocks at the local harlot. This wasn't a band where dedicated fans sought them out after years of listening to their music. This was a band that walked off stage, grabbed a beer, then walked back onstage without anyone chanting for an encore, because they knew it wouldn't happen. They just started back into their scheduled encore, which was some good rockin' too.
Before Thanksgiving, I was able to relive the '90s twice in a week. On a Thursday, a local ska band called The Smizokes was having a reunion show in Baltimore, and on Saturday the Gin Blossoms were playing in Delaware. I idolized the ska band in high school, and my New Miserable Experience cassette was worn down through middle school. I had high expectations for both shows, so surely life was going to kick me in the nards.
I saw a flyer entering the Ottobar for the Smizokes show announcing that the ska show was downstairs, while The Insane Clown Posse was having a party upstairs. Visions of juggalos danced in my head as I walked in to the venue as the first opening band greeted me with forgettable, bland third wave ska an a sparse crowd egregiously divided between thirteen year olds and thirty five year olds ignored each other. The teenagers were dressed in their finest punk concert gear: shiny leather studded jackets, concert shirts, and Chuck Taylors. My peers were more hodgepodge in jeans, buttoned shirts, and sensible comfy shoes. Ska isn't dead, it just goes to bed at a more reasonable hour.
My fears were unnecessary. The worst makeup I saw was not from a juggalo, but from a misguided teenaged girl who used a beautician's shotgun to apply eyeliner. The Smizokes played hard, well, and all ages joined each other to dance on the floor.If the band or their fans had gotten 18 years older, neither showed it, at least until 10PM came around and we all shuffled home to read and get a good night's sleep.
Clearly if the local band had emerged triumphant after almost two decades, then the Gin Blossoms, who constantly tour, would put on one hell of a show. My girlfriend and I drive out to Harrington Casino with my 90's playlist shuffling through the Ipod. We got to the casino, grabbed some dinner, played some slots, and went to the auditorium about twenty minutes before the show was set to start. Things were immediately amiss. The place was packed, and a line at least fifty people long snaked from the bar. We didn't really think that when the tickets said that the doors opened two hours before the show that everyone would show up then. I quickly assumed that this was some sort of reverse concert. The cool people all showed up super early, most people were seated, and the cool thing to do was to wear your tshirts tucked into your jeans. Alarmed and confused, we sat in the last row, in two of the only open seats.
The weirdness continued as a nicely dressed man took the stage. He announced that the show was about to begin, yet the crowd ignored him and continued to chat. Reading from a list, he counted down the acts that would be playing soon. No one heeded him until two magic words were uttered, "Garth" and "Brooks", and nothing short of a standing ovation occurred. How in the bland sterile halls of IKEA hell does a crowd set to see an alernative rock band cheer that loud for Mr. Trisha Yearwood. Not even in Delaware. The next biggest cheer came when for some reason Wal Mart was mentioned. Oh wait, the reason was that this was in Delaware. Anyway, the band came on, and immediately the entire crowd sat. A whole sea of people sat extremely still as the ban d launched into their set, well, all except for the two morons in front of me. He, a stout lad in his late thirties, kind of shimmied while trying not to drop his beer. She, a stouter muffin topped, tramp stamped lass of the same age, tried to bounce up and down but somehow failed even at this. I decided that if everyone else was going to be a drag, so was I, so I tapped the guy and asked him to sit down. Had I a cane and a hearing aid, I couldn't have felt older.
You, the Blossoms of Juniper, did not help matters. Yes, the show was good, and you were proficient with the songs. Something, however, was practiced, unemotional, and sterile. After one of my favorite songs, Found Out About You, the lead singer kind of leaned back, sighed, and said "That was some good rockin'" like he was remarking about the weather or a peach harvest. If the band isn't really getting into things, how the hell should the audience? The damning part of the evening was when, during some banter between songs, the lead singer asked how many people actually knew who the band was. I chuckled until some furtive hands shot up. Shockingly few hands. Maybe 20 out of the whole very large crowd. This didn't phase him at all, like he was used to large casino crowds coming out to their shows as an alternative to staying home and watching reality tv or throwing rocks at the local harlot. This wasn't a band where dedicated fans sought them out after years of listening to their music. This was a band that walked off stage, grabbed a beer, then walked back onstage without anyone chanting for an encore, because they knew it wouldn't happen. They just started back into their scheduled encore, which was some good rockin' too.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Dear Wine Afficianado at The Giant Crab
When I spend $30 at a seafood buffet in Myrtle Beach, I expect two things: ungodly portions of food and horrifying meat sweats. What I don't expect was the garbage I heard spewing from the booth behind me, where you and your husband sat.
Around plate two, just when I was really hitting my groove and annihilating large colonies of hush puppies and calamari, I noticed that both the manager and your waitress had arrived at your table. The manager was attempting to apologize to you for something, but you continually cut her off.
"That ain't good enough. I tol' her" you snapped. You then brandished a glass filled with a wine, the color of which I can only describe as "muppet blood".
"I tol' her I wanted Sutter Home. This ain't Sutter Home." Your husband mumbled something that sounded either like a vague agreement with you, or some southern friend bastardization of a passage from the Necronomicon. I did get a chance to admire the fact that it was quite obvious that, in addition to saving money by buying hobo wine, your husband option to buy one supertooth to replace his top three front teeth. It was just one big wall of tooth with no gap, which gave him the superpower of gnashing up inhuman quantities of peel and eat shrimp.
I won't go further into the yelling. It's unnecessary, because the bottom line is that you were berating a restaurant staff for not giving you a two buck chuck. Unless they replaced your boxed wine with Mad Dog or Thunderbird, you have no grounds for complaint. They did you a favor, unless the Sutter Home is the only thing pickling your white trash hick body and keeping you looking so fresh from the swamp. The manager looked like she was ready to punch your husband's SooperToof (patent pending) straight out of his face. I made sure to let her know that she did a wonderful job, and that you were a base, unrelenting simpleton for arguing about such a ridiculous thing, and for berating people who have to watch people like you shovel an ocean load of seafood into their drooling, feculent craws every night.
Around plate two, just when I was really hitting my groove and annihilating large colonies of hush puppies and calamari, I noticed that both the manager and your waitress had arrived at your table. The manager was attempting to apologize to you for something, but you continually cut her off.
"That ain't good enough. I tol' her" you snapped. You then brandished a glass filled with a wine, the color of which I can only describe as "muppet blood".
"I tol' her I wanted Sutter Home. This ain't Sutter Home." Your husband mumbled something that sounded either like a vague agreement with you, or some southern friend bastardization of a passage from the Necronomicon. I did get a chance to admire the fact that it was quite obvious that, in addition to saving money by buying hobo wine, your husband option to buy one supertooth to replace his top three front teeth. It was just one big wall of tooth with no gap, which gave him the superpower of gnashing up inhuman quantities of peel and eat shrimp.
I won't go further into the yelling. It's unnecessary, because the bottom line is that you were berating a restaurant staff for not giving you a two buck chuck. Unless they replaced your boxed wine with Mad Dog or Thunderbird, you have no grounds for complaint. They did you a favor, unless the Sutter Home is the only thing pickling your white trash hick body and keeping you looking so fresh from the swamp. The manager looked like she was ready to punch your husband's SooperToof (patent pending) straight out of his face. I made sure to let her know that she did a wonderful job, and that you were a base, unrelenting simpleton for arguing about such a ridiculous thing, and for berating people who have to watch people like you shovel an ocean load of seafood into their drooling, feculent craws every night.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Dear Gender Warriors
I work for a company that has recently came under fire for labeling their toy sections "Boy's" and "Girl's". This is unacceptable to some people because apparently we shouldn't put gender labels on anything, and people should be able to decide what they want based on their own feelings. If we say that a toy is for boys, then there is no way a girl will ever play with it, but if it is just labeled as "toy", the ban has been lifted and children will no longer fear imprisonment or persecution for their choices. That's what I've come to understand, or maybe it's just that people need to complain about something, and always have to push their beliefs on everyone else. The bottom line is, no matter what you label something, as long as people don't just respect other people's decisions, as long as no one is getting hurt, then nothing is going to change for the better.
This week, I was distributing clearance items throughout the departments of the store that I supervise. Needless to say, with school having started, much of the Back to School items have gotten drastically reduced. At the bottom of one pallet, I opened a box only to find what would generally be described as a "girl's bookbag", at least before the gender war began. It looked something like this:
Kid: (very quietly): I don't know.
Woman: (clearly upset but putting on a happy face for her kid): I think this is really nice.
Kid (still almost whispering) Maybe. I don't know.
My coworkers and I deal with things like this often. We step in and try to cheer up kids that are upset, we mess around with friendly kids, and just try to joke with the guests. It makes a shift go by quicker, and honestly makes you feel better. It seemed to me this kid should be looking at a Ninja Turtles backpack, or an Avengers, really anything a little kid would use. For his mom to be showing him something so plain and more grown up, something must have happened there. My guess would be, from his tentative answers, he probably had a Paw Patrol bookbag or something that the kids in his school made fun of him for, and his mom was trying to find something so he wouldn't get picked on. Had I thought my actions through, I might not have done what I did, but I wouldn't be me or have half the stories on this blog if I ever put thought into my actions.
Me: Hey there buddy, are you in luck! You need a new bookbag?
The little kid turned and looked way way up to my face, and slowly nodded. I smiled and grabbed the spangly mess of a bookbag out of it's box, and displayed it proudly to him.
Me: This is the absolute best bookbag we have. I was hiding them in the back, but my bosses found them and told me I had to put them out here so that other people get a chance to own something this cool. If there's still one left, I am buying it when I leave today!
The kid looks at me like I was a poorly dancing polar bear, or maybe just a giant man standing in front of him holding a pink kitten backpack.
Kid: That's a girl's bag.
Me: It is?
I look it up and down, pretending to be confused.
Me: I don't think it is. This looks like a boy cat to me. I think his name is Reginald.
Kid: I think it's a bookbag for girls to wear.
Me: Pffft. I don't care. This thing is awesome.
Me: You sure you don't want this?
Me: Alright kid, your loss.
Me: Wow! That one's almost as cool as this one. Are you buying that one?
Kid: (staring at his mom) Maybe.
Me: Aww man, really? Is there another?
Kid: Yeah, it's good!
His mom smiles really wide and mouths "Thank you so much" to me. I nod and hang the cat-astropic bookbags on the wall.
I wave to the kid.
Me: Have a good day, guys!
The kid shouldn't have had to think twice about anything. He should have bought a bookbag he liked, and been happy with it. Idiots have kids, and teach their idiot kids to be ignorant like they are, and everyone is worse off in the end.
This week, I was distributing clearance items throughout the departments of the store that I supervise. Needless to say, with school having started, much of the Back to School items have gotten drastically reduced. At the bottom of one pallet, I opened a box only to find what would generally be described as a "girl's bookbag", at least before the gender war began. It looked something like this:
except it had more sass and sparkles. There were only three left, and I joked with some coworkers that we had found our new gang colors. Still chuckling, I pushed the mostly empty pallet to the back of the store where the meager remnants of the school supplies had gone to die. In front of the backpacks, a woman was sitting on the little three inch high shelf below the bookbag display. She was facing her son, a very small boy who was sitting on the floor, arms around his knees, and head resting on his kneecaps. She was holding a bookbag much more suited to a high schooler, just a plain design of turquoise and black.
Woman: Do you think this one is better?
Kid: (very quietly): I don't know.
Woman: (clearly upset but putting on a happy face for her kid): I think this is really nice.
Kid (still almost whispering) Maybe. I don't know.
My coworkers and I deal with things like this often. We step in and try to cheer up kids that are upset, we mess around with friendly kids, and just try to joke with the guests. It makes a shift go by quicker, and honestly makes you feel better. It seemed to me this kid should be looking at a Ninja Turtles backpack, or an Avengers, really anything a little kid would use. For his mom to be showing him something so plain and more grown up, something must have happened there. My guess would be, from his tentative answers, he probably had a Paw Patrol bookbag or something that the kids in his school made fun of him for, and his mom was trying to find something so he wouldn't get picked on. Had I thought my actions through, I might not have done what I did, but I wouldn't be me or have half the stories on this blog if I ever put thought into my actions.
Me: Hey there buddy, are you in luck! You need a new bookbag?
The little kid turned and looked way way up to my face, and slowly nodded. I smiled and grabbed the spangly mess of a bookbag out of it's box, and displayed it proudly to him.
Me: This is the absolute best bookbag we have. I was hiding them in the back, but my bosses found them and told me I had to put them out here so that other people get a chance to own something this cool. If there's still one left, I am buying it when I leave today!
The kid looks at me like I was a poorly dancing polar bear, or maybe just a giant man standing in front of him holding a pink kitten backpack.
Kid: That's a girl's bag.
Me: It is?
I look it up and down, pretending to be confused.
Me: I don't think it is. This looks like a boy cat to me. I think his name is Reginald.
The kid giggles.
Kid: I think it's a bookbag for girls to wear.
Me: Pffft. I don't care. This thing is awesome.
I put the backpack on and strut a little. He laughs again. I take it off and hold it out.
Me: You sure you don't want this?
Kid: No, thank you.
Me: Alright kid, your loss.
I point over to his mom, and the bookbag she's holding.
Me: Wow! That one's almost as cool as this one. Are you buying that one?
Kid: (staring at his mom) Maybe.
Me: Aww man, really? Is there another?
I start rooting through the backpacks on the wall.
Me: That's the last one! If you're getting it, you better hold onto it. People are going to be really jealous.
Kid: Yeah, it's good!
His mom smiles really wide and mouths "Thank you so much" to me. I nod and hang the cat-astropic bookbags on the wall.
Me: Alright Reginald, I'll be back at four to get you.
I wave to the kid.
Me: Have a good day, guys!
The kid shouldn't have had to think twice about anything. He should have bought a bookbag he liked, and been happy with it. Idiots have kids, and teach their idiot kids to be ignorant like they are, and everyone is worse off in the end.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Dear Pumpkin Spice People
We get it. You won. Everything is going to become pumpkin spiced soon, as it did last year, and the year before. You've turned fall from a season of harvest and turning leaves to the over-saturation of a lackluster flavor that doesn't even taste like the thing it says it is. How about you do the honorable thing and quit bragging about it then?
I don't need the posts about your pumpkin spiced lattes, your pumpkin pie flavored pancakes, or your spicy pumpkin netty pot add in. When Muhammed Ali won a match, he danced around. He didn't pull down his trunks and pee on his opponent, and then force his vanquished foe to legally change their name to "Shitty Loser". Show some damned class.
I like my pancakes to taste like little pieces of heaven, small pats of butter, and however much maple syrup I choose to guzzle as a chaser. I don't need them to taste like cinnamon, nutmeg, or allspice, just mapley diabetes inducing pleasure.
Do any of you even know what pumpkin tastes like? It tastes like an unappetizing version of butternut squash. That's why canned "pumpkin" that you use to make your pies and the pumpkin pie spice you snort to dull the pain that your ugly cardigan brings to you is made of yams for the former, and spices for the latter. No pumpkins were smashed in the making of your fall fetish.
Somehow, some way, I will make maple, the Rocketeer, or Asylum 880 cigars into a seasonal phenomenon, then you'll have to hear allllllll about it, because turnabout is fair play, bitch.
I don't need the posts about your pumpkin spiced lattes, your pumpkin pie flavored pancakes, or your spicy pumpkin netty pot add in. When Muhammed Ali won a match, he danced around. He didn't pull down his trunks and pee on his opponent, and then force his vanquished foe to legally change their name to "Shitty Loser". Show some damned class.
I like my pancakes to taste like little pieces of heaven, small pats of butter, and however much maple syrup I choose to guzzle as a chaser. I don't need them to taste like cinnamon, nutmeg, or allspice, just mapley diabetes inducing pleasure.
Do any of you even know what pumpkin tastes like? It tastes like an unappetizing version of butternut squash. That's why canned "pumpkin" that you use to make your pies and the pumpkin pie spice you snort to dull the pain that your ugly cardigan brings to you is made of yams for the former, and spices for the latter. No pumpkins were smashed in the making of your fall fetish.
Somehow, some way, I will make maple, the Rocketeer, or Asylum 880 cigars into a seasonal phenomenon, then you'll have to hear allllllll about it, because turnabout is fair play, bitch.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Dear Axe Body Spray
I have many different things that I do in the course of the day at my new job. A big one is building new setups of products on the ends of aisles, making them look good for the guests in the store. Some sections are better to do this in than others. Anything towards the back of the store is quite, and you don't get bothered much. Of course the opposite is true at the front end, so I was already not thrilled to have to build a new one in the shampoo and cosmetics section, located right near the front and on the main walk. People constant stop you and ask questions, and a 30 minute job gets stretched by an hour.
On this day, I was unlucky. I was in the worst of the swarm. Not only was I constantly answering questions, but I was around the cologne, soap, and shampoo. It was a nauseating cloud of fragrance and I worked as hard as I could to get done and move along. I had just gotten all of the shelves cleared, and was ready to restock when I hear a whoosh of aerosol and the prickly awful sound of youths giggling. Before I was able to freeze the urchins with my dead eyed disapproval stare, the unsupervised preteens had set off probably half of a can of Axe Body Spray in the aisle next to where I was working. After they shrieked, dropped the can and ran, I tried to be a hero and clean up the aisle. Well, I was sure, I was soon, and I am always larger than life, and while I was strong, I was not fast, and I was in no uncertain terms fresh from the fight. I had let Bonnie Tyler down. I was no hero. Stuck in an aisle that smelled like the entire population of Secaucus, New Jersey had recently met there to listen to Bon Jovi and wish they lived in New York City, I had no choice but to turn tail and run.
I worked frantically as the fumes seeped into every pore of my being. Tears would have been streaming from my face from the acrid stench, except there were none to be had. How can one cry when they've seen the end times and they know that everything is useless. Customers hurried past, giving me horrified looks like I was the one who decided to pretend he was a 12 year old on the way to a Homecoming Dance. I was almost finished, The end was in sight, and I tore open cardboard, threw products to shelf willy nilly, and slapped up price tags. I was almost free to succumb to the fumes and die in piece, when I heard this behind me.
Teen Girl #1: Wow. That is STRONG!
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
Now I really was reverting back to a 12 year old. The mean teen girls were mocking me to my face. I was about to turn around and give then the dead eyes when they continued.
Teen Girl #1: It. Smells. Soooooo. Goooooooooood.
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
They thought the scent which I can only guess was originally marketed as Floral Nose Sodomy was good. The folks at Axe had done their job. Whatever concoction of plant pubes and donkey pheromones they mixed really did attract young girls. As my nose and eyes started to bleed from prolonged exposure, a worse realization hit me: anyone that was over 18 that wore this demon spunk had to be a pedophile. There was no other way, because they were wearing something that only teen girls could find enchanting. It needed to be locked up with the nicotine gum, and closely monitored for who purchased it. Anyone out of high school that wore it had more than likely recently quoted Wooderson and probably was really into GTL. They needed to be locked up immediately.
I tried to warn everyone, but by then I had lapsed into an Axe induced hysteria. My coworkers tell me they had to restrain me as I had barricaded myself in the Seasonal department with a wall of grills, spraying lighter fluid everywhere and threatening to burn the place down, because fire was the only was to ever get clean.
On this day, I was unlucky. I was in the worst of the swarm. Not only was I constantly answering questions, but I was around the cologne, soap, and shampoo. It was a nauseating cloud of fragrance and I worked as hard as I could to get done and move along. I had just gotten all of the shelves cleared, and was ready to restock when I hear a whoosh of aerosol and the prickly awful sound of youths giggling. Before I was able to freeze the urchins with my dead eyed disapproval stare, the unsupervised preteens had set off probably half of a can of Axe Body Spray in the aisle next to where I was working. After they shrieked, dropped the can and ran, I tried to be a hero and clean up the aisle. Well, I was sure, I was soon, and I am always larger than life, and while I was strong, I was not fast, and I was in no uncertain terms fresh from the fight. I had let Bonnie Tyler down. I was no hero. Stuck in an aisle that smelled like the entire population of Secaucus, New Jersey had recently met there to listen to Bon Jovi and wish they lived in New York City, I had no choice but to turn tail and run.
I worked frantically as the fumes seeped into every pore of my being. Tears would have been streaming from my face from the acrid stench, except there were none to be had. How can one cry when they've seen the end times and they know that everything is useless. Customers hurried past, giving me horrified looks like I was the one who decided to pretend he was a 12 year old on the way to a Homecoming Dance. I was almost finished, The end was in sight, and I tore open cardboard, threw products to shelf willy nilly, and slapped up price tags. I was almost free to succumb to the fumes and die in piece, when I heard this behind me.
Teen Girl #1: Wow. That is STRONG!
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
Now I really was reverting back to a 12 year old. The mean teen girls were mocking me to my face. I was about to turn around and give then the dead eyes when they continued.
Teen Girl #1: It. Smells. Soooooo. Goooooooooood.
Teen Girl #2: I know, right?
They thought the scent which I can only guess was originally marketed as Floral Nose Sodomy was good. The folks at Axe had done their job. Whatever concoction of plant pubes and donkey pheromones they mixed really did attract young girls. As my nose and eyes started to bleed from prolonged exposure, a worse realization hit me: anyone that was over 18 that wore this demon spunk had to be a pedophile. There was no other way, because they were wearing something that only teen girls could find enchanting. It needed to be locked up with the nicotine gum, and closely monitored for who purchased it. Anyone out of high school that wore it had more than likely recently quoted Wooderson and probably was really into GTL. They needed to be locked up immediately.
I tried to warn everyone, but by then I had lapsed into an Axe induced hysteria. My coworkers tell me they had to restrain me as I had barricaded myself in the Seasonal department with a wall of grills, spraying lighter fluid everywhere and threatening to burn the place down, because fire was the only was to ever get clean.
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Dear Letter Y
You are not useful. Really, what are you good for at all? Lazy people use you to ask "Why?", which pisses me off to no end. Do you think you are more important than W and H, you pretentious jerk? If it wasn't for you, we'd have a nice 25 letter alphabet, and if something at my store cost $0.25, I could ask for an alphabet coin. The customer would slide me a quarter, and we would be so freaking awesome. You ruin this.
I can cite two reasons why you are the most worthless and disposable. First, listen to any child sing the ABC song. Everything is good and normal until they hit you, and suddenly it is "W,X, Y and Z". You have to be tied to Z just so people remember you. Without Z you would be Pete Best, Chad Channing, and Brian Jones all wrapped up in a suck ass bundle.
The other reason would be your whole vowel nonsense. "And sometimes Y". Really? When has it ever been Y? They gave this one to you, just like they give a participation trophy to the kid on the little league team they stick in right field for one inning. All he does is twirl in circles and chew on his glove the whole time, but he gets a trophy. That's you.
I can cite two reasons why you are the most worthless and disposable. First, listen to any child sing the ABC song. Everything is good and normal until they hit you, and suddenly it is "W,X, Y and Z". You have to be tied to Z just so people remember you. Without Z you would be Pete Best, Chad Channing, and Brian Jones all wrapped up in a suck ass bundle.
The other reason would be your whole vowel nonsense. "And sometimes Y". Really? When has it ever been Y? They gave this one to you, just like they give a participation trophy to the kid on the little league team they stick in right field for one inning. All he does is twirl in circles and chew on his glove the whole time, but he gets a trophy. That's you.
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