Saturday, March 19, 2005
We Have a Winner/Loser II
Another sad installment in our ongoing series showcasing life’s greatest winner/losers.
In a surprise move this week, the warning placard posted on gasoline pumps everywhere became America’s #1 most defaced public notice. The photo used in the Pay for Your Gas or Lose Your License campaign was scribbled on by bored gas pumpers for the umpty-billionth time this week.
The unexpected jump displaced the long-standing #1 resident—the chrome instructions for warm air hand dryers, “Push Button, dry hands under warm air.” The favorite method was to scratch out certain letters with a sharp object so the directions then read, “Push Butt warm hands under arms.”
“Push Butt** was on top for so long that we never thought we’d see its reign end in our lifetime,” noted researcher Carrie A. Sharpie. “I can only attribute this change to the proliferation of touch-free towel dispensers.”
Graffiti connoisseurs cited general discontent over steadily rising gas prices and the officer’s subtly porcine appearance as their primary motivation for defacing the photo.
Casey Kasem could not be reached for comment.
In a surprise move this week, the warning placard posted on gasoline pumps everywhere became America’s #1 most defaced public notice. The photo used in the Pay for Your Gas or Lose Your License campaign was scribbled on by bored gas pumpers for the umpty-billionth time this week.
The unexpected jump displaced the long-standing #1 resident—the chrome instructions for warm air hand dryers, “Push Button, dry hands under warm air.” The favorite method was to scratch out certain letters with a sharp object so the directions then read, “Push Butt warm hands under arms.”
“Push Butt** was on top for so long that we never thought we’d see its reign end in our lifetime,” noted researcher Carrie A. Sharpie. “I can only attribute this change to the proliferation of touch-free towel dispensers.”
Graffiti connoisseurs cited general discontent over steadily rising gas prices and the officer’s subtly porcine appearance as their primary motivation for defacing the photo.
Casey Kasem could not be reached for comment.
*So* Not in Kansas Anymore
I make the turn onto Bourbon Street. The Rue Bourbon is world famous for jazz and hurricanes—A fruity but powerful concoction involving rum and profound suffering and sense of despair the next morning.
Suddenly, a rainbow beam of light shines down from above. A chorus of angels. And I behold a bar, my friends. A bar on Bourbon Street. A bar on Bourbon Street called, of all crazy things…OZ!
I stumble up to the bouncer in a haze of anticipation. I feel that planets subtly align themselves. This is my bar. I am home.
Almost breathless I ask, “That extraordinarily cool shirt you’re wearing. The one that says OZ in that groovy script. Do they sell them inside? You see, I simply must have one. Money is no object.”
I’m told that they are in fact for sale at the bar, which is located in the back. I wander through a dark labyrinth illuminated only by the glow of black light and plasma screen TVs on every wall. I can remember when a small plasma screen started at $10K and went right on up from there. Now they hang them like posters everywhere.
Plasma screens have impressive resolution approaching lifelike. I’m still a little awed by that. There’s some kind of body-building contest on every screen. You can see every tiny hair on the skin like it’s a rope, every bulging muscle, every bulging—oh my dear God. One thing I can’t see—even at this extraordinary resolution—is anyone wearing...any *pants* at all.
I’m at the bar when I realize there’s someone right next to me. A little too next to me. It’s a tall fellow in bright canary-colored silk boxing shorts. Bare chest. He’s wearing a bandolier with condoms stuck in it where the bullets should be.
“Hiya fellah—I’m Gunter. Would you like to follow the yellow brick road?” He nods toward a small doorway against the back wall. There’s mistletoe hanging over the doorjamb.
“NO GOD NO! Ahem, I mean, I’m just here to get a T-shirt actually. I’m not staying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Suit yourself, a-hole”
It takes over *20 minutes* for the smirky bartender to come back with my T-shirt. Meanwhile, I keep my a-hole fully suited as Gunter suggested, and casually flip through last week’s issue of the LeatherMaster and try to give off a blatantly heterosexual vibe.
It just goes to show you.
The damn Germans really are everywhere...
Suddenly, a rainbow beam of light shines down from above. A chorus of angels. And I behold a bar, my friends. A bar on Bourbon Street. A bar on Bourbon Street called, of all crazy things…OZ!
I stumble up to the bouncer in a haze of anticipation. I feel that planets subtly align themselves. This is my bar. I am home.
Almost breathless I ask, “That extraordinarily cool shirt you’re wearing. The one that says OZ in that groovy script. Do they sell them inside? You see, I simply must have one. Money is no object.”
I’m told that they are in fact for sale at the bar, which is located in the back. I wander through a dark labyrinth illuminated only by the glow of black light and plasma screen TVs on every wall. I can remember when a small plasma screen started at $10K and went right on up from there. Now they hang them like posters everywhere.
Plasma screens have impressive resolution approaching lifelike. I’m still a little awed by that. There’s some kind of body-building contest on every screen. You can see every tiny hair on the skin like it’s a rope, every bulging muscle, every bulging—oh my dear God. One thing I can’t see—even at this extraordinary resolution—is anyone wearing...any *pants* at all.
I’m at the bar when I realize there’s someone right next to me. A little too next to me. It’s a tall fellow in bright canary-colored silk boxing shorts. Bare chest. He’s wearing a bandolier with condoms stuck in it where the bullets should be.
“Hiya fellah—I’m Gunter. Would you like to follow the yellow brick road?” He nods toward a small doorway against the back wall. There’s mistletoe hanging over the doorjamb.
“NO GOD NO! Ahem, I mean, I’m just here to get a T-shirt actually. I’m not staying. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Suit yourself, a-hole”
It takes over *20 minutes* for the smirky bartender to come back with my T-shirt. Meanwhile, I keep my a-hole fully suited as Gunter suggested, and casually flip through last week’s issue of the LeatherMaster and try to give off a blatantly heterosexual vibe.
It just goes to show you.
The damn Germans really are everywhere...
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Cupcake Licking
Men, try to avoid going to the mall.
Announce you're going to the mall and your wife or girlfriend usually wants to go too, right? Since you'd rather gouge your eyes out with a rusty coat hanger than spend 20 minutes browsing the New England Candle Connection, this involves splitting up and meeting at a certain designated location and time. It's a given that you'll forget both the place and time of the rendezvous immediately on your arrival in the massage chair at the Sharper Image store due to your Y chromosome (which controls the ability to recall important things like anniversaries and the correct way bathroom tissue is supposed to unfurl off the roll). You don't want to find yourself in this embarrassing situation:
"Will wife/girlfriend please come to the customer courtesy desk--we have a sad lost man here who forgot what you were wearing. We found him wandering around the food court, but he has no money..."
Here's another good reason to just say no. When a woman turns an unsupervised man loose in public she ordinarily feels the need to lick the cupcake.
Allow me to explain. You're seven and it's time for dinner with the family. Dessert (say, a plate of cupcakes) beckons from the counter, but you've been admonished they are not to be eaten until after the meal. One cupcake is freakishly larger than the others and looks like it has *way* more frosting and is leaning over under the weight of it. When Mom turns her back, your sister pretends to smell the cupcakes but then she sticks her tongue out and drags it over the mega cupcake slowly, sensually, so you get a real good view. Ewww. With that one lick she's laid claim to the cupcake by making it utterly undesirable to anyone else, but with no damage done. Elegant. It's like the A-bomb--The enemy is gone, but the buildings remain standing.
The grown-up relationship equivalent goes something like this.
"Before we split up I want to try this cologne on you SPRITZ. No, I don't like that at all. Maybe SPRITZ this one. No, that's really awful. Okay, well I'll meet you in front of Mrs. Field's in an hour--Bye!"
Now she can shop with confidence knowing that any potential rivals will instinctively recoil in horror within a twenty foot radius of freaky Old Spice man. The cloud of funk around you has the added benefit of keeping you moving to avoid your own stink, so you're unlikely to be in one place long enough for a salesperson to talk you into something involving a plasma screen and revolving credit.
I'm sure this never happens to you. But do think about it the next time you're standing like a dork in the middle of the shoe department holding her purse. You're just a step away from wearing a sign that says "Property of Susan" around your neck.
Howzit feel cupcake?
Frankly fellas, it's just safer to order your jockey shorts online. Although, that can get weird too.
Announce you're going to the mall and your wife or girlfriend usually wants to go too, right? Since you'd rather gouge your eyes out with a rusty coat hanger than spend 20 minutes browsing the New England Candle Connection, this involves splitting up and meeting at a certain designated location and time. It's a given that you'll forget both the place and time of the rendezvous immediately on your arrival in the massage chair at the Sharper Image store due to your Y chromosome (which controls the ability to recall important things like anniversaries and the correct way bathroom tissue is supposed to unfurl off the roll). You don't want to find yourself in this embarrassing situation:
"Will wife/girlfriend please come to the customer courtesy desk--we have a sad lost man here who forgot what you were wearing. We found him wandering around the food court, but he has no money..."
Here's another good reason to just say no. When a woman turns an unsupervised man loose in public she ordinarily feels the need to lick the cupcake.
Allow me to explain. You're seven and it's time for dinner with the family. Dessert (say, a plate of cupcakes) beckons from the counter, but you've been admonished they are not to be eaten until after the meal. One cupcake is freakishly larger than the others and looks like it has *way* more frosting and is leaning over under the weight of it. When Mom turns her back, your sister pretends to smell the cupcakes but then she sticks her tongue out and drags it over the mega cupcake slowly, sensually, so you get a real good view. Ewww. With that one lick she's laid claim to the cupcake by making it utterly undesirable to anyone else, but with no damage done. Elegant. It's like the A-bomb--The enemy is gone, but the buildings remain standing.
The grown-up relationship equivalent goes something like this.
"Before we split up I want to try this cologne on you SPRITZ. No, I don't like that at all. Maybe SPRITZ this one. No, that's really awful. Okay, well I'll meet you in front of Mrs. Field's in an hour--Bye!"
Now she can shop with confidence knowing that any potential rivals will instinctively recoil in horror within a twenty foot radius of freaky Old Spice man. The cloud of funk around you has the added benefit of keeping you moving to avoid your own stink, so you're unlikely to be in one place long enough for a salesperson to talk you into something involving a plasma screen and revolving credit.
I'm sure this never happens to you. But do think about it the next time you're standing like a dork in the middle of the shoe department holding her purse. You're just a step away from wearing a sign that says "Property of Susan" around your neck.
Howzit feel cupcake?
Frankly fellas, it's just safer to order your jockey shorts online. Although, that can get weird too.
Add to Cart
I went to buy some t-shirts online in order to avoid the mall.
I had a gift card leftover from Christmas I was determined to use. Usually I keep gift cards in a safe but obvious place where I won’t lose them--like in the bottom of a cardboard box in the garage used to store miscellaneous ring shank fasteners and #300 sandpaper scraps. When I find them two years later, and try to cash them in I’m informed that my $50 Chili’s gift card has a current value sufficient to cover a house salad with no dressing. This time it was going to be different. As it turns out, more different than I imagined.
I think the Lands End website is coming on to me.
It teases me. I select my shirt style and color (choices include colors I’m unfamiliar with (It's my Y chromosomes): Ecru, Maize, Alfredo, and Dusky Potassium). Then the site informs me people who wear shirts also like Bermuda shorts and toffee and would I like to add some of them too?
Then it plays hard to get. Your selections are currently on backorder. They will be shipped when they arrive sometime in the fall of 2006.
Then it really turns on the charm. Check out the “come hither” look on the confirmation screen.
Lose the headset, and I think I could be smitten...
I had a gift card leftover from Christmas I was determined to use. Usually I keep gift cards in a safe but obvious place where I won’t lose them--like in the bottom of a cardboard box in the garage used to store miscellaneous ring shank fasteners and #300 sandpaper scraps. When I find them two years later, and try to cash them in I’m informed that my $50 Chili’s gift card has a current value sufficient to cover a house salad with no dressing. This time it was going to be different. As it turns out, more different than I imagined.
I think the Lands End website is coming on to me.
It teases me. I select my shirt style and color (choices include colors I’m unfamiliar with (It's my Y chromosomes): Ecru, Maize, Alfredo, and Dusky Potassium). Then the site informs me people who wear shirts also like Bermuda shorts and toffee and would I like to add some of them too?
Then it plays hard to get. Your selections are currently on backorder. They will be shipped when they arrive sometime in the fall of 2006.
Then it really turns on the charm. Check out the “come hither” look on the confirmation screen.
Lose the headset, and I think I could be smitten...
