Mister Blogs Slightly More Than a Disinterred Corpse

So it's been a while since my last post, and I'm currently cooking up a more substantial writing, yadda yadda... Well in the mean time, I thought I'd share recent frustrations in the style of Budweiser's timeless marketing campaign, Real Men of Genius.

Here’s to you, mister doesn’t know how to eat chocolate and simultaneously maintain his dignity.

Look, I have a sweet tooth just as badly as the next person. But some people seem to lose their minds when indulging in their favorite confections. The slurred speech, the sultry demeanor, the euphoric eye-twitching… There’s no reason eating chocolate should transform someone into an orgasmic stroke victim. And why do people feel the need to converse with you while they’re unnecessarily prolonging each bite?

AMMMHMMAHMM… Ohmagaw… yu dunno how good thi ith…

Umm, pretty sure I do know. It’s chocolate, not some rare Nepalese delicacy. And we live in America. Pretty sure if you cut one of Uncle Sam’s varicose veins, it will bleed Hershey’s. Seriously, how can you still be surprised at how good chocolate tastes? Please cease and desist with all your When Harry Met Sally moments, because I’m just not convinced.

Here’s to you, mister unnecessarily loud Harley revving in public.

Nothing evokes masculinity like a middle-aged, leather-clad rebel without a cause. I’m still confused as to how you got your family of four to Taco Bueno, but regardless… Is it really necessary to rev your bike in public 7-8 times? I mean, once you turn the key, you should have all the confirmation you need that your engine is in fact running. You made it next to impossible to order from the drive-through the other day.

Yes, I’d like the #3 MexiDip and Chips with a Dr.N-N-N-N-NA-NYUH-NYUH!!!! Umm, sorry, that was a number 3, add a chicken MuchacN-N-NYUH-NA-NEGINA-NYUH-NYUH-NA-NYUH!!!!!!! Forget it, just give me tacos, burritos and a couple driNYUH!!NA-NA-NEGINA-NEGINA-NYUH-NA-NA-NYUH!!!!!!!!

Admittedly, I’ve never been a fan of the crotch rockets, and now I think I know why. I don’t think I could ever ride anything that sounds like a flatulent Greek god.

Here’s to you, mister and mistress inexplicably drawn to bald heads.

Let it be known that baldness does not come with a membership card. There are no secret societies, nor is there frequent fraternization of the follicularly challenged (to my knowledge). So why, tell me why, sir do you feel the need to solicit the chrome-dome camaraderie of me, a stranger? Understandably, it is New Years, and there have been many libations… Just because you are bald and I too am bald does not mean that we have some inherent bond or brotherhood. Therefore, it is unnecessary for us to discuss head shape and shaving technique, because we are not of the same tribe or clan. (Note: you may actually be affiliated with a certain Klan, in which case, we truly have nothing in common. I cannot help you prepare Molotov cocktails, nor am I skilled in etching Confederate flag prison tats.)

Likewise, ma’am… contrary to popular belief, bald heads do not yearn to be rubbed. It’s no crystal ball, no genie’s lamp. I don’t wake up every day secretly hoping my noggin will be fondled by strangely amorous women. Honestly, a simple handshake will do. A bald head is not a helpless, adorable puppy that demands to be doted upon. Awwww, loogadit! Loogada cute wittle bawld headsy-kins! Again, there is usually a certain level of imbibing that has taken place before a cranium grope, but not even lowered inhibitions are enough to excuse this strange infatuation.

Here’s to you, mister grievously deficient in phone etiquette.

While it has been of no consequence to me, sir, you have made it obvious that this telephone interview has been exclusively for your convenience. Over the course of our hour-long conversation, I have had the privilege of overhearing you chew gum, wake the baby with a chorus of clanging pots and pans, yell at the dogs to stop barking, flick your lighter at the first of what would be eight smoke breaks, the squawking of what I'm sure is a malnourished tropical bird, you now yelling at the children, the flushing of a toilet, and the crunching of something with the texture and timbre of Cornnuts. I must say, it has been an utter delight.

Your groggy response when you answered the phone raised the question as to whether you knew the day started before 1:30 PM. After having to compete with Bob Barker for your attention, I am certain that whereas I will carry out my workday in slacks and a button-up shirt, you will more than likely ride out the remaining daylight on your sectional in sweats. Let me assure you that the rest of civilization heretofore has been abuzz with all the telltale signs of life and productivity that consciousness affords.

Puke, I Am Your Father

Prior to the past two weeks, it had actually been some time since I'd (pardon the vernacular) blown chucks. But having to endure the recent inhospitality of a stomach virus, I find that memory did not serve me well. There are certain do's and don'ts with the art of throwing up. How does one throw up well? Here are a couple of reminders to help make the most of such an ignominious event.

1. Pause to pray - Piety works when you've incurred the porcelain god's wrath. It's best to lie prostrate, light some incense and play some Enya to soothe yourself in your blubbery contrition.

2. Pinch the nose - What's not fun? Puking. What's really not fun? Having to prolong the experience because you gave your nasal cavity a new coat of paint. I've heard that there are rare mythological creatures who don't projectile vomit from every facial orifice, but I have higher hopes of meeting a unicorn in person.

3. Disrobe if possible - Nothing could strip you of more dignity than having to wear an unwelcome pity badge. Stock your workstation with a handy Tide pen, which incidentally, is not a handy writing utensil.

4. Double whammy - Given that your problems have escalated to the throw up / throw down combo, alternative means of collection may be necessary. Take a Saturday to peruse local garage sales for 70's Tupperware. Should they be necessary, your finds will be the perfect objects of disdain.

5. Stage an exorcism - Who needs split pea soup when you've got the real deal? Keeping a micro-cassette recorder around will help legitimize your metaphysical experience, and odds are your friends won't be able to distinguish your puke-speak from liturgical Latin.

6. Everyone's an artist - Purchasing a few canvases may just turn those chunks into bucks. Think SpinArt meets Jackson Pollock. "I call this piece, Gastrointestinal Abstraction. To your left, Technicolor Yawning."

7. Share the love - JK Rowling and Warner Brothers cinema have made it easy for us to share the joys of puking with others. A few vomit-flavored Bertie Bott's Beans surreptitiously placed in your friend's Jelly Belly dispenser will ensure an untimely spectacle for all to behold. But hey, it's far less malicious than ipecac in the maple syrup.

The Short Fuse Chronicles - Pt. 3

Infomercials in general have become ridiculously insulting. Before now, I wasn’t aware that I couldn’t live without a blanket with sleeves. That's right, I'm talking about Snuggie™. It looks like it was invented by the Franciscan Monks of St. Flannel. I’m no genius, but here’s a little advice. If you’re having problems covering all your extremities, buy a bigger blanket. Or indulge in a few more degrees on the ole thermostat. Snuggie™ propagandists purport that you can now eat popcorn and change channels without exposing your arms to the threat of hypothermia caliber room chills. I say this speaks more to the poor circulation of an assuredly obese and couch-ridden populace. But like lotteries and other taxes on stupidity, infomercials never fail to cash in on the less than cerebral masses. I mean, honestly, has anyone ever said “wow!” over a sham?

And the Can’t-Live-Without-This-Piece-Of-Feces market has its celebrities too. The longstanding patriarch has been Ron Popeil, whose endless array of Crap-O-Matic inventions has littered the airwaves since the early 70’s. But now the new Sultan of Shit is none other than Billy Mays. This loud-mouthed Al Borland clone has unleashed a cornucrapia of wasted human ingenuity in the form of: OxiClean™, Mighty Mend-it™, Mighty Putty™, Orange Glo™, Kaboom™, Awesome Auger™, Vidalia Slice-It Wizard™, Mantis Roto-Tiller™, and Gator Grip™. And I love the timeless mendacity of the sales pitch Mr. SuperBeard employs. Act now, and you can get the Hercules Hook™ for only $19.95. But wait!!! If you call now within the next five minutes, you can get 48 more Hercules Hooks™ for the same price!! That’s like 7 hooks per wall in your home, and who couldn’t use that?? Why don't people use this ballooning technique in other areas of life? Probably because it would sound something like this... Mr. Ferguson... I'm sorry, I don't know how to tell you this, but... you're going to die within 24 hours... Nah, just kidding, you're not going to die. Yet, anyway. You do, however, have an aggressively malignant neoplasm of the brain, which gives you 3 to 4 months at best. Which is better than dying today, in my book, so... good news.

There is simply no excuse for the surge in dog movies the past few years. Not just heartfelt dog movies à la Marley and Me (NOT a date movie, FYI). No, I'm talking about the "talking pet" variety of dogsploitation cinema. I think it may have started with Milo & Otis, in which a cute tabby and pug, both with inexplicable British accents, detail their adventures outside the farm of their youth. And as they weather the toils of that merciless bitch Mother Nature to make it back home, we as the audience are supposed to draw some alleged parallels to the human condition, the cycle of life, blah blah blah. Then came Homeward Bound. Then the vehicle went completely south with Air Bud. Somehow, viewers are supposed to suspend disbelief and embrace the idea that a golden retriever can emancipate itself from its owner, cultivate enough skill to play basketball without opposable thumbs, and save the day and the championship by capitalizing on the "no anti-canine player" loophole in the rules. What makes it all worse is that Air Bud warranted 7 sequels. SEVEN. The latest being Space Buddies, an endless exercise in mind-numbing labrador puns. The very idea of talking puppies in weightless orbit is ridiculous on so many levels. What's missing is the realism and historicity of canine cosmonauts, i.e. Air Bud: Sputnik 2. Join Laika, the stray-come-soviet-stepping-stone-to-manned-missions as she leaves the cold abandonment of the Moscow streets for the cold abandonment of space! And the remote possibility of even accidentally viewing the latest installments, Hotel For Dogs and Beverly Hills Chihuahua, is enough to make me want to stab myself in the face.

James Bond once had me convinced that there was a classier if not sexier facet of alcoholism. The classic martini is comprised of gin and vermouth and is garnished with lemon peel or an olive. Bond put his signature spin on it, going for the vodka martini and iconically insisting that it be shaken and not stirred. But the king of cocktails has all but disintegrated with the advent of martini madness. First, the appletini started making waves at Chili's, Applebees, and any other establishment that serves fried onion petals as an appetizer. Now, it doesn't matter where you go, you will inevitably be bombarded with someone's improvisation of the drink, because apparently any fluid served in a conical cocktail glass constitutes a "tini." Be it a Chocolatini, pomegranate tini (or Pomtini), a Pickletini or a Jalapiñi (they exist). Fill a thimble with grain alcohol and you've got an Itty Bitty Teeny Weeny Tini. Hell, urinate in a salt-rimmed glass and you've got a Pisstini. Everybody has them and it's getting ridiculous. Martini bars have become all the rage in metro areas, as people have seen fit to consistently reinvent the wheel.

Hi, welcome to Tina's House of Tinis. How can I help you?

Yes, I'll have two Linguinetinis and a Cheesymactini, a Ricekrispietreattini for dessert... My throat's a little sore, so I'll have the Brothtini... a Sake To Me Tini... and oops, can't forget my baby... he'll have an Enfamiltini.

Speaking of offspring, since when were humans compelled to employ the reproductive methods of rabbits? Thus what now follows is an unabashed bashing of the media entity affectionately known as Octomom. (I think her real name is Greedy McFertilewench) Putting aside her blatant dependence on public assistance (they really are America's Octuplets) and her freakish resemblance to Angelina Jolie (also high on kid-rearing), Octomom strikes me as someone who is genuinely surprised that the birth of her children is overshadowed by the media's preoccupation with her complete and utter inability to care for them. And now with 14 mouths to feed, one has to wonder when reality will set in for this slippery breeder. Even with 18 kids, at least the Duggar family has seen fit to take things one placenta at a time. Whatever you make of their homestead, they're a testament to the efficacy of the "if it ain't broke" mission of colonial baby-making. Octomom's efforts invoke a completely contrary sentiment, that of "if it's broke, please don't fix it."

Where a Kid Can Be a Juvie

There was a day when nothing excited me more than the prospect of a visit to Chuck E. Cheese. The promise of video games, pizza, tokens, tickets and a performance by the animatronic band on stage every half hour was enough to send yours truly into pre-pubescent squeals. So I was genuinely excited this month when our family celebrated my nephew’s third birthday at the one establishment that I thought could assure raucous celebration. I should have known better when we pulled up to what was evidently a Denny’s in another life.

A few steps in and we were greeted not with the gleeful merriment of childhood innocence but rather a barrage of acrid smells and shrill toddler discord. Probably due to the threat of an amber alert, a menopausal gatekeeper tagged every child and adult with a UV stamp. I suggested that she brand my ass, but the look on her face suggested that she was weighing whether it was worth losing $8.00 an hour to take me down a couple of notches.

I immediately noticed that things had changed in the 20+ years it had been since my own birthday romp with Chuck. Sure, there was still the surplus of bells, chimes and LED lights to send the younglings into euphoric delirium. But for me, adulthood has given way to a heightened awareness of germs and communicable disease, and I was immediately self-congratulatory of the decision to bring along a bottle of hand sanitizer.

With dawning awareness that I may have uncovered a lesser known 10th circle of hell, I consoled myself with the fact that food would soon allow my accruing rage to subside. That is, until we were presented with the hot garbage that narrowly slid under the parent category of "pizza." Here again is another example of how age has disenfranchised me with childhood experience. There's a reason that children always want to eat fried foods. Their nascent taste buds have little tolerance for anything that doesn't come in nugget form. If it's not colorful, noisy, salty or sweet, then there's little chance they'll take more than two bites. So naturally I didn't expect any objection from the kids, no matter how unpalatable our rations might be.

I, on the other hand, could not mask my revulsion when presented with the room temp trainwreck of tomato sauce, cheese and bread. It tasted like nothing less than a dish towel that Chef Boyardee used to wipe his crevasse. That anything that rancid could pass as sustenance was a culinary offense I'll not soon forget. But the optimist in me affirmed that despite a crippled economy, there's always an opportunity for a new shitty food enterprise. Welcome to CaCa's Pizza! Try our baked crapolini and feces bread!

If there were looks of unbridled excitement on every child's face, it was offset by their collective parents' morose and sullen countenances, each in full recognition that this was certainly not part of the 10 year post-high school plan. Each fatigued face bore the battle scars of incessant requests for more tokens. And yet, I found out that everyone has a coping mechanism. Whilst playing ski ball, some all-star dad next to me deemed it appropriate to dominate the basketball shoot-out game. Bleeding tokens, he played game after game, trying his hardest to outdo himself by sinking the most baskets before the 30 second timer ran out. It could have smacked of something other than chagrin, if it didn't seem like he was fueled by the paralyzing regret of being passed up for all-state 15 years prior. Add to that the fact that neither the ball nor hoop were regulation size, and there were no offspring in his proximity through which he could live vicariously. Truth be told, his competetiveness has more than likely alienated his sons, and they've taken up decoupage.

The unspoken consensus among all attendees over 17 was that it didn't bode well to tarry here in Munchkinland, a fact cemented by the relatively recent increase in parent on parent brawling at said establishment.

Shameless Battle o' Brooding Hens
An Octagon short of a new Spike reality show
"I'll have the pepperoni and black-eye pizza. Hold the suplex."
Mama-Bear Melee
"Happy Birthday, Miss Demeanor..."
The first rule of Fight Club is that you DO NOT cut in line at the ticket redemption counter

And if the finger wagging hasn't become searingly obvious, sit back and observe human devolution at its finest.

Leggo my Prego

Even Chuck himself doesn't appear to be immune to the mass loss of moral fiber. I suppose he pushes product with Geoffrey the Toys 'R Us giraffe, and after a bump or two they're both ready to beat Lucky the Leprechaun senseless until he hands over his pot of gold. Well with any luck, Mr. Cheese can score a stint on Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. His namesake's consumers, on the other hand, can only be assured an appearance on COPS and tenure at the local county jail.

Breakfast of Champions

Nothing can make me laugh harder (and simultaneously cringe) than a well thought out truth.com commercial. Their metropolitan antics coupled with raucous recitation of dubious statistics always incite sadistic glee on my part. But I’m reminded that I probably enjoy not so much the truth of truth.com as I do their megaphone style presentation of such startling facts as: Did you know that pregnant mothers who smoke cause complications for their babies in the womb? 6 out of 10 people who smoke die younger than they wanted to! Their horrific demonstrations have escalated to the height of artistic pretentiousness. Ice sculptures of pregnant mothers melting in the sun eventually fall to pieces and expose their unprotected unborn. Très tragique. The avant-garde demonstrations only cement the fact that there’s a future in activism for vocationally stymied students with liberal arts degrees. The truth.com exploits have reinforced the notion that you can scare someone into caring for themselves, when the truth alone isn’t sufficient. The crowds of asterisk-faced onlookers are more likely to acquiesce to cessation in the hopes that these hippies will stop interrupting traffic with their sidewalk sit-ins.

Though not a smoker, I’m not the best at maintaining this vessel of inner light. My latest foot in the grave is a complete and utter abandonment of morning nutrition. I don’t have anything against breakfast, but I grow weary of its enthusiasts. Anytime that I mention that I’m not a breakfast person in a relatively crowded setting, there’s always at least one helpful dietician who has to chime in that it’s the most important meal of the day. Thank you, ma’am, for your fervent elucidation on searing hot, obvious truth and your abiding endorsement of our nation’s dairy farmers. What’s that you say? Cigarettes are bad too? What do you mean MSG can encourage heart disease?

It’s not that I don’t like breakfast food. Quite the contrary. I’d like to thank IHOP, Perkin’s and Cracker Barrel for giving America all the fried eggs it can handle after 10:30 AM. But even the eggs of free range chickens aren’t immune from the disdain of breakfast train bandits. I’m sure that not even buying the nauseating milk carton full of de-shelled, magically cholesterol free “yechs” will assuage their wrath. Cereal is no longer fun or colorful and is hardly palatable these days, having entered the arena of equine cuisine. I’m convinced that Kashi should be sold not so much in a box as it should a feedbag. I maintain that people generally have to be tricked into willingly betraying their taste buds to eat healthy. The once incorruptible Quaker has had to be sexed up with artificial flavoring and coloring to make oatmeal even remotely appealing to children.

My lack of interest in AM dining, I fear, is far less attributable to the decline in food choices. From 6 to 10 o’clock every morning, my level of consciousness is slightly above that of PVS patients. Beyond the chore of self-grooming, the additional task of heating a pan and cracking an egg is unthinkable. I’m just too lazy and I love sleep too much, which is probably why energy drinks will be the final nail in my coffin. I had originally thought Taurine was a gasoline additive, supported by the fact that it’s currently in 75% of beverages purchased at gas stations. And being that there’s a convenience store halfway between home and work, my breakfasts as of late have become quite a shameful display of malnutrition. There was a time when moon pies, trail mix and iced honey buns would have been inconceivable as road trip rations, let alone breakfast.

My disgraceful regiment would not be complete without the purchase of an additional energy shot at the register. Housed in travel shampoo bottles, these overly marketed whores promise 5-6 hours of energy by way of 8,333% recommended daily value of vitamin B12. Admittedly, my consumption of these marvels is not due to a personal energy crisis as much as it is a raw curiosity as to how someone can legally purchase liquid crack, ingest it and not die. If anything, I’d think that they’d bestow me with superhuman powers. But absent the ability to fly, I'll settle for their ability to jar me out of a coma and usher me into the drone of a productive 9 to 5.

The Short Fuse Chronicles - Pt. 2

There is a current blight on restaurant establishments. I’m not sure what’s so difficult about filling a cup, but I’ve encountered an endemic lack of drink lid etiquette. Or lidiquette. There’s a series of escalating offenses, which I’ll enumerate with all the arraigning heat I can muster.

• Third Degree LD (Lidiquette Deficiency) – Also known as Negligent Pantslaughter. It entails the offender carelessly filling the drink, letting soda drip all over the sides so that there is no safe way to hold the cup. Studies show that the messier the cup, the less inclined the offender is to offer napkins to clean up their mess. It almost always results in a beverage-to-clothing transfer, which makes yours truly look like he soiled himself. It also assures an afternoon of sticky handshakes.

• Second Degree LD – The Overfill. Do not mistake a food worker’s inattentiveness for generosity. The only reason you received 44+ ounces is because Maggie Methhead was recounting her weekend exploits at the county jail to her coworkers. Said transgressors should probably be barred from drawing their children a bath. Without fail, cups filled to the brim overflow onto the lid after the drinking straw is employed, creating an unwelcome, carbonated reservoir susceptible to spills. And who doesn’t love the oh-so-graceful lid slurp?

• First Degree LD – The ISL (Improperly Secured Lid). The ISL is the gravest of all drink trespasses and warrants criminal lidigation. Cue laugh track. In all seriousness, nothing can get me fired up faster than a false gesture of security. In true psych! fashion, the ISL reveals its injurious nature approximately 0.5 seconds after the drink hand-off. The truly priceless moment occurs just after the cup's contents soak your crotch. The worker stares at you with an expression saying Whaa happened? like it was entirely your fault.
  

There are 3 words that make me cringe like no other. You’ve all been there, sitting and enjoying a nice family dinner while watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns, completely unaware of your immanent danger. And then you recognize a familiar whistling ditty and you think “No, not again. Not now!” Then those 3 words break into your home and pillage the innocence of your Cleaveresque family unit. Natural male enhancement. Record scratch. Is there anything more awkward? Nothing can kill a family time vibe like an ED prescription commercial. It’s hard enough for parents to explain to their kids where babies come from, let alone why Bob can’t keep from smiling. How many first dates meeting the parents have been ruined by the endless marketing for pecker pills? Fathers attempting to suppress the eagerness of their daughter’s date find their threats supplanted with a call for more libido. Is that really a pressing concern for humans in general? In rebuttal, I submit as Exhibit A the population of Calcutta. Do they have NME (I can’t bring myself to type it again) in India? The numbers speak otherwise. And the longstanding incumbent Viagra apparently just isn’t doing the trick anymore. It doesn’t matter if it’s Levitra, Cialis, Enzyte or Dr. Weinerstein’s Wang Bang Juice. The sheer volume of pills attests to their obvious inefficacy. If they did work, half of America would walk around with carpet rolls stowed away in their pants, because men don’t know when to stop feeding their locker room insecurities. And it’s fitting, I suppose, that priapism is a common side effect (if not the consequence of what I’m sure is frequent overdose). You want libido? You’ve got it… for 24 hours. Have fun and avoid all casual and professional settings, as well as loose fitting clothing.

A Hero Falls

Designer of the Pringles packaging system, Fredric J. Baur, died May 4th at a hospital in his home town of Cincinnati. In commemoration of his life’s work, Baur’s wishes were that a portion of his remains be buried in one of his iconic tubular canisters. Memorial services were restricted to family and coworkers and experienced a temporary delay due to the need to empty the cardboard urn of crumbs. Excess ashes were raffled off as mementos in commemorative Snack Stacks.

Proctor & Gamble catered the family meal, which according to some sources lacked a lot to be desired. In addition to the potato crisps, attendees partook of various P&G products, including Head & Shoulders, Noxzema, Eukanuba, Tampax, Vicks and Swiffer. Said one distant uncle, “I think I’ll pass on the Folgers and try the Febreze.” Reflecting on her father’s long-standing heart condition, Linda Baur stated, “Once it stops, you just drop.” She then wiped her tearful face with a Puffs Plus tissue.

In efforts to lighten the mood, Mr. Julius Pringles, the company mascot, appeared in big head fashion, spreading good morale and Grab and Go! packs. A mechanical bull was also present graveside, which appeared to be in celebration of the potato crisp’s unique hyperbolic paraboloid saddle shape, though it was hardly used. Chairman and CEO A.G. Lafley commented, “This is no laughing matter. This is a funeral, not a company picnic. What idiot planned this thing?”

In memoriam, Pringles has announced 2 additional flavors to hit the 2008 summer market:

Sour Cremains ‘N Urnion
Kickin’ the Bucket BBQ

Keffiyeh Kerfuffle

Ladies and gentlemen, the terrorists are at it again. What kind of world do we live in when even our deep-fried confections aren’t safe? In case you hadn’t heard, Dunkin’ Donuts recently pulled a web ad featuring Rachael Ray in which the celebrity’s paisley scarf was mistaken for a keffiyeh. Despite objection from the company, conservative commentators and blogging pundits such as Michelle Malkin maintained that sporting such equivocal apparel “offers symbolic support for Muslim extremism and terrorism.” It’s times like this when I’m so glad that others are willing to think for me. I would have hated to have turned a blind eye to what was clearly jihadi chic and mistakenly endorsed Palestinian terrorism with the purchase of an iced coffiyeh coffee. Maybe the reason I missed Rachael Ray’s clear gesture of Palestinian solidarity was that the keffiyeh is generally worn over the head by women and men alike, or that it has also been worn by non-terrorists and U.S. troops.

But since the issue’s been tabled, I’ve had suspicions of Rachael Ray’s Islamic sympathies for a while now. Months before she decided to don terrorist couture, I thought her book titled More Ideas for 30-Minute IEDs was particularly suspect. Not to mention, her recipes as of late have called for an exorbitant use of gunpowder and malice. Just the other day, I could have sworn that instead of her trademark slogan Yum-O!, she let slip a rather Middle Easterny Blam-O! Check out her latest “Gaga for Gaza” menu:

• Arafat-free falafel and fennel

• Hamas humvee hummus

• “You go kaboom” baba ghanoush

• Spicy intifada frittatas

• Talibananas foster

It’s hard to say whether said controversy speaks more to corporate pussification or to how some individuals’ degree of sensitivity is matched only by their ignorance. Suppose Rachael Ray actually wore a keffiyeh. How does it follow that a perky celebrity as American as apple pie is giving credence to Palestinian apologists? Does anyone make political statements with their attire these days? (Note to self: reconsider the Windsor since it’s Cheney’s knot of choice) Saying that all people wearing keffiyehs are terrorist sympathizers is like saying all people who wear glasses and tweed jackets are college professors. It just doesn’t follow. Surely more time can be spent dealing with legitimate domestic concerns instead of the potentially insidious marketing of a donut franchise. Then again, the ass fattening of America may be at the top of Al Qaeda’s agenda. That way, when they finally cross our shores, we won’t be able to run to safety without rolling a cankle.



Now this would be justifiable cause for concern.

Slutbucks, Inc.

The surplus of controversy lately amuses me. Given the dictum, "Choose your battles," it's as if some have said, "Oh I will. And I'll pick many more meaningless squabbles along the way." So I wasn't surprised yesterday when I read that Starbuck's new logo had come under fire. Not having noticed the change after several previous visits, I had to Google it to see the source of the latest threat to America's moral fiber. *sigh* I knew where this was going. Oh how I love Christian media watchdog organizations. They give you so much material to work with. True to form, those expecting the sanctity of their coffee cups have called for a national boycott of Starbucks on account of the new logo.

“The Starbucks logo has a naked woman on it with her legs spread like a prostitute," explains Mark Dice, founder of the group [The Resistance]. "Need I say more? It's extremely poor taste, and the company might as well call themselves, Slutbucks."

It’s nice to know that our moral battles have been downgraded to denigrating beverage containers. I’ll overlook the misnomer of "legs," even though it’s instrumental to Mr. Dice’s pornographic indictment of the alleged mersluts. What’s more interesting is how the asinine commentary continues. "The woman is actually a siren, not a mermaid, which in Greek mythology lures people to them with their beautiful songs, and then kills them," explains Mark Dice.

There’s a shard of truth in the last statement. The Starbuck’s logo is a picture of a siren, albeit a two-tailed siren. And it’s here that one realizes Mark misses the corporation’s intentional maritime imagery: the Melville reference of the company name, being based out of Seattle, etc. While Greek sirens were bird-women of sorts, mermaids of lore sang to sailors, lulling them to a shipwreck on rocky shores. Sure there’s something to be said of Starbucks success and lure, but the image is far less malicious than it is a humorous commentary on a cultural lack of moderation.

But let’s suppose the charges are true. If I was a developing company wanting to implement the proverbial “sex sells” marketing strategy, I think that I would venture away from fish porn. Nothing makes men go gaga for coffee like half-naked half-fish half-women. Right. I’m not ruling out that there are certain types of people that would go for that sort of thing, but I’m willing to bet that they’re on the fringes of society. These are the people who are probably holding out for Princess Ariel to rebel against her child star image and do a Playboy spread.

The new logo is hardly new, since it is a revision of Starbuck’s pre-1987 logo. An unnecessary chronology reveals that Ms. Starslut’s seductively sinister fins and breasts are in most incarnations. So why the hubbub now? The prosecution’s case hinges on what is most likely Mark Douche’s junior high memories of peeking at the Kama Sutra. Or his unhealthy fascination with Ron Howard's 1984 romantic comedy Splash.

Said controversy suggests the high possibility that, given the reaction to a coffee cup, there are some individuals who couldn’t abide the nudity of even classical art. It’s a slippery slope from Boticelli to skin mags, my friend. Or so says the teachings of various polygamist sects. These would make the most intolerable parents at PTA meetings, and God forbid someone suggest a field trip to The Met for an afternoon of Renaissance areola gazing. But it begs playing out, so if you’ll indulge me…

Honey, I’m going to take my hands off of your eyes, and what you’ll see might scare you. Some people call this art, but we call it smut. This one was painted by Peter Paul Rubens during the Baroque period. Maybe that's why he went broke. Haha, you liked daddy's joke didn't you? Mr. Boobens, er, Rubens titled this one “Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus.” And that’s exactly what happens when you show boobs. People get raped. You don’t want anyone to get raped, do you honey? No, I didn't think so. Me neither, and that’s why daddy only drinks Maxwell House now.

The Short Fuse Chronicles - Pt. 1

What follows is the first installment of things that really get my goat. And I don't even own a goat.

Why was I watching 60 Minutes? That’s beside the point. What matters is that Andy Rooney has somehow managed to abate death well into 2008. I’m amazed that the squawking buzzard of a man still finds things worth berating. Shouldn’t he be more concerned with estate planning or that lump that has mysteriously appeared on his lip? It’s evident that he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel to find fresh objects of derision. This particular night, he decided to turn the customary disdain on his fans and their oh-so-bothersome gifts that they shower on him. Two solid minutes of “I don’t care for this” and “I don’t care for that.” “This is a really nice work of art, Dave, but NO I will not have lunch with you any time soon.” What an ungrateful old codger. He should restrict the critiques to his sphere of influence, not sparing the cooks who plan menus at his assisted living facility. I get it that producers intend him to be some sort of comic relief from the 58 other minutes of real, palpable news. But parading an octogenarian’s senility is just in bad taste. Funny, yes, but my laughs would become increasingly repressed if cameras were to follow him as he got lost on the subway or confused in the check-out lane. How dare you, CBS. How dare you.

Is child mobility a pressing concern? It must be for someone to have invented shoes with wheels. No, not like Xanadu. I’m not talking about roller skates. I’m talking about Heelys, the sneakers with one or more retractable wheels in the heel. The new craze is called “heeling,” (not healing, like Locke on LOST island) which is a derivative of skating and all things X-Games. I call it Extreme Walking. Anyone in the vicinity of a heeler must engage in defensive walking and/or driving. I realized this the other day, as a pre-pubescent bullet ricocheted off my shopping cart. For all their novelty, Heelys don’t come equipped with a requisite braking mechanism. Either that or the transition from hot wheels to a decelerating run is too much to ask. It’s as if heeling has transformed our youth into the Wheelers from the über-creepy movie Return to Oz. Highway patrol officers motivated by their quotas would have a field day snagging all the Road Runners as they zip and weave through lanes of consumer traffic. All I’m saying is that from now on, I'll have to go shopping with a radar gun and spike strip in hand.

In my opinion, Japanese steakhouses are of the upper echelon of dining out. Sure, you may lose your eyebrows to the flames, but wasn’t it worth it for the terrorized look on the kids’ faces? From the culinary acrobatics to the eggcorns, it’s just top notch. But nothing can diffuse my anticipation faster than a Caucasian hibachi chef walking up to our table. I’d say that in the last year, I’ve had an 85% chance of being served by John Smith (aka privileged student from local community college). There's a guidance counselor somewhere who has vocational considerations of her own to work out, because something is seriously wrong with this picture. I don’t go to Los Tres Amigos to order a shawarma. Neither do Bedouin women frequent Abercrombie & Fitch. So why should I expect a corn-fed farm boy to know how to handle a Mahi-mahi filet? No matter how percussive he got with his utensils, it was clear that John’s asian persuasion was limited to his forearm tattoos. Unless of course he secretly nursed an interest in Hello Kitty and Manga. People, stick to what you know.

Speaking of which, what does a 19 year old know about running a city? What's this you say? That's right. The AP just announced that a college freshman was elected as mayor of Muskogee, OK. He wasn't running against the incumbent, but he did square off against a former mayor of Muskogee and still walked away with 70% of the popular vote. Really? I might expect this of a town sporting a double-digit population, not a town of 38,000 people. Was there no one more qualified than some kid sweating the pressures of rush week? I mean, I'm not expecting some Poli Sci major to spring out of what I'm sure is a predominantly agrarian community. But is Boy Wonder going to pencil in city council meetings between the Biology labs and intramural tournaments? Perhaps you can RSVP for his inaugural celebration via Facebook, and the event would remind you to bring supplies for beer pong. I don't think it's too much to ask for someone with more (dare I say it?) experience. *gasp* Surely a neighboring city could loan a mayor for a few months while Muskogee got their shit in gear. Who's going to be patting themselves on the back over their Guiness record-breaking when their still acne-prone wunderkind tries to dodge the bullets of commercial zoning ordinances and multi-million dollar school bonds? I'm sure that stretching $50 to cover a semester's worth of Ramen is more than enough prep for a job of this caliber.

Devil In the Retail

Are you a person who sees the signs of the times? The other day I received compelling evidence of an immanent apocalypse. I had previously thought that a global, centralized political juggernaut would emerge and subsequently serenade the nations into oblivion. But behold! The craggy jowls of the earth have opened to swallow the miscreant and reprobate into her fiery bowels! The twisted serpent has found his avatar not as the descendent of an unbroken lineage of fornicators, but as a moderately successful fried chicken restaurant franchise. Imagine my surprise when I was handed this receipt in the drive through.



My hands burned after almost inadvertantly receiving the Mark of the Beast. Or is it Breast? I promptly disposed of the iniquitous meal and cleansed myself with a grilled cheese bearing the visage of the Blessed Virgin.

Wokie, Talkie

As I approached the tag agency, I should have seen the signs. Renewing your tag is a fairly routine if not mundane task. But being that I also work in the public sector, I’m aware that certain employees can (how shall I put it) unfairly assume that everyone knows the ins and outs of their 9 to 5. So I spent an extra five minutes in the car to prep for an encounter with someone bearing all the warmth and sympathy of Nick Burns. I wouldn’t be disappointed.

Approaching the door, I remembered that they didn’t accept credit cards. Strike one. Scratch that, they take Discover. Really? Does anybody carry Discover? But my saving grace was the mental note I made last year that most tag agencies have an ATM. Which make them slightly less dirty than gas stations in my book, but I digress.

The minute I stepped in the door, Hawkeye shot a beckoning look at me from the gap in the 70s era wood paneling and the ripped and curling tax notices circa the Great Depression. If the state hadn’t prioritized the upkeep of their lobbies, then the same was probably true of their employees’ salaries. Strike two. My insurance verification in hand, Hawkeye thrust her hand out to me in “gimme” fashion. Another step in and I realized she was cradling the phone between ear and shoulder, so what was initially perceived to be enthusiasm was revealed to be impatience. A customer? Not another one of these…

She wagged her hand at me like a phone-bound mother petitioning her toddler for the dangerous toy he had no business handling. I quickly motioned toward the ATM, not wanting to audibly disturb what was clearly a matter of life and death.

“Nah wah,” she mumbled.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“ZZzzzzzznot WOR-KIN.” I had never witnessed a lazier display of the English language. Or a more efficient display of laziness for that matter.
“Ok, I guess I’ll go find a working AT—“ I hadn’t even finished talking before she waved me off and resumed what I’m sure was an enlightening discourse on the judiciary loopholes her boyfriend continues to slip through.

Not wanting to waste any more of my 30 minute lunch, I decided to head next door to the culinary delight that is Hot Wok. Admittedly, it is one of my favorite lunch spots, but I had been on a several month hiatus for no particular reason. One foot in the door and I was greeted with the aromas of duck sauce and peanut oil, which was preferable to the cigarettes and despair I had endured earlier.

“Long time no see.”
“I know, it’s been a while.”
“You want Chicken Mixed Vegetable?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go with the regular.”
“With 2 cokes?”
“Yup, just like always.”
“That’ll be $5.70”
*3 minutes later*
“Here you go, come back see us more often.”
“You bet your sweet leeks I will.”

It was that moment that made me reconsider my stance on immigration policy. I realized that I would much rather suffer hours of Engrish and failed attempts at subject-verb agreement than have to deal with Susan B. Apathy. How is it that someone from another country can come to the states and be so industrious and happy with minimal job security, while some U.S.-borns brandish their slothfulness like it was secured in the Bill of Rights? Like it’s as American as apple pie? I can just hear our forefathers now… Life, liberty and the pursuit of… not a damn thing, man. I propose that Congress consider an emigration policy. The particulars I haven’t ironed out yet, but it would operate on a type of rewards system. If you work hard, you get to stay in the country. If not, hello Jakarta.

Mam, I realize that the first thing to touch you and your afterbirth was U.S. soil, and you have accordingly developed an inflated sense of worth. But it appears that your affinity for naught but spider solitaire will serve you best in the Republic of Chad. Yeah, they’re in need of someone to swat flies off of the eyeballs of children and based on your work history, and we’re being flexible here with our definition of work, you’d be a perfect fit. Your citizenship is considered to be on probation, so let’s put on a good face and act like we’re happy to be here! Not doing so will result in further sequestering in new and exciting locales, all of which will strain your definition of “bathroom facilities.”

Anita Fajita

Anyone who's worked in a retail environment can feel for those still under the man's pressure to upsell the customer. My sympathy notwithstanding, the barrage of questions made it increasingly difficult to conceal my growing impatience at the drive-thru. Here's how it went down:

"Hi, welcome to Rosa's. Take your time and order when ready."

"Thanks. I'll have the No. 9 and… a large Coke. And that'll be it.*"

"A beef fajita plate and a large Coke? May I interest you in some chips and salsa or chips and queso?"

"Nah, that's alright.**"

"How about some of our carrot cake, sopapillas or any of our other dessert items?"

"No thank you. That'll be all.***"

"Would you like some additional sauces to go with your beef fajita plate?"

"No, I think that's all that I want.†"

"Can I interest you in some extra flour tortillas for your fresh fajitas? They're fresh too."

"No. Nein. Nyet. Fin. Seacrest out.‡"

*First attempt at finality.
**Slightly amused at the standard proposal.
***Bewildered. Also functions as "Isn't it too early for dessert, b***h?"
†The dagger/cross. As in pause to pray or break into psalm before you make a scene. The thought enters my mind that ordering from the drive-thru may have been Christ's 15th Station of the Cross.
‡Double dagger. Two daggers exit my eyes in unappeasable wrath and fury, aimed at the relentlessly petitioning box. Rosa's would erupt into flames were I to tap into my inner Charlie McGee.
«»Guillemets. Another handy, infrequently-used punctuation mark, apropos of nothing.

The endless offer of more food and drink items sounds completely ridiculous in retrospect. Suppose I was a witless yes-man who caved to any commercial inquiry. Would her brazenness see no end, when my simple lunch order for one miraculously transformed into catering for an impromptu rehearsal dinner? You know ma'am, I came here prepared to just tide myself over until dinner. But now that you've asked, I feel like building up my fat reserves in case humans start hibernating tomorrow.

"Hey Jim, this is Erik. What are you doing right now?... Yeah, right now... You're gonna come over to my place for food, that's what you're gonna do… Yeah, I realize there's nothing on right now… I don't care if you just ate. Look, just… Quit being such a baby and get over here. I've invited the entire office… Yes, Dwight will be here, but you don't have to talk to him… Why? Because I… felt like entertaining all my coworkers… all of a sudden… over the weekend… Look, here's the deal. I went through the drive-thru at Rosa's, and this girl had an affable tone and demeanor… She sounded as if I would crush her hopes and dreams if I said no to the tapas… I don't know, I think they're like taquitos but flatter… No, you're thinking of flautas. Those are fried, but taquitos aren't… They are not the same, douchenozzle... Why are you being such a twat over free food?... You know what, I'll remember this, you ungrateful asshat. Don't even think about calling next time you want to watch GameDay in HD."

The source of my tension here simply lies in an inability to be a jerk. You just can't say, "I DON'T WANT ANYTHING MORE THAN I TELL YOU, SO DON'T ASK!!!" I know it's just her job. And in her defense, how many brainless buffoons does she have to endure each day, who gaze aimlessly at the menu as if it will magically make up their minds for them sometime before the weather turns? But that doesn't make my experience any preferable to being someone's personal doormat. I'm the guy who welcomes the vacuum salesman into my home and apologizes for not having enough dirt on the carpet for his demo. I'll let the telemarketer assault me with her decision tree of prearranged responses, even throwing in an occasional "Oh really?" or "That's interesting." It's my way of letting them know their 9 to 5 isn't completely pointless. And I'd like to think that some bit of kindness plays its part in abating what could be a seething, ready-to-blow sociopath who hides beneath the veneer of a well-rehearsed shtick.