Thu - August 28, 2008
ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST
with more reader mail.
Another great piece of reader email popped up in
the inbox last night, and I just had to share. TWM Best Man and Co-Conspirator
Jim
Pascoe, a Western Pennsylvania native doing his thing and living his
dreams now on the West Coast, wrote to
note:
You can tell that I spend too much time reading your site, because when I saw this headline on yahoo’s homepage:
Western nations warn Russia to 'change course' on Georgia.
I really thought it said:
Western PA warns Russia to ‘change course’ on Georgia.
And I thought, watch out, Russia. Because when all of Western PA is against you, you better back the fuck down.
And that, as they say, is (most likely catholic) church.
You can tell that I spend too much time reading your site, because when I saw this headline on yahoo’s homepage:
Western nations warn Russia to 'change course' on Georgia.
I really thought it said:
Western PA warns Russia to ‘change course’ on Georgia.
And I thought, watch out, Russia. Because when all of Western PA is against you, you better back the fuck down.
And that, as they say, is (most likely catholic) church.
Posted at 01:12 PM
Wed - August 27, 2008
KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD, YOUR HANDS UPON THE WHEEL
please.
TWM National Correspondent Dennis Roddy files this
report:
So I'm driving down the interstate between Longview, Washington and Portland, Oregon, when this SUV passes me, and I notice a bumper sticker no one in his right mind could possibly desire.
All I could think was, "Used to be I only had to worry if the other guy was distracted by his cell phone. Now I have to wonder if he's ... oh, dear God, just let me get to Portland."
So I'm driving down the interstate between Longview, Washington and Portland, Oregon, when this SUV passes me, and I notice a bumper sticker no one in his right mind could possibly desire.
All I could think was, "Used to be I only had to worry if the other guy was distracted by his cell phone. Now I have to wonder if he's ... oh, dear God, just let me get to Portland."
Posted at 08:44 AM
Sun - August 24, 2008
MAYBE THE McCAIN CAMP READS TWM
in which i take (the dubious) credit for that
(silly) "celebrity" ad.
While rifling through the TWM archives to find a
link for yesterday's notes, I happened upon an
old post from November 18th, 2006, that concluded with these two
sentences:
It's one thing to support a statesman; it's quite another to sell a celebrity. In the age of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, when success is measured by notoriety and credibility is inseparable from popularity, maybe Barack Obama is the perfect Presidential candidate after all.
I was happy to see that the whole post holds up well. (It is, after all, as true today as it was when I wrote it almost two years ago.) But reading those last two sentences gave me pause. And a bit of jolt. And made me wonder whether someone (or ones) in the McCain camp has been reading TWM. Because there, in all its thematic glory, lies the heart of that now-infamous Celebrity attack ad.
I don't know whether to be pleased or frightened. I should probably just be pissed. But either way, I may as well claim some sort of credit for that ad. Sure, it was sad, silly, desperate, and incompetent, but I prophesied it -- and maybe even inspired it -- twenty months in advance. That's gotta be worth something, right?
Like, say, a couple of hundred bucks. Or an all-expense-pad trip to Minneapolis. Or maybe one of those extra houses he doesn't remember anyway.
It's one thing to support a statesman; it's quite another to sell a celebrity. In the age of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, when success is measured by notoriety and credibility is inseparable from popularity, maybe Barack Obama is the perfect Presidential candidate after all.
I was happy to see that the whole post holds up well. (It is, after all, as true today as it was when I wrote it almost two years ago.) But reading those last two sentences gave me pause. And a bit of jolt. And made me wonder whether someone (or ones) in the McCain camp has been reading TWM. Because there, in all its thematic glory, lies the heart of that now-infamous Celebrity attack ad.
I don't know whether to be pleased or frightened. I should probably just be pissed. But either way, I may as well claim some sort of credit for that ad. Sure, it was sad, silly, desperate, and incompetent, but I prophesied it -- and maybe even inspired it -- twenty months in advance. That's gotta be worth something, right?
Like, say, a couple of hundred bucks. Or an all-expense-pad trip to Minneapolis. Or maybe one of those extra houses he doesn't remember anyway.
Posted at 12:09 PM
Thu - August 21, 2008
THESE DOLLS ARE NOT TOYS
they're cries for help.
This could be the creepiest thing I've ever
seen:
The ad showed up in my mailbox about a week ago, and it's still freaking me out. The vacant, soulless eyes. The weird little I Melt for No One hat and outfit. The big, disembodied hand dangling that rosy-cheeked little mutant over the colorful bowl of M&Ms. I don't know whether to fear it -- I have a sneaking suspicion that fangs lurk behind those puckered lips, and that it won't be long before the little creature grows up and joins The Brood -- or feel sorry for it. And, worse still, I don't know whether I'm supposed to play with it or eat it.
The fine print in the lower left clears up that last point -- These dolls are not toys; they are fine collectibles to be enjoyed by adult collectors. -- and then creeps me out all the more. Because somehow the thought of people buying and eating these things isn't nearly as disturbing as the thought of people buying and curating and displaying and admiring them.
Secretly feeding your inner cannibal is one thing; openly indulging your inner pedophile is quite another.
[Update, 4:32pm: Three inquiries later, I figure I should note that yes, this ad IS real, and no, I'm NOT making it up. I swear.]
The ad showed up in my mailbox about a week ago, and it's still freaking me out. The vacant, soulless eyes. The weird little I Melt for No One hat and outfit. The big, disembodied hand dangling that rosy-cheeked little mutant over the colorful bowl of M&Ms. I don't know whether to fear it -- I have a sneaking suspicion that fangs lurk behind those puckered lips, and that it won't be long before the little creature grows up and joins The Brood -- or feel sorry for it. And, worse still, I don't know whether I'm supposed to play with it or eat it.
The fine print in the lower left clears up that last point -- These dolls are not toys; they are fine collectibles to be enjoyed by adult collectors. -- and then creeps me out all the more. Because somehow the thought of people buying and eating these things isn't nearly as disturbing as the thought of people buying and curating and displaying and admiring them.
Secretly feeding your inner cannibal is one thing; openly indulging your inner pedophile is quite another.
[Update, 4:32pm: Three inquiries later, I figure I should note that yes, this ad IS real, and no, I'm NOT making it up. I swear.]
Posted at 08:40 AM
Wed - August 20, 2008
SAME OLD SONG
and dance.
Ah, the manufactured drama, the political and
metaphysical sturm und drang, of waiting for the announcement of the
running mate! The endless speculation! The short-list stakeouts! The
breathless updates about Joe Biden's living arrangements and Evan Bayh's wife's
hair!
And all for nothing. Because over at Carbolic Smoke Ball, we broke the news about Senator Obama's choice months ago.
With a hot new single on the charts, and with the full support of Senator Obama's daughters behind him, well... it's looking more and more like we were right all along.
And all for nothing. Because over at Carbolic Smoke Ball, we broke the news about Senator Obama's choice months ago.
With a hot new single on the charts, and with the full support of Senator Obama's daughters behind him, well... it's looking more and more like we were right all along.
Posted at 08:18 AM
Sun - August 17, 2008
MORE FUN WITH TAG CLOUDS
abortion academics adultery.
A couple of months ago we had some fun with nonsensical Tag Cloud phrases
at Slate.com (Wright Jesus Joe Biden; caucus Iran Javier
Bardem; Chuck Norris conference; Huckabee ice cream). So I
thought it might be fun, even if none of them quite rise to our former levels of
absurdity, to share a few new ones that tickled my fancy today:
Bill Clinton birth control
extramarital sex family
feminism foreign policy
Obama opting out parenting
primary fatigue prostitution
Giuliani sex sex discrimination sex
torture Vicki Iseman.
Which doesn't sound like such a good idea. Unless, of course, Vicki Iseman is responsible for Tag Clouds. Then, these minor amusements aside, I'd be all for it.
Bill Clinton birth control
extramarital sex family
feminism foreign policy
Obama opting out parenting
primary fatigue prostitution
Giuliani sex sex discrimination sex
torture Vicki Iseman.
Which doesn't sound like such a good idea. Unless, of course, Vicki Iseman is responsible for Tag Clouds. Then, these minor amusements aside, I'd be all for it.
Posted at 03:41 PM
Mon - August 11, 2008
BOB & YOU
in email. and then some.
Well, TWMers, if this morning's inbox is a reliable
indicator, I've finally found a subject of scorn and derision that unites us
all: Bob fucking Costas.
Here are the highlights from the emails I've already received:
I...hate...Bob...Costas. He is my personal worst person in the world for the next two weeks.
The only place I want to see Bob Costas' face is in the dictionary, under "unctuous."
I'm excited about the actual competition, but I tire of the coverage pretty quickly. You can add large doses of Bob Costas to the list of things that make me irritable.
Costas was so smarmy and self-serious with Bush that I think he thought he was auditioning for "Meet the Press." What a dick.
And, for reasons that should be obvious to you all, my favorite of the bunch:
I turned on the TV at the Holiday Inn (Express), hungry for some Olympics after three days in tents... and there, to my horror, were two things that offend me to no end, and they were talking to each other. It was like watching a dog fuck a cow. I couldn't take it. Horrible. A war criminal and a publicity criminal.
That about sums it up, I'd say. But if you want to chime in and pile on and take your turn hammering away at that unctuous dick cow-fucker -- not my words, Lord; I'm just reporting -- go right ahead. I'll be happy to post updates throughout the day...
Here are the highlights from the emails I've already received:
I...hate...Bob...Costas. He is my personal worst person in the world for the next two weeks.
The only place I want to see Bob Costas' face is in the dictionary, under "unctuous."
I'm excited about the actual competition, but I tire of the coverage pretty quickly. You can add large doses of Bob Costas to the list of things that make me irritable.
Costas was so smarmy and self-serious with Bush that I think he thought he was auditioning for "Meet the Press." What a dick.
And, for reasons that should be obvious to you all, my favorite of the bunch:
I turned on the TV at the Holiday Inn (Express), hungry for some Olympics after three days in tents... and there, to my horror, were two things that offend me to no end, and they were talking to each other. It was like watching a dog fuck a cow. I couldn't take it. Horrible. A war criminal and a publicity criminal.
That about sums it up, I'd say. But if you want to chime in and pile on and take your turn hammering away at that unctuous dick cow-fucker -- not my words, Lord; I'm just reporting -- go right ahead. I'll be happy to post updates throughout the day...
Posted at 08:46 AM
Sun - August 10, 2008
THE DEVILS & ME
in hell. and sooner than i
thought.
Just a few moments ago, I turned on the television
and met with a flaming, soul-searing vision of my own personal
hell:
George W. Bush. Being interviewed by Bob Costas. On an NBC Olympic telecast.
It's almost as if, here at the end of the weekend, God has read my blog and looked into my posts and fired a warning shot over my profane bow.
Forgive me, Lord. I will try to do better. Just don't punish me like that ever again. Please. Thanks.
George W. Bush. Being interviewed by Bob Costas. On an NBC Olympic telecast.
It's almost as if, here at the end of the weekend, God has read my blog and looked into my posts and fired a warning shot over my profane bow.
Forgive me, Lord. I will try to do better. Just don't punish me like that ever again. Please. Thanks.
Posted at 09:16 PM
TOADSLY & ME
on hell. and other human
suffering.
In response to yesterday's post about Lewis Black and the
potentially damning effects of mixing two of my favorite f-words comes an email
from a regular TWM reader -- we'll call him Toadsly, because that's what
he calls himself -- intended to raise my spirits. And so it did. By the time
I'd stopped laughing, I'd decided to post it
here:
Cheer up! If perdition beckons, you’re headed for profaner’s hell where you’ll spend eternity mingling with sinners like Lewis Black, George Carlin and Lenny Bruce. I, on the other hand, will be sent to bad writer’s hell where I’ll probably rot in a dungeon chained to Randy Pausch as he regurgitates his “The Last Lecture” over and over and over… forever!
I believe it was the great philosopher William Joel who wrote, I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints; the sinners are much more fun. And he may be right. Or I may be crazy. But either way, if I'm gonna get to spend a good part of the afterlife -- you know, when I'm not lounging on a beach with family and friends -- hanging out with Lewis Black and George Carlin and Lenny Bruce, well...
...fucking count me in.
Cheer up! If perdition beckons, you’re headed for profaner’s hell where you’ll spend eternity mingling with sinners like Lewis Black, George Carlin and Lenny Bruce. I, on the other hand, will be sent to bad writer’s hell where I’ll probably rot in a dungeon chained to Randy Pausch as he regurgitates his “The Last Lecture” over and over and over… forever!
I believe it was the great philosopher William Joel who wrote, I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints; the sinners are much more fun. And he may be right. Or I may be crazy. But either way, if I'm gonna get to spend a good part of the afterlife -- you know, when I'm not lounging on a beach with family and friends -- hanging out with Lewis Black and George Carlin and Lenny Bruce, well...
...fucking count me in.
Posted at 10:20 AM
Sat - August 9, 2008
LEWIS & ME
on faith. and the other big f
word.
I've been working my way through the new Lewis Black book, Me of Little
Faith, in which the world's funniest human being grapples with
It's made me think. A lot. And it's made me laugh out loud. A whole hell of a lot. But rarely as well or as robustly as I did last night, when I got to a chapter entitled "the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god." Here are the first two paragraphs:
Is the Bible absolutely true? Is it really the word of God?
Well, if it is, I am fucked. And then I'm fucked for saying fuck. And I say it a lot. It's not really a word to me; it's a comma.
Anyone familiar with Lewis Black knows how truly funny that is. Anyone really familiar with me knows how truly I can relate. And also why the fifth, sixth, and seventh paragraphs had me laughing so hard I almost fell out of bed and into respiratory failure:
But, even if the Bible is a dead-on accurate transcription of God's words, it's rather shocking that God only had two books in him. The Old and the New Testament. I've actually written two books and I am sure God would have written more than me.
Two books? That was all he had to say to us? You think he would have put out at least a pamphlet on the Holocaust. And if not a pamphlet, a couple of well-placed fireballs, for crying out loud. This is the Supreme Being we're talking about, who whacks Sodom and Gomorrah and turns Lot's wife to salt, and Hitler doesn't get so much as a twisted ankle?
It seems a little suspicious to me.
And pretty fucking funny to me.
(Oops. See what I mean?)
It's made me think. A lot. And it's made me laugh out loud. A whole hell of a lot. But rarely as well or as robustly as I did last night, when I got to a chapter entitled "the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me god." Here are the first two paragraphs:
Is the Bible absolutely true? Is it really the word of God?
Well, if it is, I am fucked. And then I'm fucked for saying fuck. And I say it a lot. It's not really a word to me; it's a comma.
Anyone familiar with Lewis Black knows how truly funny that is. Anyone really familiar with me knows how truly I can relate. And also why the fifth, sixth, and seventh paragraphs had me laughing so hard I almost fell out of bed and into respiratory failure:
But, even if the Bible is a dead-on accurate transcription of God's words, it's rather shocking that God only had two books in him. The Old and the New Testament. I've actually written two books and I am sure God would have written more than me.
Two books? That was all he had to say to us? You think he would have put out at least a pamphlet on the Holocaust. And if not a pamphlet, a couple of well-placed fireballs, for crying out loud. This is the Supreme Being we're talking about, who whacks Sodom and Gomorrah and turns Lot's wife to salt, and Hitler doesn't get so much as a twisted ankle?
It seems a little suspicious to me.
And pretty fucking funny to me.
(Oops. See what I mean?)
Posted at 03:34 PM
Wed - August 6, 2008
WHERE THE DEVIL DON'T EAT
or, the pda of the beast.
It's been a while since we had a good tale of
restaurant-visit absurdity here on TWM. This one, like one of the first ones, takes place at Panera.
All Adam and I wanted on Monday was a quick lunch to steel ourselves for a grocery shopping excursion to the Market District Giant Eagle in Shadyside. (If you're a local reader, and you've ever been there, you know there really isn't enough steel in the Sears Tower to handle it, but every little bit, and a whole lot of Mt. Dew, helps.) I should have known it was a bad sign when I couldn't get a parking space in the lot. And an even worse sign when no one sitting in traffic on Centre Avenue would give us room to cross. (You know, as if letting a couple of hungry pedestrians pass in front of their bumpers might somehow set them back an hour on their lunch-time commute.) And I probably should have just grabbed Adam by the arm and led him back to the curb -- though it probably would have been an hour before we were allowed to cross again -- when I saw the cell-phone gabber on the way in let the door slam in the face of a cell-phone gabber on the way out, who returned the favor by letting the door slam on a sunglassed text-messager on the way in. But I didn't.
I should have. But I didn't.
So in we went. We had to wait behind Sunglassed Text-Messager, who stopped text-messaging long enough to take four -- count 'em, four -- pieces of bread from the sample basket by the door. Adam and I each took one -- because we possess manners and propriety, and because we were afraid that if we took any more, Sunglassed Text-Messager may have taken them from us.
We got in line -- four parties deep in a single line that queued to the next open register -- and were almost immediately besieged by two old women, one on the right and one on the left, as if they'd coordinated an attack on both of our flanks, trying to weasel up to one of the registers, as if the six people waiting patiently three feet away were just taking turns reading the menu and trying to keep the aisle clear. Before I could step up and ask them if our line was interfering with their cutting, or at least, George-Costanza-like, remind them that we're living in a society here and that, in societies as in neighborhood restaurants, we wait our turn in line, the guy at the head of the queue, more subtle but far less funny than I, pointed out the rest of us, which they acted like they had not seen -- oh, six people all in a row, my gracious! -- and grudgingly moved to the back.
But this was all just the prelude. The warm-up. The opening act of annoyance for the day's headliners: the couple of early-twenty-somethings -- he in his low-slung hospital scrubs, she in her low-cut hooker blouse -- who were third in line for the registers but behaving as if they were first in line to audition for the lead roles in Deep Throat 4: Tonsil Ticklers.
Now. Let me just say, for the record, that I have no problem with simple displays of public affection; a hug, a kiss, a playful nuzzle -- hell, even a discreet squeeze or two -- are all fine by me. I've been known to practice them all myself. But unless you're eating an ice cream cone, tormenting your little brother behind your mother's back, or Gene Simmons at a KISS concert, your tongue should never, ever be even half as far out of its own mouth in public as these two were. The last time I saw a tongue so grotesquely extended, it was pulling a severed head across the floor in John Carpenter's The Thing.
And I don't have to tell you -- though someone, apparently, should have told them -- that when in public, your fingers should never, ever enter anyone else's untoward orifices.
That's right, kids. As if it weren't bad enough that these two felt the need to perform throat cultures on each other while waiting in line -- watching them, I suddenly wished I could, Spider-Man like, shoot streptococcus bacteria out of my wrists -- it got even worse once they'd advanced to the counter. As she began to order -- you know, facing the register, so their back sides were facing the rest of us -- the young woman felt the need to start kneading her boyfriend's ass. And I don't mean just gently patting or fondling or massaging here. I mean kneading, like she was making a loaf of bread the size of his ass, and she had to make sure all the ingredients between his pelvic bones were sufficiently mixed. Once she'd finished ordering, and was thus able to transfer the extra brain power it took to remember her sandwich preference to the task (ahem) at hand, she really went to work.
It took her boyfriend an excruciatingly long time to order, in part because he seemed to have the IQ of a small woodland animal, and in part because by the time he'd progressed to his choice of side dish, she had at least two of her fingers (and, presumably, the cotton and denim beneath them) wedged so far into his ass that she should have just given him a prostate exam while she was up there. He stuttered and finished his order. I think he said chips, but he probably should have said cornhole muffin.
How either one of them enjoyed this process, or why they thought it appropriate for a lunch-counter demonstration, is a mystery. That neither my head nor his colon explode is a minor miracle.
Adam, bless him, seemed oblivious to the whole display. (He was near food and anticipating the eating of it; thank goodness for the prevalence and focus of his teenaged, insatiable gastronomical urges.) I kept wishing I had been.
Our turn came, we stepped up and ordered, then got one of those little flashy-vibrating things that chain restaurants use when you have a forty-five minute wait for a table. (What? It's too much trouble to say, Chad, or, Number 15, when my Asiago Roast Beef Sandwich is ready?) We passed a table for four that was occupied only by a guy, his laptop, and what looked like the remains of his breakfast from a few hours ago. (There's always one guy like that in every Panera; I'm starting to think they're on the payroll, for ambience.) We passed another table occupied by a guy with a Harley-Davidson hat on his head and a pair of orange Crocs on his feet. (A combination I never thought I'd see, nor want to see again.) And we sat at a table far away from the Panera Porn Stars, who, last I saw, still had all their clothes on, but were eyeing up a booth in the corner and, well, that couldn't have been a good thing.
As we sat and made small talk, and as I tried to shake the feeling that I would never want to eat at a Panera or even stand in line at a cash register again, I glanced at my receipt and saw that our order number was 666. It seemed fitting.
All Adam and I wanted on Monday was a quick lunch to steel ourselves for a grocery shopping excursion to the Market District Giant Eagle in Shadyside. (If you're a local reader, and you've ever been there, you know there really isn't enough steel in the Sears Tower to handle it, but every little bit, and a whole lot of Mt. Dew, helps.) I should have known it was a bad sign when I couldn't get a parking space in the lot. And an even worse sign when no one sitting in traffic on Centre Avenue would give us room to cross. (You know, as if letting a couple of hungry pedestrians pass in front of their bumpers might somehow set them back an hour on their lunch-time commute.) And I probably should have just grabbed Adam by the arm and led him back to the curb -- though it probably would have been an hour before we were allowed to cross again -- when I saw the cell-phone gabber on the way in let the door slam in the face of a cell-phone gabber on the way out, who returned the favor by letting the door slam on a sunglassed text-messager on the way in. But I didn't.
I should have. But I didn't.
So in we went. We had to wait behind Sunglassed Text-Messager, who stopped text-messaging long enough to take four -- count 'em, four -- pieces of bread from the sample basket by the door. Adam and I each took one -- because we possess manners and propriety, and because we were afraid that if we took any more, Sunglassed Text-Messager may have taken them from us.
We got in line -- four parties deep in a single line that queued to the next open register -- and were almost immediately besieged by two old women, one on the right and one on the left, as if they'd coordinated an attack on both of our flanks, trying to weasel up to one of the registers, as if the six people waiting patiently three feet away were just taking turns reading the menu and trying to keep the aisle clear. Before I could step up and ask them if our line was interfering with their cutting, or at least, George-Costanza-like, remind them that we're living in a society here and that, in societies as in neighborhood restaurants, we wait our turn in line, the guy at the head of the queue, more subtle but far less funny than I, pointed out the rest of us, which they acted like they had not seen -- oh, six people all in a row, my gracious! -- and grudgingly moved to the back.
But this was all just the prelude. The warm-up. The opening act of annoyance for the day's headliners: the couple of early-twenty-somethings -- he in his low-slung hospital scrubs, she in her low-cut hooker blouse -- who were third in line for the registers but behaving as if they were first in line to audition for the lead roles in Deep Throat 4: Tonsil Ticklers.
Now. Let me just say, for the record, that I have no problem with simple displays of public affection; a hug, a kiss, a playful nuzzle -- hell, even a discreet squeeze or two -- are all fine by me. I've been known to practice them all myself. But unless you're eating an ice cream cone, tormenting your little brother behind your mother's back, or Gene Simmons at a KISS concert, your tongue should never, ever be even half as far out of its own mouth in public as these two were. The last time I saw a tongue so grotesquely extended, it was pulling a severed head across the floor in John Carpenter's The Thing.
And I don't have to tell you -- though someone, apparently, should have told them -- that when in public, your fingers should never, ever enter anyone else's untoward orifices.
That's right, kids. As if it weren't bad enough that these two felt the need to perform throat cultures on each other while waiting in line -- watching them, I suddenly wished I could, Spider-Man like, shoot streptococcus bacteria out of my wrists -- it got even worse once they'd advanced to the counter. As she began to order -- you know, facing the register, so their back sides were facing the rest of us -- the young woman felt the need to start kneading her boyfriend's ass. And I don't mean just gently patting or fondling or massaging here. I mean kneading, like she was making a loaf of bread the size of his ass, and she had to make sure all the ingredients between his pelvic bones were sufficiently mixed. Once she'd finished ordering, and was thus able to transfer the extra brain power it took to remember her sandwich preference to the task (ahem) at hand, she really went to work.
It took her boyfriend an excruciatingly long time to order, in part because he seemed to have the IQ of a small woodland animal, and in part because by the time he'd progressed to his choice of side dish, she had at least two of her fingers (and, presumably, the cotton and denim beneath them) wedged so far into his ass that she should have just given him a prostate exam while she was up there. He stuttered and finished his order. I think he said chips, but he probably should have said cornhole muffin.
How either one of them enjoyed this process, or why they thought it appropriate for a lunch-counter demonstration, is a mystery. That neither my head nor his colon explode is a minor miracle.
Adam, bless him, seemed oblivious to the whole display. (He was near food and anticipating the eating of it; thank goodness for the prevalence and focus of his teenaged, insatiable gastronomical urges.) I kept wishing I had been.
Our turn came, we stepped up and ordered, then got one of those little flashy-vibrating things that chain restaurants use when you have a forty-five minute wait for a table. (What? It's too much trouble to say, Chad, or, Number 15, when my Asiago Roast Beef Sandwich is ready?) We passed a table for four that was occupied only by a guy, his laptop, and what looked like the remains of his breakfast from a few hours ago. (There's always one guy like that in every Panera; I'm starting to think they're on the payroll, for ambience.) We passed another table occupied by a guy with a Harley-Davidson hat on his head and a pair of orange Crocs on his feet. (A combination I never thought I'd see, nor want to see again.) And we sat at a table far away from the Panera Porn Stars, who, last I saw, still had all their clothes on, but were eyeing up a booth in the corner and, well, that couldn't have been a good thing.
As we sat and made small talk, and as I tried to shake the feeling that I would never want to eat at a Panera or even stand in line at a cash register again, I glanced at my receipt and saw that our order number was 666. It seemed fitting.
Posted at 04:54 PM
Mon - August 4, 2008
MONDAY MORNING EXCLUSIVE
for anyone who thinks it can't get
worse.
If you thought the last McCain campaign ad was bad,
you oughta see the next
one.
Over at Carbolic Smoke Ball, we have an exclusive first look.
Over at Carbolic Smoke Ball, we have an exclusive first look.
Posted at 08:34 AM
Thu - July 10, 2008
JESSE JACKSON AND THE NUCKING FUTS
or, an apology decoded.
It's almost too easy. But it's so funny and so
bizarre and so (more) perfect, that I can't
resist.
I thought I'd said everything I wanted to say about it over at the Carbolic Smoke Ball. And yet, the more I read the Rev. Jesse Jackson's apology, the more it seemed to cry out, if not for a full-fledged TWM deconstruction, at least for a fairly thorough TWM decoding. There's a lot going on there -- both in the lines and between them -- so I thought it might be fun to take a closer look and see what lies beneath its murky, slimy surface.
For any harm or hurt that this hot mic private conversation may have caused,...
But not, you know, for actually saying or thinking it...
...I apologize.
And wish, more than anything, that those bastards had cut off that mic, so no one would have heard what I really think, and so I wouldn't have to be dealing with the indignities of all this scrutiny, my own son's repudiation, and yet another profound, poetic reinforcement of the fact that I can be, despite my better instincts, a vindictive and self-obsessed asshole.
My support for Senator Obama's campaign is wide, deep and unequivocal.
And I'd like to cut his nuts off.
I cherish this redemptive and historical moment.
But I'd cherish it even more if it were happening to me. Or if more people were listening to me. Or if I could just cut his nuts off.
My appeal was for the moral content of his message to not only deal with the personal and moral responsibility of black males,...
And so not just to cut his nuts off...
but to deal with the collective moral responsibility of government and the public policy which would be a corrective action for the lack of good choices that often led to their irresponsibility.
...but to suggest, finally, in as vague and weaselly a sentence as possible, that government should, in some indeterminate way or ways, produce public policy that would correct, or resolve, or perhaps even absolve, the lack of good choices -- by which I mean the abundance of bad choices -- made by some young black males as a first step upon, as opposed to yet another step along, the long and terrible path of their own irresponsibility, which, rather than praising Senator Obama for speaking openly and honestly about, simply makes me want to cut his nuts off.
That was the context of my private conversation...
For which I have not actually apologized, and that, once again, I really, really wish you hadn't heard. Because it was private. And by "private," I mean, "what I really think but don't want you to know."
... and it does not reflect any disparagement on my part for the historic event in which we are involved...
Because, you know, in some parts of the black community, saying you want to cut someone's nuts off is actually a wide, deep, unequivocal, non-disparaging show of respect and support.
...or my pride in Senator Barack Obama,...
Whose nuts I'd like to cut off.
...who is leading it,...
With those big, stupid nuts...
...whom I have supported...
...just a few hours ago I said I wanted to cut off. Because I did. And still do.
...by crisscrossing this nation in every level of media and audience...
Talking to people who knew how and when to turn off my microphone.
...from the beginning in absolute terms.
Except in private conversations. When I say I want to cut his nuts off.
I thought I'd said everything I wanted to say about it over at the Carbolic Smoke Ball. And yet, the more I read the Rev. Jesse Jackson's apology, the more it seemed to cry out, if not for a full-fledged TWM deconstruction, at least for a fairly thorough TWM decoding. There's a lot going on there -- both in the lines and between them -- so I thought it might be fun to take a closer look and see what lies beneath its murky, slimy surface.
For any harm or hurt that this hot mic private conversation may have caused,...
But not, you know, for actually saying or thinking it...
...I apologize.
And wish, more than anything, that those bastards had cut off that mic, so no one would have heard what I really think, and so I wouldn't have to be dealing with the indignities of all this scrutiny, my own son's repudiation, and yet another profound, poetic reinforcement of the fact that I can be, despite my better instincts, a vindictive and self-obsessed asshole.
My support for Senator Obama's campaign is wide, deep and unequivocal.
And I'd like to cut his nuts off.
I cherish this redemptive and historical moment.
But I'd cherish it even more if it were happening to me. Or if more people were listening to me. Or if I could just cut his nuts off.
My appeal was for the moral content of his message to not only deal with the personal and moral responsibility of black males,...
And so not just to cut his nuts off...
but to deal with the collective moral responsibility of government and the public policy which would be a corrective action for the lack of good choices that often led to their irresponsibility.
...but to suggest, finally, in as vague and weaselly a sentence as possible, that government should, in some indeterminate way or ways, produce public policy that would correct, or resolve, or perhaps even absolve, the lack of good choices -- by which I mean the abundance of bad choices -- made by some young black males as a first step upon, as opposed to yet another step along, the long and terrible path of their own irresponsibility, which, rather than praising Senator Obama for speaking openly and honestly about, simply makes me want to cut his nuts off.
That was the context of my private conversation...
For which I have not actually apologized, and that, once again, I really, really wish you hadn't heard. Because it was private. And by "private," I mean, "what I really think but don't want you to know."
... and it does not reflect any disparagement on my part for the historic event in which we are involved...
Because, you know, in some parts of the black community, saying you want to cut someone's nuts off is actually a wide, deep, unequivocal, non-disparaging show of respect and support.
...or my pride in Senator Barack Obama,...
Whose nuts I'd like to cut off.
...who is leading it,...
With those big, stupid nuts...
...whom I have supported...
...just a few hours ago I said I wanted to cut off. Because I did. And still do.
...by crisscrossing this nation in every level of media and audience...
Talking to people who knew how and when to turn off my microphone.
...from the beginning in absolute terms.
Except in private conversations. When I say I want to cut his nuts off.
Posted at 09:09 AM
Sat - July 5, 2008
DOUBTING THOMAS
or, at least a little off
target.
Interesting article in this morning's
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette about a sixteen-year-old from DuBois whose
last-day-of-middle-school brainstorm led to a patent and, now two years later,
to more than a million dollars' worth of sales for magnetic locker wallpaper.
PG reporter Anya Sostek tells an engaging tale, from the genesis of the
idea, through the right-place-at-the-right-time ascendence of her father's
career, to the engineers who shaved more than $20 per roll of the cost of the
finished product. It's all good stuff and well worth reading. But the bit that
really caught my attention comes twenty-one paragraphs in, with a testimonial
that tells you all you need to know and hate about corporate
marketing
At Target, at least, the product fit in perfectly with the store's other back-to-school offerings.
"The trend is to be more of an individual, whether that be with your backpack or decorating your locker, so a product like this offers guests an easy and affordable way to personalize their space at school," said Joshua Thomas, a spokesman for Target, which will sell the wallpaper in almost 1,600 stores nationwide.
You know, because nothing says being an individual like covering the inside of your locker with one of the same six, prefabbed patterns that everyone else can choose from.
At Target, at least, the product fit in perfectly with the store's other back-to-school offerings.
"The trend is to be more of an individual, whether that be with your backpack or decorating your locker, so a product like this offers guests an easy and affordable way to personalize their space at school," said Joshua Thomas, a spokesman for Target, which will sell the wallpaper in almost 1,600 stores nationwide.
You know, because nothing says being an individual like covering the inside of your locker with one of the same six, prefabbed patterns that everyone else can choose from.
Posted at 12:30 PM
Mon - June 16, 2008
MAX TALBOT SHOULD SUE
or at least stage a protest.
This morning, while reading Anya Sostek's
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette piece about a new Duquesne University survey
that found college women expect to earn less money than their male counterparts,
I had a terrible revelation. I got to thinking about the wage gap, and about
income expectations, and then, because I'm excited about all those Marian Hossa
contract rumors, I got to thinking about the Penguins, and about how all their
salaries will fit under the cap next year. And then it hit
me.
The Pittsburgh Penguins are guilty of egregious and systematic wage discrimination.
For the upcoming 2008-2009 season, the Pens have four centers under contract. They're all doing the exact same job for the exact same team and the exact same employers in the exact same city. But they will be earning wildly different amounts of money:
Sidney Crosby, $8.7 million
Evgeni Malkin, $984,200
Jordan Staal, $850,000
Max Talbot, $675,000.
I guess the Penguins don't believe in equal work for equal pay. I guess they feel perfectly justified in paying four men of similar age and experience dramatically different amounts of money to perform the same tasks. And it's obvious that they feel they can pay one of those young men, poor Max Talbot, less than all three of his peers, even though he has the most experience and the most seniority of the group.
Maybe it's because he's the oldest. (Ageism. Definitely.) Maybe it's because he's French Canadian. (Francophobia. Undoubtedly.) Or maybe it's just because he grows the bushiest playoff beard. (Whiskerism. Absolutely.) But whatever it is, it's wrong. It's an outrage. And it must be stopped. Immediately.
So I'm calling on Max Talbot to strike, to stage a protest march on Mellon Arena, and then to sue his employers, on behalf of hairy, mid-20-something French Canadians everywhere, to close this unconscionable wage gap. And I'm calling upon all Penguins fans, indeed upon all committed liberators of conscience who hear his cry, to join Max in this fight, to skate on his line of freedom and muck and grind in the corners of equality and help him end this terrible discrimination once and for all.
The Pittsburgh Penguins are guilty of egregious and systematic wage discrimination.
For the upcoming 2008-2009 season, the Pens have four centers under contract. They're all doing the exact same job for the exact same team and the exact same employers in the exact same city. But they will be earning wildly different amounts of money:
Sidney Crosby, $8.7 million
Evgeni Malkin, $984,200
Jordan Staal, $850,000
Max Talbot, $675,000.
I guess the Penguins don't believe in equal work for equal pay. I guess they feel perfectly justified in paying four men of similar age and experience dramatically different amounts of money to perform the same tasks. And it's obvious that they feel they can pay one of those young men, poor Max Talbot, less than all three of his peers, even though he has the most experience and the most seniority of the group.
Maybe it's because he's the oldest. (Ageism. Definitely.) Maybe it's because he's French Canadian. (Francophobia. Undoubtedly.) Or maybe it's just because he grows the bushiest playoff beard. (Whiskerism. Absolutely.) But whatever it is, it's wrong. It's an outrage. And it must be stopped. Immediately.
So I'm calling on Max Talbot to strike, to stage a protest march on Mellon Arena, and then to sue his employers, on behalf of hairy, mid-20-something French Canadians everywhere, to close this unconscionable wage gap. And I'm calling upon all Penguins fans, indeed upon all committed liberators of conscience who hear his cry, to join Max in this fight, to skate on his line of freedom and muck and grind in the corners of equality and help him end this terrible discrimination once and for all.
Posted at 10:27 AM
Tue - June 10, 2008
THE WILD
the innocent, and the grant street
shuffle.
It's been a while since I cross-posted anything
from my (soon to be even bigger and better) Carbolic
Smoke Balling. Because I really love this piece, and because it
debuted to much acclaim in yesterday's Carbolic Page in the Trib p.m., this seems like a mighty fine
time to do so.
My apologies to TWM readers not from Pittsburgh, who will, unfortunately, not get the full depth of the joke. But if you live in (or around) the 'Burgh and pay any attention at all to the dizzying displays of what pass for local politics around here, you'll understand from whence it came.
And so, without further ado, TWM and CSB proudly present both the next Jon Krakauer novel and the next Sean Penn picture:
My apologies to TWM readers not from Pittsburgh, who will, unfortunately, not get the full depth of the joke. But if you live in (or around) the 'Burgh and pay any attention at all to the dizzying displays of what pass for local politics around here, you'll understand from whence it came.
And so, without further ado, TWM and CSB proudly present both the next Jon Krakauer novel and the next Sean Penn picture:
Posted at 07:25 AM
Thu - May 22, 2008
BREAKING UP IS EASY TO DO
just ask ann curry.
TWM's regular readers will know that I find a
steady source of amusement, inspiration, and outrage in the continuing
tabloidization -- and, let's face it, idiotization -- of NBC's Today
Show. What used to be, at least for the first hour, a thoughtful source of
news and insightful journalism has devolved into one part Oprah, one part
Inside Edition, and one part Entertainment Tonight.
(If Matt Lauer had any dignity left, he'd quit. Or kill himself.) But this
morning, the show reached new and previously unimaginable depths of
offensiveness, adding one part Maury Povich, or at least Montel Williams,
by touting the first in a Special Series on Life's Toughest Conversations.
First up: How to Ask your Spouse for a Divorce!
You can, if you have a high tolerance for pain and/or Ann Curry -- yes, I know they're virtually interchangeable -- watch all seven excruciating minutes here. But, as a public service to readers who've been waiting around, stuck in an angry or loveless marriage and hoping that some network morning show would come along and give you all the advice you needed to get that divorce ball rolling, I'll recap the top tips:
1. The first thing is to create a vision. What’s your intention? How do you want it to turn out?
First: these are all direct quotations from the segment. Really. Now. Note to Dr. Gail Saltz: your intention is to ask your spouse for a divorce, and you want it to turn out with a divorce. That was, after all, the point of the segment, so it should make the vision pretty darned clear.
2. You really need to go in and think about how the other person’s feeling. Stand in their shoes and listen to them. Let them tell you what they are feeling. Reflect back what they are feeling. And you diminish the hostility by doing that.
Because nothing diminishes hostility like listening to how your spouse is feeling, and thinking about how they're feeling, and then telling her that you want a divorce because you're sleeping with a much younger woman.
3. Do it in a public place.
Expert advice, I swear. Something about avoiding nastiness or ugliness or potential violence. And, of course, adding the spectacles of public torment and humiliation. Hell, maybe you should do it live on a web cam. Or at least Twitter your way through it.
4. You gotta be very empathetic. You say, “Uh, I’m really doing it for both of us. You’re a wonderful person... We’re gonna get through this together.”
Because nothing says I want a divorce like we're gonna get through this together.
5. Your goal is to create, a kind of a -- as much as possible -- a loving path. You wanna say, "Look, this hurts you, this hurts me, and we need to walk down this path holding hands."
Because nothing says loving path down which we walk while holding hands like I don't want to be married to you anymore.
6. What people don’t realize about divorce when they have children is the terrible, terrible impact it has on children.
Who are these fucking people? And in what cave have they been living? Didn't they see Kramer vs. Kramer?
7. Tell the kids they’re gonna have two homes now. They’re not gonna be without one of the parents.
Unless they can clone themselves and live in two places at once, they most certainly are going to be without one of the parents. At all times. You idiot.
And, finally, my favorite. The big finish. The one that's better -- by which I mean, more insane -- than all the rest of the tips combined. While talking about the impact divorce can have on children, Dr. Saltz says:
8. To some degree a healthy divorce may even be more important than a healthy marriage.
I have nothing here. Really. Nothing at all. What could I possibly say about that sentence that would not already be redundant?
So I'll stop now and simply say that I eagerly await the next installment of the series, How to Tell Your Boss You Haven't Been Doing Any Work!, or maybe, How To Tell Your Parish You've Been Touching the Altar Boys!
You can, if you have a high tolerance for pain and/or Ann Curry -- yes, I know they're virtually interchangeable -- watch all seven excruciating minutes here. But, as a public service to readers who've been waiting around, stuck in an angry or loveless marriage and hoping that some network morning show would come along and give you all the advice you needed to get that divorce ball rolling, I'll recap the top tips:
1. The first thing is to create a vision. What’s your intention? How do you want it to turn out?
First: these are all direct quotations from the segment. Really. Now. Note to Dr. Gail Saltz: your intention is to ask your spouse for a divorce, and you want it to turn out with a divorce. That was, after all, the point of the segment, so it should make the vision pretty darned clear.
2. You really need to go in and think about how the other person’s feeling. Stand in their shoes and listen to them. Let them tell you what they are feeling. Reflect back what they are feeling. And you diminish the hostility by doing that.
Because nothing diminishes hostility like listening to how your spouse is feeling, and thinking about how they're feeling, and then telling her that you want a divorce because you're sleeping with a much younger woman.
3. Do it in a public place.
Expert advice, I swear. Something about avoiding nastiness or ugliness or potential violence. And, of course, adding the spectacles of public torment and humiliation. Hell, maybe you should do it live on a web cam. Or at least Twitter your way through it.
4. You gotta be very empathetic. You say, “Uh, I’m really doing it for both of us. You’re a wonderful person... We’re gonna get through this together.”
Because nothing says I want a divorce like we're gonna get through this together.
5. Your goal is to create, a kind of a -- as much as possible -- a loving path. You wanna say, "Look, this hurts you, this hurts me, and we need to walk down this path holding hands."
Because nothing says loving path down which we walk while holding hands like I don't want to be married to you anymore.
6. What people don’t realize about divorce when they have children is the terrible, terrible impact it has on children.
Who are these fucking people? And in what cave have they been living? Didn't they see Kramer vs. Kramer?
7. Tell the kids they’re gonna have two homes now. They’re not gonna be without one of the parents.
Unless they can clone themselves and live in two places at once, they most certainly are going to be without one of the parents. At all times. You idiot.
And, finally, my favorite. The big finish. The one that's better -- by which I mean, more insane -- than all the rest of the tips combined. While talking about the impact divorce can have on children, Dr. Saltz says:
8. To some degree a healthy divorce may even be more important than a healthy marriage.
I have nothing here. Really. Nothing at all. What could I possibly say about that sentence that would not already be redundant?
So I'll stop now and simply say that I eagerly await the next installment of the series, How to Tell Your Boss You Haven't Been Doing Any Work!, or maybe, How To Tell Your Parish You've Been Touching the Altar Boys!
Posted at 04:51 PM
Mon - May 5, 2008
HILLARY X
the little that is all.
Remember when some people -- including that
all-high arbiter of cultural identity, Professor Cornell West -- were wondering
if Barack Obama is black enough? It's safe to assume, I suppose --
Professor West, after all, is now a staunch Obama supporter and advisor -- that
everyone worried about such things decided that he is. But I've been wondering
whether those same people are now afraid that Hillary, long-time favorite of
African-American voters and wife of the former First Black President, is perhaps too
black.
While Senator Obama orates himself across the country, telling us that he has a dream of hope and change, Senator Clinton takes a more fierce and occasionally radical approach, stirring up trouble and angering the establishment and doing her best to win the nomination by any means necessary. It's not just Senator Breath of Fresh Air vs. Senator Sniper Fire; it's Senator Dr. King vs. Senator Malcolm X.
Which means that John McCain must be Senator George Wallace.
While Senator Obama orates himself across the country, telling us that he has a dream of hope and change, Senator Clinton takes a more fierce and occasionally radical approach, stirring up trouble and angering the establishment and doing her best to win the nomination by any means necessary. It's not just Senator Breath of Fresh Air vs. Senator Sniper Fire; it's Senator Dr. King vs. Senator Malcolm X.
Which means that John McCain must be Senator George Wallace.
Posted at 12:39 PM
Tue - April 29, 2008
GREETINGS, GIFTS, GRATUITIES
and plaintive cries for
humanity.
I am, of course, incredibly biased -- the guy's
been one of my best friends for twenty years, and he was the
Mother-of-All-Toasts-Giving Best Man at my wedding -- but even if I didn't know
him, and I had just stumbled upon this Contact
Info text next to a grainy photo of a guy with a really wide eye that
seemed to be staring straight over my left shoulder at something sure to scare
the hell out of me, I would still repeat it here, because it's one of the
funniest things I've read online in a very long
time:
Please send greetings, gifts, gratuities, business offers, endorsements, requests, love letters, and fond farewells to:
jim [a/t] jimpascoe [d/o/t] com
If you can't figure out this coded email, please consult with someone under the age of 16.
If you are a spam robot and CAN figure this out, I will immediately rent THE TERMINATOR and cry for humanity.
So if you're under 16, a souped-up new spam robot, or just someone who appreciates good humor, please consider sending Jim a greeting or a gratuity. Tell him that TWM tipped you off. And then ask him to play "Freebird."
Please send greetings, gifts, gratuities, business offers, endorsements, requests, love letters, and fond farewells to:
jim [a/t] jimpascoe [d/o/t] com
If you can't figure out this coded email, please consult with someone under the age of 16.
If you are a spam robot and CAN figure this out, I will immediately rent THE TERMINATOR and cry for humanity.
So if you're under 16, a souped-up new spam robot, or just someone who appreciates good humor, please consider sending Jim a greeting or a gratuity. Tell him that TWM tipped you off. And then ask him to play "Freebird."
Posted at 01:24 PM
Tue - April 22, 2008
KILROY CALLED
and so did everyone else.
With apologies to
Styx...
Domo arigato, Mr. Robocall
Domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mrs. Robocall
Domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mr. Robocall
Damn you...damn you
You're wondering who I am
With calls made from Japan
Hillary or Barack
Michelle or now Chris Rock
I've got a secret I've been hiding in your phone
My voice is human, your blood is boiling, on and on I drone
So if you hear me acting strangely, don't be surprised
I'm a consultant who needed someone to charge and drive
To keep me alive, to keep me alive
Something to do, to keep me justified
I am the modren call, who hides behind a wall
So no one else can see my own caller I.D.
Domo arigato, Mr. Robocall
Domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mrs. Robocall
Damn you...Damn you
Thank you very much, Mr. Robocall
For doing the jobs that humans used to
And thank you very much, Mr. Robocall
For calling me at home when I don't want you to
Thank you, thank you, I want to thank you
Please, thank you
The problem's plain to see
Too much technology
Machines to make our calls
Machines to whore us all
The time has come at last
To throw away this mask
So everyone can see
My true caller I.D.
It's 6-6-6!
6-6-6!
6-6-6!...
Domo arigato, Mr. Robocall
Domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mrs. Robocall
Domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mr. Robocall
Damn you...damn you
You're wondering who I am
With calls made from Japan
Hillary or Barack
Michelle or now Chris Rock
I've got a secret I've been hiding in your phone
My voice is human, your blood is boiling, on and on I drone
So if you hear me acting strangely, don't be surprised
I'm a consultant who needed someone to charge and drive
To keep me alive, to keep me alive
Something to do, to keep me justified
I am the modren call, who hides behind a wall
So no one else can see my own caller I.D.
Domo arigato, Mr. Robocall
Domo...domo
Domo arigato, Mrs. Robocall
Damn you...Damn you
Thank you very much, Mr. Robocall
For doing the jobs that humans used to
And thank you very much, Mr. Robocall
For calling me at home when I don't want you to
Thank you, thank you, I want to thank you
Please, thank you
The problem's plain to see
Too much technology
Machines to make our calls
Machines to whore us all
The time has come at last
To throw away this mask
So everyone can see
My true caller I.D.
It's 6-6-6!
6-6-6!
6-6-6!...
Posted at 05:08 PM
Wed - March 26, 2008
A BRIEF INTERLUDE
for the sake of the political
aesthetic.
Hi there.
I don't actually have a new post ready to go yet, but I had to write something here, because I was tired of being haunted by the thought of that damned Newsweek cover still sitting at the top of the page.
This should push it down a little farther.
And a little farther.
And just a little farther still.
There we go.
That's better.
Carry on...
I don't actually have a new post ready to go yet, but I had to write something here, because I was tired of being haunted by the thought of that damned Newsweek cover still sitting at the top of the page.
This should push it down a little farther.
And a little farther.
And just a little farther still.
There we go.
That's better.
Carry on...
Posted at 05:18 PM
Mon - March 17, 2008
CARBOLIC WEAR
wear the funny.
In our ongoing quest to take over the world one
joke and one media outlet at a time, the Carbolic
Smoke Ball team proudly announces the opening of the CarbolicWear
web
store. We've set up shop with the fine folks at SpreadShirt to
deliver high-quality t-shirts at reasonable
prices.
We currently have three designs in multiple styles and colors. Many more are on the way, and we're always happy to take requests for your favorite Carbolic stories, headlines, and images.
(Just to spice things up a bit, the Spreadshirters are offering a Coupon Code for $5 off shipping on all orders over $25 placed between now and March 21st. Just enter the code MarchMadness at checkout, and your wickedly quick delivery -- I placed a test order on a Monday night and got my t-shirt Wednesday afternoon -- of your wickedly cool t-shirts will be wickedly cheap too.)
If you like to read the funny, we hope you'll want to wear the funny too.
We currently have three designs in multiple styles and colors. Many more are on the way, and we're always happy to take requests for your favorite Carbolic stories, headlines, and images.
(Just to spice things up a bit, the Spreadshirters are offering a Coupon Code for $5 off shipping on all orders over $25 placed between now and March 21st. Just enter the code MarchMadness at checkout, and your wickedly quick delivery -- I placed a test order on a Monday night and got my t-shirt Wednesday afternoon -- of your wickedly cool t-shirts will be wickedly cheap too.)
If you like to read the funny, we hope you'll want to wear the funny too.
Posted at 07:07 AM
Sat - March 15, 2008
WHEN GERMAN EYES ARE ROLLING
at a wee bit o' blarney.
This afternoon, around 5:15, on opposite corners of
Forbes and Murray, a man and a woman stood brandishing green signs with white
letters, a shamrock posing as an apostrophe, and the inscription:
O'BAMA.
My first thought was: O'LAME-O.
My second thought was: I can't wait to see the OBAMAWITZ signs at Passover.
My first thought was: O'LAME-O.
My second thought was: I can't wait to see the OBAMAWITZ signs at Passover.
Posted at 08:21 PM
Tue - March 11, 2008
Sun - March 9, 2008
HAIR TODAY
gone to morrow.
A sure sign that, time change or no time change,
you should have stayed in bed: when you wake up, get up, turn on your television
with the hope of catching a weather report, and see instead a close-up of a man
combing his Guinness-Book-certified world's longest ear hair.
Posted at 09:01 AM
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