If you’ve been trying to access the site for the last little while and you’ve been seeing strange bits of code or nothing at all, try again a little later. Something seems to be wrong and I’m trying to figure out what it is and hoping I didn’t do it when I was posting something. I doubt I did, I think it’s a Blogger problem and I’m betting it’ll be fixed soon. Just hang tight and come back a little later.
Wholesome Family Entertainment
This is a clip from an actual children’s TV show called “Rainbow” that used to be shown back in the 1970’s. I hadn’t heard of this show until yesterday when it was linked in
RAW Rage,
but now I want to track down every episode ever made to see if they were all this funny.
Seriously,
watch this clip
and marvel at how much these people were able to get away with. There’s no way that all of the innuendo in this thing could be explained away with the old different expressions excuse. It’s deliberate, it’s funny, and it makes me hate the people who wrote the kid’s shows that I grew up on for not being able to pull something like this off.
Could I speak to the man of the house please?
Arg. I just got called by a telemarketer. Man oh man. Part of me feels sorry for them because they must be so desperate for employment that they have to spend their days, evenings, nights, weekends, and all other hours they can selling vacuum cleaners, phone service, newspaper subscriptions, carpet-cleanings, cruises and whatever else telemarketers have to do. But some of them just piss me off. I don’t know what it is, but the newspaper-selling guys are especially bad for it. I can stop them cold pretty easily though. It goes like this.
telemarketer. Hello. Can I speak to, ah, um, Ca-reen?
Me: Speaking.
Telemarketer: I’m calling from the (insert newspaper here). We’re offering a 29-week subscription. Are you interested?
Me: Only if you have it in braille. I’m blind.
Telemarketer: Hmmm. Um. Sorry. Never mind. Bye.
Man it’s fun to watch them run away. What I hate the most about them is when they get all pissed off when I don’t want their subscription. It’s like I’ve wasted their time rather than the other way around. Some of them just hang up. Well excuse me for being a thorn in your existence by not being able to read your crap.
The best response was one telemarketer who, after getting all stuttery and stammery when I dropped the blindness bomb on him, said, “Um, thank you for your time, and I’ll pray for you.” I told him not to worry, but I got off the phone and laughed and laughed and laughed. I got thinking after. I’m at home, going to school and not bugging anyone on a Saturday morning. Mr. Telemarketer on the other hand is probably getting sworn at, hung up on, and rejected. Who needs prayer more?
So another one from the Toronto Star called me tonight and I asked to be taken off their list. Let’s see if they do it. I wonder when telemarketers will realize that badgering people in their homes is not effective business practice. It’s one thing if you’re already with the company. But all these morons calling us up at dinner telling us about their product or service trying to sell it to us. Do they think that we don’t know it exists? Does this conversation actually unfold?
“Gee Mr. Telemarketer, I didn’t know there were such things as vacuum cleaners. If you hadn’t called me, I would have never known. Thank you for opening my eyes.”
Somehow I don’t think so. Stop! calling! our! homes!
Apparently I’m A Douche.
Apologies for the horrid typing in those last couple posts. Especially the snow one. Woopsy. That’s what happens when the computer you’re writing on threatens to crash and eat everything you’re working with, that, and the dude in charge of that section of the library keeps coming over, and sort of staring at what you’re doing and you just want to get it posted quickly! Hopefully that won’t be a repeat occurrence. I don’t like looking like a moron publically.
The Amazing Family-Destroyer
The other day, I had the TV on for background noise while I was doing some school-related drudgery, and on came The Amazing Race. Usually I’d flip real quick because I can’t stand all these quote unquote reality shows. Reality? Ok whatever. But I was too damned lazy to change the channel, so I left it on. As it ran in the background, I noticed something really disturbing. All these people are trying for a million dollars, right? To do it, they basically do a race around the world. Ok, gotcha.
But here’s where I get upset. Everybody’s trying to outdo the next guy in speed to get the dough. They’re stressed. They’re flipping out, planning, running around like loons. Even in the first step of the race, everyone has to get on 3 flights, all going to arrive in Iceland within 5 minutes of each other. But oh no we can’t just pick one, get on and relax. No no no. We have to turn this into a huge extravaganza of strategy and planning. Easy, it’s five minutes. They’re yelling at each other. There’s this one couple that, if I was serious about the show, I’d want to see gone pronto because they’re just way too negative, he is anyway. But then I think, “That poor woman has to go home with him.” But my point is while they’re bickering and screaming, freaking and fighting, they’re missing the opportunity of a lifetime! I mean, how many times are these people going to get to go to all these places? For sure, after that, they’ll never want to come back because it will just remind them of all the fighting they did, especially for those who don’t get the money, which is 10 teams out of 11!
And wanna know the irony of it all? Most of these people said they came on this thing to *strengthen* their relationship with their partner/friend/parent/whatever. Ya think a highly competitive, high-pressured, televised race for a million bucks is going to strengthen your relationship? Try going on a vacation together. Try doing something fun together. If this is going to do anything, it’s going to destroy what you have because it will bring out the worst in each of you. I mean this one guy kept telling his wife that he was starting to wish he’d brought someone else on the race! Another girl, while they had nothing else to do but drive, was commenting about how beautiful the sky was and how it reminded her of Scotland. Her boyfriend’s response? “We’re trying to win a race and you’ve got your thumb up your ass thinking about some place we’re not? About Scotland?” Chill out, bro. You’re in the car, going to your destination. Take it easy and enjoy the ride. Jesus.
I mean I hate reality shows anyway. But this one, especially this episode, just made me sad and made me think of how many people are probably missing the whole point of life just running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Chill out, people. If you’re ruining relationships to get where you want to go, it’s not worth it.
Sure, boss.
I was watching TV the other day, and sometimes I wonder if advertisers think that the IQ of the average TV-watcher is at the same level as a turnip. I mean, they’d have to to produce some of the shit advertisements they do.
Here’s one for ya. Chef Boyardee however ya spell it. *checks so I don’t look like a loser.* They talk about how good it is for the family. They talk about how it has pasta and meat. Ok, I’m with ya, sort of. I mean it’s all right. But this is where it gets me. This woman says, “And I feel good about feeding it to my family because it has absolutely no preservatives!” Hold the phone right there, super mom. It’s in a can! How do you suppose you can keep meat, vegetables, and pasta in the cupboard in a can without it going south real quick? How do you suppose it got in that can? Are you a moron? Of course it has preservatives, unless I have completely lost my marbles. If so, please tell me so I can find them. That commercial always makes my head spin whenever I hear it.
In the same vein, there’s the slogan for Hamburger Helper. Hearty, Home-cooked Hamburger Helper. Nope, wrong, try again. It comes in a package. By that theory, KD is home-cooked. I just don’t know how they can come up with this stuff and expect us to swallow it. They might as well just walk up to us and say, “Yep, you’re all stupid. So we don’t even have to try. You’ll just believe anything we tell you. How about we tell you that the earth is flat and you were created by the magical powers of Harry Potter. Yeah, that sounds good. You fucks seem to like Harry Potter.”
Don’t get me wrong, I know advertisers have always thought of us as manipulatable numbnutses to some extent. That’s why they have simple, easy to remember jingles that we can all catch ourselves singing. That’s why they don’t make their ads long and complicated. But before, they used to try at least a little to make their shit convincing. Now it’s like they think they don’t have to try to be clever at manipulating us. They can just tell us bullshit straight up and we’ll believe them. And I’d be scared to see how many people actually would.
I really hope there are more of us who are thinking. Otherwise, how long will it be until some moron keeps cooked hamburger meat out in their cupboard and wonders why they get sick, all the while saying, “Chef Boyardee can. Why can’t I?” Does that sound nutty? Hell anything is possible these days.
Nooooooooo!
I have been hoping, praying, wishing that I could make it through the semester and miraculously there would be no snow, and I was really starting to think my wish came true.
But oh no. Life is not going to be so sweet to me. I heard my prof say that there was snow last night in Winnipeg, and it’s coming this way! Please please please be wrong. Please drop it all in Winnipeg, preferably on the roof of a house whose owner’s name I’m not going to mention. Those who know me know who this is. Leave it all in Winterpeg!
For The Man Who Has Everything
If you’re like me, you’ve got a few people on your Christmas shopping list who are impossible to buy for. Whether you have no idea what they like or you know what they like but they already have it, these huge pains in the ass have been the cause of much frustration throughout the holiday season since the beginning of time, or at least since some marketing genius thought up the concept of Christmas. But not this year my friends, not this year.
This year, get the gift you know the special man in your life who has everything or likes nothing doesn’t have, a
penis tie.
Yes, a penis tie. It’s not a tie shaped like a penis, it’s a tie designed specifically *for* your penis.
I know that right now most of you are asking yourselves “why in hell would anybody want that,” and the best answer I can give you is I haven’t a clue. But it appears that somebody does, and he’s planning to create and cash in on this new craze in time for Christmas. It’s all explained in the article, which is a good thing because honestly, words fail me.
What am I trying to tell myself?
I’m awake very early from a strange dream I had. Wow. What a strange dream. I dreamed that I was at a family dinner of some kind. Maybe Christmas. We were all eating and everything seemed fine. My one uncle who is into gore started talking about stories about accidental deaths that involved blades. We were all grossed out, and some of us were telling him to stop, but he just kept going. This is normal for my uncle in real life, which makes the dream all the more freaky.
The next thing I know I’m outside with a bunch of us and someone’s cutting down a tree. This was a bit weird. The blade flies somehow and hits me. Somehow it slices away part of my skull and exposes all my organs. But miracle of miracles I’m still conscious. All I can say is, 911, 911! One of my uncles calls, and my gore-obsessed uncle, without apology just keeps telling horror stories. And there I am, still conscious, blood everywhere, and I can feel the blood, that’s the weird part. People are scurrying about, not sure what to do. All they can do is keep new people from getting close and sprayed with blood. Then my mom’s standing over me, completely silent. That’s when I know I’m real screwed if I didn’t know that already. She just stood there. I’m still able to talk and I’m like I hope all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can put humpty together again. She just stood there. She said in a completely calm voice, they can’t. It’s impossible. I protested, “But I’m not in pain and I’m still conscious. Wouldn’t I be dead already?” She said, “That is a surprise, but your heart is soon going to stop pumping blood to your brain and your brain can’t take the strain of being uncovered for so long. Try to be calm and relax and just let things happen as they may.” I try to take this all in. I get visions of instead of an ambulance arriving, an undertaker. I get visions of being locked in a coffin and buried alive. I get visions of being stitched together alive. Then I imagine that it’s going to be a closed casket funeral anyway, who would want to see this? I laugh and say, “Well I guess I do everything weird, even death.” Mom doesn’t laugh. Most people have left. There are just a few of us now. Mom and dad are sitting on either side of me, and the tree-cutting guy is lying in a heap in the corner sobbing. He’s just in total shock and no one’s helping him. I start to feel dizzy and my eyes start to close. I take a deep breath, smell the air, make one last attempt at a joke, touch mom and dad, try and absorb everything about the world that there is to take in. Suddenly there are too many things to appreciate…and then I wake up!
Boy I have never been so happy to be laying in my bed, not on some snow. How happy I am to see my head is whole and not in pieces. All I can say is, what the fuck? Is part of me saying I’m not appreciating things enough? I really hope this isn’t a premonition of some kind. Not that I believe in that crap, but woe. Is someone trying to tell me to live every day as if it were my last? Holy crap.
Well now that I don’t feel so frazzled, I think I’ll start getting things done. Nothing like a little death dream to get things moving.
McGreggor
A Scottish old timer is in Scotland, in a bar, talking to a young man. The old man says:
“Lad, look out there to the field. Do ya see that fence? Look how well it’s built. I built that fence stone by stone with me own two hands. I piled it for months. But do they call me McGreggor- the-Fence-Builder? Nooo..”
Then the old man gestured at the bar. “Look here at the bar. Do ya see how smooth and just it is? I planed that surface down by me own achin’ back. I carved that wood with me own hard labor, for eight days. But do they call me McGreggor-the- Bar-builder? Nooo…”
Then the old man points out the window. “Hey, Laddy, look out to sea. Do ya see that pier that stretches out as far as the eye can see? I built that pier with the sweat off me back. I nailed it board by board. But do they call me McGreggor-the- Pier-Builder? Nooo…”
Then the old man looks around nervously, trying to make sure no one is paying attention. He leans closer to the young man and says, “But ya fuck one goat…….”