Why did I buy Life Water?
Because some oaf at this table took the last lemon-lime Foxon Park, that’s why.
But where, where was I put into such a traumatic situation?
C & C PIZZA
A Taste of New Haven.
A warning to consumers:
Do not go to C & C PIZZA, A Taste of New Haven. It’s more like a taste of Florida or whatever part of England I was at in 1989 when I got that pizza with scrambled eggs on it. Even for Madison (the town of me) I regarded the pizza I consumed as unpleasant. Also, there’s one garbage can and it is behind the service counter. Evidently I’m the only person in this town who generates refuse I’d rather not make someone else handle. I stumbled about in the little square of space dividing the outside from the in and I see Guy behind counter reach a hand out to get at what I’m holding, which suggests to me that this happens a lot but nothing changes because whoever’s in charge likes it that way. I suppose what the man did was nicer than let me walk around in a circle and go back to my table twelve feet away, yet something still feels incredibly wrong to me about blowing my nose on a napkin and then giving the result to someone.
It looks safe, but it is actually quite dangerous. This time I was lucky. The other person present agreed to take home the four slices which remained at the end. Otherwise I probably would have forced myself to eat them, and combined with the Life Water it might have killed me. Or someone else.
This television set is airing “Showbiz Tonight.” I have several problems with that. The first: there is a television set on in a restaurant. Second, it is airing “Showbiz Tonight.” But let me be specific. Hey, I don’t need your permission! I shall be specific! The program is Showbiz Tonight, but now is not night at all! According to CAM-RA I took this picture at 10:30 am. CAM-RA is behind by an hour, but that would make the actual time 11:30 am, and nevermind that I should not be awake at such a time of day; even if I should, Showbiz Tonight ought not to be a part of that. I consider it nothing less than a criminal act to impose night showbiz on unsuspecting diurnalists.
Also problematic: there was a discernible boot-print on the cushionoid beneath this television set, which suggests whoever operates it has lost the remote control and is standing on a seating place while wearing dirt-acquainted boots to turn the device on and presumably off at some point. Or maybe this was meant to be a hint to me. Suggesting that I ought to stand up and turn the thing off myself. Ah, hem. It seems obvious now, but in the moment there was no time to think. It was kill or be killed. It was do or die. It was Glen or Glenda. You have to understand, it was dog eat dog out there in here. In my panicked state, eating C&C pizza seemed a step above cannibalism so I did that instead. Luckily, there are three other tables in the whole place so I doubt this will bother anyone.
I wouldn’t sit over there anyway, as the only thing worse than an unstoppable voice going on and on about Justin Timberlin “drop[ping] trow” because Madonna said so and then people asking Justin to tell them that is my not being able to see where the voice is coming from. Especially when it’s a three-way split screen hydra of voices debating the details. I need to know which animatronic bust I agree with and whose to look for on the cover of the insider tell-all book I will hide behind other tell-all books the next time I’m in what technically is a book section at Target. ORLANDO BLOOM IS NOT GAY! I WILL DESTROY YOUR LIFE!
Who even says showbiz? The only people who call movies and such “showbiz” are people who call circuses “the big top;” salaried hack writers and the occasional redemption-ticket arcade game designer who hate their lives. I remember seeing the phrase “big top” used in a shockingly not disgusted Nintendo Power review of Arrow the Acro-bah and not knowing what it meant. And then I went out to Tommy K’s video and rented it anyway (I never rented Big Top Pee-Wee, thankfully). And now you’re out of business, ha ha. Fourteen years later, because you couldn’t compete with the internet or whatever and I actually find it depressing. That’s showbiz.
Oddly enough, Tommy’s Tanning still 100% in operation.
By the wuh, Tommy K should not be confused with his fellow North Branford Hamburger Hill Tommy, of Tommy Gun Choppers, which, yes, still sells cigars. Presumably, whatever wonderfully pleasant things choppers are, as well.
Showbiz. People who say showbiz. They are the same sort of people who invented the terminology “baby-boomers” or just unprotestingly allow themselves to be called that. Humans should not ever say “boom” unless describing a loud noise, but even then it should not be done in such a way as to attempt imitation of the noise. I also have very specific rules pertaining to the use of “baby” but I’ll save that topic for the newsletter.
I don’t know what’s in “Life Water,” but whatever it is it’s also in Imoxicillan, akadoko “the pink stuff.” My first experience with “vitamin enhanced water beverages” was seeing discarded Vitamin Water bottles constantly fallen, defeated, in the parking abyss outside Gateway Community College. Vitamin Water: It’s Baby-Makin’ Fuel.
I wondered what would draw people to an imbibable with such an unsettling name.
“Juice” sounds nutritious and decent tasting, “soda” sounds a bit empty but not disgusting. “Vitamin Water” sounds like how an alcoholic in denial describes the contents of a liquor bottle to a small child.
“Kool” Aid at least admits it’s something not quite natural, possibly made from cigarettes, and Sunny D
elight‘s name is adequately Orwellian that sensible people know to keep away. Combined with the appearance, Vitamin Water just makes the stuff seem like there’s something wrong with it, but for some reason only to me! Water is clear, vitamins are clear, why is this goop pink? Something horrible must have happened to make this name obviously no longer applicable, but in the absence of any other identifier you no longer know what it is. And then that white and black big bland font label, it looks like something somebody would drink on an episode of Roseanne. Except on that show it would be peanut butter and bacon water.
But anywaw, this is not vitamin water. This is Life Water, which is even vaguer, creepier and lyingier. This is not water that brings forth life. You cannot revive Benjamin Franklin with it. This is not magic potion. Do not drink this if your red heart-count is low. Sure, it claims to have “100%” Vitamin C if you only drink 8 ounces of the contents, but so does a bowl of Froot Loops. Would you drink a bottle of Froot Loops? If it tasted like medicine? It is worth noting that I wasn’t aware of the “serving” tomfoolery, despite my past scuffles with it, and probably gave myself haemochromatosis by taking in 250% vitamin C within a single day. Yesh, I drank it all. This was just tolerable enough for me to not cry when tasting it so I had to finish it. I know, at least, that humans have the power to process it. I wouldn’t want to dump it out a window and poison some poor stray armadillo.
I should have known just by the awfulness of the associated advertisement –featuring yet another tired, exhausted lamo parodoy to the zombie dance from Michael Jackson’s Thriller, with the sequence being additionally creepy in a way that I guess zombies just couldn’t manage– that the drink would be bad. However, I did not associate the ad with the fluid until I tasted it and realized it was awful and suddenly remembered that the Sobe company typically represents itself with a lizard and there recently was a horrible ad with lizards in it which may or may not have featured a bottled substance instead of car insurance irrelevant to the primary horribleness.
White backgrounds are bad news. Computer generated characters are bad news. People dancing for no reason are bad news. Advertisements are bad news. Advertisements which think they are cleverly spoofing something are worse news. When you put all that bad news together, I wish you hadn’t. I should not forget to mention, this wasn’t but some effortless robotchickeny meme-enabled jerkwork on the internet; this cost many dollars to make and millions more just to debut, I’m told, during some major sporting event or another earlier this year. This is how our masters talk to us now.
If you had asked me in 1993 if I thought allegations of molesty behavior against Michael Jackson would affect his ability to license out his music for awful unfunny over-budgeted ripoffs, I would have asked you what “molest” meant. I was ten years old, I didn’t need that in my life. If you had asked me the same question in 2003, I probably would have pointed out to you that it hadn’t much mattered in the decade leading up to then. You ask dumb questions.
I once read a book (you’re surprised, I know), “Possible Side Effects,” wrote by some person who worked in advertising, which he didn’t seem to regret at all. It was sort of an annoying book because none of the stories had endings and very few were funny. You might wonder what my problem was with it then, and that is simply that I resent my competition.
Augusten Burroughs is good at setting up stories that either don’t happen or that he doesn’t tell. Part of the problem, my problem, may be that when I read a book I expect continuity, plot and relevance, not biographical website entries which don’t exist for any especial reason. Because I can get those for free. Also, the chapters did not refer to each other’s events, even though themes and “characters” recurred. That would be fine if the tales were almost-told in chronological order (rather than chronoridiculous order) or at least datemarked, but they aren’t. It’s frustrating. If the book was as funny as the back cover insisted it was I wouldn’t mind the pointlessness of it all. Oh, how I minded!
On an occasion which occurred prior to me reading that book, I witnessed a play about something or other. I found it mildly amusing, but I ended up resenting it because the entire time I heard some loof nearly choking to death behind me, constantly, presumably attempting to laugh. And then afterwards I heard the producing folk going on and on about how it was the greatest script they ever sawed and how they knew they had to stage it immediately. This, naturally, makes me suspicious of anyone who reads what I write. No! Stop! Why are you here? This is bad! If you like it you’re stupid! Leave me here to die alone!
But anywaw, at one point the writer of the book was hired by the Junior Mint company to write an advertisement which would bring consumers across what the businessites had labeled “the mint threshold.” Supposedly people would eat Junior Mints during films, in theaters, but rarely at any other time in any other place. As someone who has done that, I must say that the idea is still almost right. Every so frequently I’ll crave Junior Mints unexpectedly yet specifically, but I will get tired of them easily and mysteriously. This also has little to do with their tendency to merge together inside the box before I’m ready to deal with them. Yes, it’s possible I’ll want them when I buy them, but by the time of the first opportunity I have to eat them I may no longer want to. When the urge returns, I will have surely stepped on the box or left it in such a place where though I could not have stepped on it, its contents will have melted from heat/spite. I cannot put the box in a refrigerator because someone else without my astounding powers of candy self-restraint will eat the things immediately and probably not like them too much. And I don’t even mean another resident. Crimbims off the street just walk into my home and steal candy out of my refrigerator. Mine is a tragic, stupid existence.
This happens just about every time I try and eat Junior Mints. They are so mushy and decrepit, you might as well call them senior mints. Ha ha, ugh, dishonor to ancestors.
I shouldn’t have to perform surgery to get at my candy!…………?
I thought this all would be a lot more interesting. You deserve an apology. Is it not such a shame then, that I’m not going to grant you one? This is probably better than talking about legs again.
Only Superman can save me now!
Eh, close enough. Thank youf, Superboy! Your quick thinking has saved the day! Yes, that will do. You go off and have a good time with your friends now and buy Mon-El a milkshake for me. I’ll clean up here. The legs cannot hurt anyone anymore.
OH SNAW! THE CRUEL WICKED LARVAE OF THE LEGS SEEK REVENGE ON BEHALF OF THEIR SLAIN QUEEN, WHILE SUPERBOY AND THE OTHER LEGION MEMEBERS HAVE A SWINGIN’ OLD TIME DOWN AT THE SOCK HOP! IS THIS THE END FOR OUR HERO, THAT BEING ME?
No! Apparently I’m some foolish yella animal! This will not do! My only chance is to wear the leggings into submission! If someone is reading this it will mean that I have failed.
And the previous…
And the rest… (are here on Gilligan’s Isle)
There are a couple undeveloped ideas here, all of them minor, and after two months they probably aren’t getting developed so there’s no sense in fussing over them further.
By now I have forgotten what happens next, so surely you can imagine how enthused I am to look at the next layout and see how many needless, ill-defined objects I have already sentenced myself to making space for and drawing properly in the finished version.
ARRRRRRRRRRRGH! No one is safe!
I don’t see why parents don’t just grind up some Centrum Silver over a week-old cake to feed their incorrigible seedlings. That’s what this is; stale dessert with slaughterbreed livestock growth hormones injected in it. At least there’s a chance of finding an actual organic ingredient in a cake. I know regular cereal is kind of bland; I mean, it’s no chocolate crunchy tube for milk-sippin’ fun, but on the plus side it’s not totally disgusting. When’s the last time “FREE CLOCK” got a kid to buy anything? Oooh, but it’s a pirate clock!
Could you have the elephant turn just a couple more degrees to the right, please? Just with the name and all, you know. This doesn’t make me think of coffee beans, this makes me hope the elephant hasn’t been eating beans.
. . . . . . As long as this is going to be one of those entries,
I know you’re a melt risk, frosty, but without any self generated body-heat a pair of pants won’t kill you. You’re a snowman, after all, and men wear pants. Or trousers, I suppose, that being what someone who wears a top hat would say.
Jerry’s a notorious nudist, and not even coming at me down a hill, and couldn’t get away with that sort of thing. Although you could reasonably suggest Jerry is merely taking a fashion cue from his frequent accomplice, grey diaper mouse, considering that Jerry is making no effort to escape from Tom and seems quite gleeful at the thought of things to come, the plot is likely more sinister. Might there be brown gold in Tom’s future? And I’ve gone too far. Yet the going goes on.
|This stupid gargoyle with strap-on wings can vomit fire and still wasn’t mighty enough to fight off the forces of front-cover coccyxality concealment while Nintendo of America was on the case.|
Not that this solves… alright, you know, you’re really not helping, Mr. Arremer. If it was up to me you’d be wearing a barrel. Gwah, I can’t believe the game with the glistening, snarling, squatting naked body-builder unaffiliated with the WWF on the box wasn’t a big seller.
But as I was saying, sometimes a John Ashcroft job isn’t enough. It is the subject’s behaviour which must be modified. Either that or we get Garry Shandling a narrower chair.
And this! I find this video highly alarming. For the sake of simple decorum my animated gif takes an off-angle (a more developed decorum would dictate that I not use animated gifs at all), but I think you can see what’s going on. The man is a living geometry problem.
I don’t even want “G. Love” in a state near me.
…I think I need another week.
Everyone wants a piece of me this week.
Fiddle-dee-dah, I have to go someplace on Friday, also. And then Saturday, probably. I like to think that some day I will be able to take a week off from this here because I want to. I also like to think I live in a house made of warm ice and can transform myself to and from a superfluid state.
Stupid happy imps. You don’t understand what I go through.
Not just for trivial public situations, apparently men need to phonily cover up their hair color full time because they just aren’t good enough for their kids anymore.
To be fair, because I feel a need to be fair to the untouchable billion-dollar corporate short haired square-skulled smirking desk monkeys who leave me ever-miserable, the actual “plot” is that these kids are concerned with their father’s inability to attract a new mate, and they think it’s because of his grey hair. I can imagine their conversation.
Later, this man who could pass for Mitt Romney, Wink Martindale or any other overpromoted funny-named scumcylinder who wishes he was significant enough to destroy America, sends a magic telephone picture to his
young incestuous conjoined twins to let them know he made the score. He got the goods. He powered up with Just For Men and won the game. Because he is pro-victory.
His exploits inspire children all around, and not merely his own.
It’s Just For Men, after all, and while his redundantly chromosomed defects may rejoice from a distance, they can never truly know such glory and triumph, that which only comes with slopping fudge over your follicles. At best, they can support their man.
It is better, though, to want to win. Perhaps some day you’ll get to buy hair paint, too! If you’re man enough.
addendum: Well that was some self-indulgent rubbish, wasn’t it! I think my point was that I’m not trying to fool anyone (not anymore, certainly), I just like using different names. Mmmf. Ehhh.
I tried to make a list of all the zany aliases I’ve used on the internet (nevermind why), but then I started fussing over the standard which denotes something as an “alias” and not merely a name I registered for some reason. Obviously, one I made 50 posts with counts, and something which I only used to get at member-exclusive research data (comic torrents) doesn’t, but what about something that left three posts before venturing onward or that I just thoughtlessly typed into some hobo’s weblog for a single comment’s purposes? There were some which I remembered thinking of but couldn’t be certain I had used for anything, and told myself I would have to run searches on them to identify their statuses. And then I started to get sad. And then I had to look up whether “statuses” was a valid plural form, and I’m still not sure that it is. It’s not easy being whoever I am.
The tentastic list, pending revision:
ears macinstrudel/eels macinstrudel
jennifer talia (sigh)
oglethorpe marinara delirium
olmec templebury II, thaddeus wilhelm
quilfip unidar earvanbib glinkob
Only 29? I’m disappointed. I would explain some, but then I’d have to explain all of them, and you don’t need that in your life. I know, I already typed and read it. I have observed that a disproportionate number of the names end in “x.” This doesn’t even include
anabealix, lerix fargeptrix, ottisferasuttix and vristax. Perhaps I sold fake crotch steroids in a past life.
What is important is that none of them at all resemble the name I have to sign documents with. I wish my name was Santiago. Or Agatha. Santiago Agatha Fogerty.
By the beyond, John Fogerty… that guy is so fogerty, I can’t even stand it. He is the most fogerty person I can think of. I do not name this instance of my hypothetical self in honor of him.
I have been alerted by a crack-dealing pirate that the creepy awful ads I complained about last time were left and forgotten about because at the time, the perpetrators were on trial for everything and would eventually end up too convicted to care that the remainder of the ad time they purchased might be seasonably inappropriate. I confess the last one I saw was about a week before I finally posted my complaint, but… the indictment happened in 2006. Those yarps knew they’d been found out, they knew there was no escape for over a year. They continued selling boxes of dust-clumps to insecure morons, not just giving them a product that didn’t work, but charging them multiple times for it, and refusing to stop when any part of the scheme was complained about. And the ads proceeded unopposed for more than a month after the trial began, despite that by then it was clear everything in them was nonsense.
Every step of everything is creepy. That whole companies can be built around swindling people into buying stuff that does nothing, nevermind that. Next you’ll tell me my car doesn’t really need 30-inch diameter giant gold wheels. But just the company name, “Berkeley Nutraceuticals…” First of awf, there already are enough dumb companies with “Berkeley” in their names. It’s not like that sounds good or anything. There’s a Whitney Avenue that goes through New Haven and every business on or near it has a “Whitney” in its name (plus more than a few Elis), and Berkeley is in California, so I imagine there are a couple thousand I don’t hear about. And whaaa? Nutraceuticals? That’s offensively stupid and meaningless. There is absolutely nothing to like here. It’s implied itself to be both a drug and nutritious (or nutratious, I suppose) without outright saying either. Worst of all, it’s reminded me of neuticles, which I’d rather not ever think about.
Although I must give the user who allegedly is inventor Gregg Miller credit for threatening to delete wikipedia. That’s the sort of warning that really takes galls. ? No, not sound right. It fills the space but doesn’t do what I want it to.
Ehhh, but still, the fact that those Enzyte advertisements were allowed to get made regardless of lies and near-lies is highly upsetting. They are BAD ADS. I assume now that judgement has been made the ads will at last end, but that’s not enough. As far as me is concerned, the actor who portrayed “Bob,” the voiceoverer and especially the midi wizard who invented those cheap whistles should all go to jail. Maybe not for as long as Steve Warshak, but definitely for a few hours. Or maybe Maury Povich can send them to boot-camp. I didn’t buy any pills, so those are the people who I have a problem with.
That junk’s been around for years. How did it take so long to stop? The first person who ate one of those powder bullets had to know it didn’t do the job. It wasn’t just Enzyte, either. There was, is, an extensive line of useless, randomly named nutraceuticals (some of which I haven’t even had to put in my comment filter yet), all making the exact same claims. Including Ogoplex. In addition to sounding like someone Asterix would hang around with (and Asterix is usually a good judge of character), it’s just fun to say. Ogoplex ogoplex ogoplex ogoplex.
Why does somebody in Canada want to know if Ogoplex is for sale in Philippine? If you’re planning that big a trip just to up your opposite-end-of-arsenal, you might as well invest in ground up tiger ovaries or whatever it is these days.
Oh, all right. That’s fair. No one would write a phony review with his real name™ would he?
Even if the company that makes them gets put out of business, finally, half the internet will still be devoted into trying to trick people into clicking on their names. To think, even if junk e-mail links did precisely as they said, without stealing your credit card, kicking your dog and knocking over your jenga, you’d still, at best, end up with a bottle of sand skittles. It’s like those letters I get from the “Domain Registry of America” trying to trick me into paying three times the current cost to transfer my domain to them. People complain, people report it to whatever one reports things to, but the bums are still in business doing exactly as they did before. Except for in Canada. Those poor Canadians, they can’t get Ogoplex either.
That is some wretched whistling, though. Even the pc richards whistles are more convincing than that. By the wuh, do not be decieved by the rumors that company was foundeded in 1907 as “P.C. Richard and Son” and always has been called that. All through my yufe scary deep voiced men (not the ones heard here) on the radio sang some incomprehensible phrase and followed it with “…at PC Richards!, (reep beep bee-beep biew)” and never once implied that Richards had a son. And then for a while I could have sworn Richards had been ousted in favor of “good old good olds[mobile] guys,” because I was never attentive enough to pay attention to what they were selling. Eventually Richard returned and then he had a son, which I assume he traded in his S for. I actually thought his name was Richards, and things weren’t at a store, but at Richards himself, wherever he happened to be at the time.
This is the end.