I hate this sort of thing. The police shouldn’t have to come get you. They shouldn’t be endangering themselves to remove you from an incorrigible force of nature you knew was coming. Even if your miserable inebriation shanty is spared from destruction, inevitably some people are going to be in serious trouble elsewhere and state employees will have to waste time checking on others who insisted on being jackasses for no reason. You couldn’t not drink beer at a little table for a few hours? Is it that important to you? I don’t know what it’s like to live in hurricane country, constantly being warned about weather which will probably not affect me too terribly, but I wouldn’t get that attitude about it. And suppose you do have to leave your rideout hideout: how are you expecting to save yourself in the brief window between 50 and 55 miles per hour? I have to give my odds to the hurricane over the drunk driver. Aye yi yeep.
Umf, I want to go back in time to when I was less mad.
No, not far enough.
Obviously, this picture is a joke, but to some degree it is, if not dehumanizing, definitely dedignifying. Yeb, this stuff is going to happen when women apply for public offices in this age of public perversion. What bothers me is that I found this used by a clear Palin supporter. This is not the way to promote your preferred leader. And don’t even tell me “hey, that’s why she just wants to be vice president, dude” and don’t call me dude. Well if she doesn’t matter, don’t vote for her and also give votes to someone who does, by your definition, matter, but that you aren’t paying attention to.
And don’t insist on bragging about her “executive” experience like it means something, with “executive experience” being something that our current president had heaps more of in a more populous state. But he was never vice president, ehhh? Former Maryland governor Spiro Agnew was, though. But he wasn’t an outsider! What the umbrella is an outsider? Can you be experienced from the outside? And now we don’t even remember what we’re talking about. The fact is that vice presidents do matter, are more “inside” than anyone else, gubernatorial tenures don’t make them infallible and if all you have left is “MILF” then you really don’t have much. You just look like a dumb oaf, and I don’t take advice from them unless they threaten to beat me up and not on the internet. And this was in August, before Palpal made “lipstick” her core platform. I hate lipstick. It’s superfluous and gross. There, I said it. For the sake of humanity I hope I have greatly misunderstood all this, but for the sake of this website entry I hope I haven’t. It was hard.
The rapid priority shifting is probably, in the realm of trivial comments, worse than a thoughtless, unrelated remark about pigs by your opponent. Yet it’s totally consistent with the political tricks I’ve been seeing since I started paying attention to them. How is anyone still fooled by this frivolity? It’s tiring.
I can’t think of a more belittling title that someone would attempt as a compliment than MILF. Certainly, Palin does not call herself MILF (although I wouldn’t be too surprised, sadly), nor would any salaried employee of anything officially related to the political goings on. But if the first thing that comes to the mind of you, a heteronotgayal man, is “she is a mother and I would like-a to fack her,” and you tell people this, then you can’t seriously say you respect her as a person or a decision maker, can you? I don’t think MILF has been in common use long enough to distance itself from the full weight of its original meaning the way “suck” has from unsatisfactory fellatio.1
If I must talk about this, I further state my problem with the Hillary Clinton comparisons. Policies aside, –and that’s what you want, right?– Hillary Clinton had been plotting to be president for the last eight years, if not longer. Sarah Palin was just picked by some guy not even a few weeks ago, and for a lesser position. Maybe it’s nice, but suggesting she’s made any breakthrough with that is equivalent to announcing that figs may be plucked from thistles or that Gene Simmons’ head may be plucked from his own rectal cavity.
I hereby swear to never attempt another “head up arse” joke unless provoked.
Ehhh, to be the first woman vice president entirely as the result of a hastily conceived pandering attempt by a legion of creeps would be less than noble. It seems more like a desperate scheme than a uh long-term, devoted scheme. A more appropriate comparison would be to fellow vice president nominee Geraldine Ferraro, although she had to put up with an additional month of public scrutiny after being chosen. And… this is totally boring.
I refuse to be a political blog. I’d rather browse an 80 page thread on a “metal” forum than a political blog. I’d rather argue the merits of meat with a kitty cat. I am not a “dem” in a “panic.” I’m just disappointed how many people are unable or unwilling to learn from their mistakes.
1And I hope it never does! But I know it will. “Suck” I have seen compared to geek and moron, but those were already innocuous when I first heard them. Suck, while apparently owing its negative form to the early 1970s, entered major, wide-spread usage in my lifetime, championed by noted literary critics Butthead and Beavis, and I’ve always thought of it an ugly word. It sounds ugly. I shan’t use it. Milf, while abbreviated, doesn’t sound ugly but it reminds me of suck and that’s enough. I remember I saw esteemed comic figure Garfield use it once, maybe about 1994ish, remarking, quote, “the Mondays sucked,” and I was appalled. Back then being appalled by Garfield was fairly new to me. Milf also reminds me of yiff, and now that reminds me of Garfield. How is that fair?
I suggested that a race is not a strong central basis for a side view action game. In fact, as this was implemented in Sonic the Hedgehog 2, and only 2, I like it better than proper racing games.
Both heroes in the same large, fairly complex level, competing to see who can smash the most monitors, grab the most rings, keep the most rings, bop the most robots and reach the end first. While it’s no doubt momentarily amusing to see Bluto suddenly outpacing his foes by locating the secret pogo stick cache between the manure piles, Popeye: Rush For Spinach is otherwise totally boring because it was designed and programmed by
Parents Choice Award winners The Game Factory –That’s “factory” as in the industrial revolution’s mechanical workhouse for standardizing monotonous labour to produce uniform products more quickly– and not 1992 Sega Sonic Team. Why subsequent The Hedgehog games dropped that delightful versus mode in favor of “hold down right and jump occasionally” or “nothing” I have no idea. The “one player” two player mode was safe for a while, anyhow. In general I find myself confused by most immediately evident decisions made with a lot of intellectual properties these days / always. I should probably be more grateful for the lack of canonically bastardizing Ristar sequels than I typically have been.
Licensed video games, in general, have been fortified with irrational, uncharacteristic violence for the last twenty years. Finally we return to a personnage known for the punch-ups he gets into, therefore defying no logic to depict him engaging in more, and we make him race. How the storyline mode of Popeye: The Rescue of Dino and Hoppy keeps contriving situations in which the four protagonists just happen to end up trying to outrun each other and Wimpy willingly participating in any of them is kind of funny, but it doesn’t ever get exciting.
Congratulations, you made someone cry.
Not related:
Tyler Perry enters the pizza business.
In other news:
Good idea!
Oh no!
I briefly considered the idea that “ant farms,” and specifically the practice of intentionally caving in tunnels (That’s what I quoted; I don’t demand that you click it) so the ants can be observed digging again, are horrible and cruel, but there are much nastier and widelier publicized ways to trap, deprive of purpose and kill your ants. Appropriately enough, called “ant traps.” But even those are probably a bit excessive. I suspect any creatures which dutifily proceed into the base of a near empty drink receptacle and die there in moist, pastey piles, as I’ve seen them do near my kitchen sink on more procrastinaty days, probably don’t have much will to live to begin with. Ants work until they die. The only exception is when they fight, and they only fight when their work is interrupted. Working, fighting, dying, it’s all they know how to do, and all they can know how to do. You’re probably helping them by speeding that along. Their whole lives are cruel. Not like slaves; they’re only officially slaves if another ant colony kidnaps them and enslaves them. It’s actually an instinctual, biological function that they make slaves of each other. Recently documented resistance to the slavery is even more cruel. Ant farming would only truly be cruel if you stuffed the ants inside a chinless, cube-headed symbol of depression era escapism-turned-proud redneck put-em-in-their-place anti feminism and gave that to someone who has a concept of cruelty. I wouldn’t be terribly surprised if living Shoebox greeting card Sarah Palin owns several Betty Boop products. However, in the interest of fairness and equal time I must acknowledge that Mitt Romney scares me.
Another peculiar, cruel-sounding aspect of ant farms, is that after purchasing them you’re supposed to send an included coupon or something to the Uncle Miltie company which will then mail live ants to you, free of further charge, accommodated by “an ant wrangler in Utah” which vaccuums a specific type of farm-compatible ant straight from the dirt at unspecified points in the state of Utah. Naturally, when I had an ant farm, I was not aware of or simply unwilling to deal with the mailing portion of the deal, and so just collected whatever ants I could find and dropped / shoved them into the thing. The ants dug no tunnels. They ate none of the narrow, food-like items I slid in with them, including one(1) Mr. Phipp’s Pretzel Chip. To their credit, though, they did as marvelous a job dying as any ants I’ve yet encountered. I will always remember them, and how they’re dead. I didn’t even eat them. Oh yeah and at the time I liked to eat ants.
Some years later, I found myself wanting to throw beehives at all possible aspects, name included, of the music band Alien Ant Farm, whose only hit was a song by someone else which had already been a hit. This youtube link and preview image are not working to rectify my disruptive urges.
I’ll quote you on it right now. Today, Monday, September first. It has not taken long for the ever-astute and responsible news medias to scrape up the true nature of the aspiring McCain gang second in commander:
Shock! She is, in reality, a mad ad-droppin’ internet robot. I’m so upset by this scandal that if the initial comment is additionally absurd in some ways I won’t even compulsively describe them. Right just now. Thankfully I have been allotted a full two months to convince myself I’m not being a petty freakadoo by doing that. However, in the interest of fairness and equal time I must reiterate that Joe Biden is still not cool.
In continuation of the previous postoid, I suppose it’s nice to see the Boop force expanding outside of southern gas station marts.
Though these are Wacky Wobblers and not, in fact, Ant Farms, that does not rule out the possibility of the existence of Betty Boop Ant Farms. There just aren’t any here. I can’t imagine a situation in which the Betty Boop people turn down a suggestion made by somebody. Quite simply no one has yet asked “hey, don’t we make Betty Boop Ant Farms?” I have a suspicion that sign hasn’t been accurate for the last 200 displays. When’s the last time you saw a stack of ant farms for sale anywhere, regardless of cobranding, regardless of proximity to the hellmouth Alabama?
However, if you’re in the market for dog sized laced denim featuring anachronistic homages to other trash marketing icons, and for whatever reason have fifty dollars to your name, you’re probably better off investing in becoming a public drunk (fortunately there are just as many Jim Beam signs available as for B. Boop, though buying artwork in sign form could in itself be enough).
If you’d like that denim in red you perhaps already are. But aren’t you glad that there’s somebody who will sell you red jean junk to force on your dog, and that it’s totally within the law? You have a crazy addiction that annoys creatures weaker than you and it’s totally fine!
Yet I am worried. One of the non-participant attendees of the February brain-damage-club art show suggested that some of my results, specifically this tragic scene could potentially sell well on jean jackets, contributing, quote, “People eat that [rubbish] up.” And so I dislike the boopster not just for being tacky and representative of a sizable delegation of my least favorite things about commercialism, but also for being my potential competition in the commercial tack market. Who does she think she is?!
I realize what an insensitive question that is to ask of someone suffering from an obvious identity crisis, so hopefully most of her identities won’t be offended. Hey, if Boop is so patriotic, why does she display that flag in a way which so flagrantly violates official pedantic flag etiquette? HA HA GOTCHA DUMB COMMIE BROAD! FIX MAH DINNER! Happy Labor Day!
Once you’re beyond the phase in which you desire to purchase pre-framed pictures of Betty Boop you may find yourself wishing instead to buy pre-framed pictures of indistinct white-clothed men who appear to be playing golf / have various skeletal abnormalities. If that is the case it’s a lucky thing you found this wall. Though I can’t help thinking what an opportunity was missed by not including Matlock in the Andy Griffith-sponsored transition to geriatric weekend television favorites. In the interest of full disclosure I should point out that this wall is not in a Florida gas station mart but rather the gift-shop of Connecticut’s own Barker Character, Comic and Cartoon Museum. I went there twice and both times the museum was closed but the store was open.
Fortunately, these were for sale.
Also available, Budweiser Lizards, low-resolution ntsc screengrab framed with button-operated audio accompaniment, yours for 200 dollars if you can endure the trials administered by the truly frightening Coca Cola sun guardian (id est: not run screaming in the opposite direction). I like to think the lizards have been waiting in this poorly-lit alcove forgotten ever since their ad campaign was, but I also like ice cream cake and I haven’t eaten that in about as long. This is the perfect loophole for someone whose family members have decreed a strict prohibition on the further purchase of Big Mouth’d Billy Basses.
I remember being the only person in my class(es) who didn’t think the frogs and their self-referential sequels were hilarious. It didn’t really matter because I was in sixishth grade at the time and none of us were old enough to buy beer. Although I’m sure in some way I’m attempting to imply that it did, in fact, matter, all the more so because we could not purchase beer, but if I absolutely had to see one I’d prefer rubber reptile puppets above mega oaf man-men thrusting bladder-fluid at me constantly.
No thank you, I couldn’t bear it OH NOOOOOOOOOO THEY’VE GOTTEN TO MEEEE TOOOOOOOO!!!!
Super Mario Galaxy: The hardbound cheat book. The perfect item to bring class to any home library. I say this as the former owner of the Mario Paint book and a pair of obscenely large, barely distinct mid 1990s books about the art of user-made Doom add-ons.
A Mario Galaxy is one thing (or rather one large system of vast amounts of vaguely racist ethnic caricatures of stars), but do you ever find yourself thinking, gravy gondola, my cheap bucketware games just aren’t boring and abstractly pointless enough?
Bweeyoop! It’s Rubik Cube: the video game! The sort of simplistic and annoying toy video games were invented to be better than, now deprived of that simplicity in addition to its convenient portability and tactile appeal. I could never solve the cube1 but I enjoyed twisting it around. It also makes a fairly whimsical yet adaptable decoration. This, however, surely has a completely different center of gravity. Oh yeah and it’s in a big stupid plastic box, too. I wouldn’t even hide it where I keep my forbidden hats. At least with Minesweeper you can pretend your boring window games are saving lives. How is spinning individual parts of a dopey rainbow cube going to help the innocent civilians of your war-torn operating system? Where’s the urgency, Rubik?
1I could, if my memory is certain, complete Square 1, but it was more randomly shifting pieces in the permitted directions until the cube was formed than actually “solving” anything,
Finally, my least favorite arrpeejee mini-game available as a standalone title.
I can’t imagine there being any trace of desire to run a slot machine, much less a video slot machine, without even the slightest, nigh-imaginary chance of winning real money. But hey, you can never lose more than 20 dollars! Unless you buy both of these! It has been determined that if you put something in a box, on a shelf, in a store, somebody will inevitably buy one, regardless of what it is, if it has Betty Boop on it (seen here having a border dispute with a price sticker). Still, a more dignified King Features outing overall than Popeye: Rush for Spinach,
even if it lacks an appearance by Jagged Edge Totally Gnarly Rail-Grindin’ Wimpy. Remember, when you think electronic urban non-violent competition for the 21st century, think Popeye the Sailor Man.
You mean besides that it’s boring, totally out of character, and not a strong central basis for a side-view action game?
oh dear I wrote more about popeye rush for spinach
I want to go to Spira. Even jail is pretty there. I might be inspired to write proper site updates in a timely manner at such a place.
Page 23 (scroll down, fool) of this. It has occurred to me that this contains the third display of vomiting and the fourth overall vomiting (that I remember) implied to have occurred since this… this thing has been in production. And yet, no other similar gross evacuation has been acknowledged. Now I worry people will think I have a stomach-acid fetish.
the heating system in my eh room broke. Ordinarily, in summer, that wold not be an issue of immediate importance. However, it broke so it’s always on and quite, and it’s right beside my magic computer machine and so my options are limited at the moment.
When you buy a Dora the Explorer fishing rod (yeah, I see you), it must be because you really love cardboard packaging, because that’s about the extent to which your sea-life kidnapping experience can be considered dora-y. You’re not even getting the base superficiality of Flintstones vitamin pills here. Really, that makes about as much sense as
Disney Brand Raisins. How I long for the more innocent, simple times of
Disney Brand Ravioli. Note that this is not a proper, remotely reputable food company licensing characters to appear on its box. This is a company which owns some characters deciding it will use alchemy to convert a useless animation studio into a processing plant [citation needed] to manufacture food which incorporates vague aspects of their designs.
I remember when I thought it was weird that there was more than one Disney cereal, with evidently their own private store section, even with General Mills overseeing production. Fortunately I still do. Also: There are hundreds of changes you could make to have Mickey Mouse be less fundamentally unappealing, but converting it into creepy low-detail heavy gradient 3d was the only thing I’d actually expect to happen. There are less boxes not because people bought them; most likely they just hid.
So maybe you’d like a Superman fishing rod instead.
The classic question: what’s the difference between Superman and Dora fishing rods? The answer: eighty cents. If you said something outrageous like “one dollar, thirty cents,” you must have confused this with the difference between Dora and
Dora. Don’t let it happen again. And how low have the Disney Princesses fallen? First they had to eat cereal for breakfast and now they need to catch their own fish. With little plastic rods.
Indeed.
I guess when traveling through time, space, geography and the unmendable tear in my soul to meet up, none of them thought to bring along any sacks of gold or diamond tiaras or magic non-reverting glass slippers (though it wasn’t quite Terminator style since they’re all still wearing their custom marshmallow flavored dresses), and the point they arrived at refused to offer them any special accommodations. A pity they didn’t think to consult Sailor Moon, who managed to hide the Imperium Silver Crystal in her left eye for 1000 years*. Of course, having Belle, who’s not a princess but in fact just some lady from France, at the front representing them, it’s no surprise the princess’ credentials were doubted. She’s a filthy commoner like Cinder-Ella, and everybody knows it. Convenient marriages need not be a factor; remember this gang also includes The Little Mermaid, who grows legs, ceasing to be a mermaid, long before Belle seals any deals. It must also be noted that she willingly appeared as a non-princess, rather a prisoner, in no less than two sequels in which she still hangs out with The Beast. I feel like I know too much about this.
*Or something like that.
Pazuzu.
I like writing about junk I see in stores because I can stop and resume at any point. I can feature one item and be done with it. And so here are four.
As if the documented incident in which he ordered the production of choco donuts
was not adequate, here now is further proof that Captain Crunch is senile. First: I refer you to the image above. I assume his ability to wear his hat behind his eyes is a result of an accident at sea and more likely a contributing factor to than a result of the senility itself. Second, he has ordered himself to crunchatize himself. Even if we accept that “crunchatize” is a thing which can be done, which should be done, and that his Crunchness simply thinks aloud, it is a bit alarming that he feels the need to address himself so formally, and while saluting, possibly at a mirror. Also, I fear crunchatization is an irreversible process. Shouldn’t a senior, veteran officer like the captain delegate this responsibility to an expendable subordinate but who additionally is more likely to be able to handle it? I don’t mean to be callous, but in the military the proper functioning of the whole takes precedence over the needs of individuals. Living with a botched crunchatization is probably better than serving in Iraq forever anyway.
If you have worms in your diapers, even blatantly inaccurate worms, there are bigger problems going on than wetness. Even if they are low-priced worm diapers. Also, you might want to consider clothing to go over the diaper. Just a thought. Stop & Shop is not the furry art pile.
Your ignorant and hateful misconceptions about their lifestyle are uncalled for all the same.
But yes, unless your child is an Orca Stacker you should be able to fit proper clothing onto it.
Barney [and friends]’s television program and related productions can be described by many words, but scholastic ought not to be one of them. Maybe “doporific” or “lobotomaniacal” or “dumbelievable” or whatever word you might describe my invoking of this fifteen year old line of protest with. Also, the way they draw Barney’s mouth is totally wrong. And how did Barney get that cord around his fat head? And that sailboat probably shouldn’t be as big as the barn unless it’s a 16th century sea-going vessel or some such thing. And if it is, having crossed the boundaries of time and logic presumably as our protagonist has, the passengers’ behaviour upon disembarking to find native inhabitants the likes of Barney will surely be sub-decorum in nature. Bipedal pacifist dinosaurs with undeveloped reading skills are some of the most desirable slaves around. Fight back, Barney! Don’t let them steal your precious flaps!
It is a surprisingly effective offense with a surprisingly offensive effect.
Oh, and firefox 3, I don’t need this animated in my tab-table while I’m looking at other pages, thank you.
I think I will have something tomorrow. I had better. It is my destiny.
Hey hey. Language. Names.
Persimmon.
It can’t be a good sign for Kellogg that generic cereals have better mascots than them now (though it may be a worse sign that it took this long). Tony the Tiger: He’s grrrrrrating! It also helps to show the cereal, probably. In fact, if the Stop & Shop logo itself weren’t so bland and centered I bet these frosted flakes would taste pretty good.
With that said I still don’t want that bear crawling around in my wheat shreds. And in the event the bear is NOT climbing into/out of the bowl, that pose is even more unsettling.
One assumes Indiana Jones and his powerful glowing Adventure Spoon keep Tony in line. The Adventure Spoon is so exciting you almost forget that you’re eating cereal in your home with a plastic spoon. Almost. Suffolk to say the nation’s top scientists proceed with development of the Amnesia Spoon.
I wish I had an adventure spoon, though. That would easily make my life twice as interesting. I mean, acquiring it was so treacherous Indy had to grab it from a distance with his prehensile whip, which I’m not even sure is possible within jurisdiction of the laws of physics, likely from the psychokinetic clutches of the fearsome
Fruit Brute. But no one ever packs adventure spoons with Corn Flakes.
On the cereal subject, it occurred to me recently that “please drink responsibly” is aimed at the very same people who fifteen years earlier ate Count Chocula as part of a complete breakfast. They’ve been intentionally bred to ignore that sort of disclaimer. Yip. Oh, excuse me, I forgot to properly transition into serious mode.
I was on Connecticut’s route 34 tonight. Twice (in a car). It is a horrible, scary place.
I hear Tuxedo Mask has been slated to portray Kato in the proposed Green Hornet feature film.
Craig Ferguson was talking to his tie on his Late Late program on Friday. Anybody who’s seen Bimshwel: The Live Show knows that is totally my schtick. And he knows; look at his guilty expression there. It’s been bothering me all weekend. He’d better watch out.
As you may be aware, I am sick sick weak of the growing number of products available in “singles.” I would have assumed, with the elevated environmental awareness so many persons, places and things claim to have that the trend would be opposite. I have noticed that what I would have assumed is almost always terribly wrong. It’s a good thing I didn’t actually assume it. People love wrapping smaller and smaller bits of stuff in more and more wrap-stuff. That’s the real reason potato chip bags mostly contain air. If they simply contained the chips there’d be less plastic, but plastics make it possible! It’s an enabler, that’s what it is. While much of Connecticutland has decent water service, I’d say we are decades behind where we should be with regard to our in home potato-chip taps. I mean, mine doesn’t even get mesquite barbecue. Shameful.
As we’ve observed in the past, canned soups are now available in smaller, more complicated packages which don’t taste as good. But were you aware that Hamburger Helper is now, also? Well I hope so, because otherwise you didn’t see a picture immediately above here and I know I put one there. I concede that the default HH serving is considerably larger than that of canned soup, but, eh well it’s hard enough to retain one’s dignity eating Hamburger Helper under normal preparative conditions. Microwave ovens make everything trashier and rubberier.
Poptart “Snak Stix” fall into the popcorn chicken/mini-muffin category of lousy attempts at disguising decreased amount of filling.
Oh, these are different and called “go tarts.” The exact same thing, except with more plastic and no longer named after a river in hell. This makes me wonder how close they came to being called mr.roboto tarts. I think about it all the time.
Crunch Stixx. With two Xes. One more and Daffy Duck can drink it. What is so much more marketable about snacks in stick form when spelled improperly? Eh, I suppose this is preferable to calling it “chocolate jerky.”
Kool Aid, too is available in “singles.” Putting a stop to that doesn’t begin to solve the kool aid problem, however. One time somebody gave me kool aid and said it was water and i thought it was kool aid but i tried it anyway and i knew it was kool aid and i don’t remember what happened after that.
I was under the impression that you’d be buying wretched Caprisun-style bags of premixed Kool Aid, but I now see they are in fact just little packets of dust. Pretty much you buy these if you can’t work a measuring cup. Or you’re training your kids to take over the family meth lab.
I’m sure they’d like you to think they are promoting recycling, but it seems more likely to me that for a reason I lack the science-understanding to uh comprehend, it is illegal to sell Kool Aid in bottles. Maybe they explode if they break.
As we’ve already digust, I never drank Kool Aid. I always imagined it tasted bad. And this was at a time within which I would put ketchup on pancakes. At least it was Ketchup from a proper glass fancy ketchup flaskoid. I’m tired of finding little bags of ketchup and suey sauce and various things of that nature which I have no use for. One time I got seriously twenty of them. I counted. I remember because I didn’t think it could be more than eighteen. What can be done with them? I know there’s somebody that makes portraits with it, but aside from being kind of gross, how is that any more special than using red paint? And why would you want a bright red portrait, much less one that smells like McDonald’s?
The Wendy food-vendor chain, and for all I know other places, there aren’t any around here, likes to employ extra large reinforced bags (paper and otherwise) for especially gluttonous orders (id ehhh: mine). However, they still insist on placing the contents within regular sized bags first. Cowards.
And remember, it’s never too early to start. I took this in December, but still. I have many glorious memories of waking up at 7 am on Krimmid and unwrapping sparkle parcels full of week old hamburgers and milkshakes. But I think the sign is meaning for you to simply give the card to someone rather than its spoils, in which event “easy” should not be confused with “appreciated.” You definitely shouldn’t give them to any German or Norwegian people, because “gift” means “poison” and “card” probably means something, too.
I seen these at Stop & Shop, the superbmarket. It seems like a conflict of interest for a grocery store to be promoting its arch-enemy food service, but that wouldn’t be allowed so obviously this is a mutually beneficial relationship and I will have none of it. Obviously. These are right beside the checking-out region, as if to say
A Wendy’s card is probably better an than applebee’s card, though. First of all, Applebee’s. Second, there really is no occasion when it’s dignified to have gotten a bill and then rise up from your ridiculously low Applebee’s booth seat and say
But Flavor Flaiv, he’s the voice of a soda can or something. He’s not trying to sell his rumored rap skill anymore. Now it’s just
I actually didn’t know he was involved with this ad. I always saw it muted and was just bothered by the fact that the beverage receptacle appeared to be manipulating its detabbed region for the purposes of speech. Thankfully, 8 different youtube users have uploaded their own personal vanity-stamped editions of this ad, always being sure to note that Flavor Flav is involved.
Look at this, the guy is EMBARRASSED that his can is talking like Flavor Flav. You may think no, it’s just because he’s in a TV college lecture hall, but after the can is uncovered it talks in a different voice and nobody is bothered.
See? All better!
Regardless of Flav content, I would not drink out of a soda can with a mouth, much less through its mouth. How do I know it won’t drink me instead? And do I want to drink, regardless of what out of, a substance which imbued an inanimate aluminium can not just with the ability to speak, but through the rapid physical alteration of matter necessary for an aluminium framed orifice to move like a mouth? I should be glad it doesn’t have teeth. But I wonder if that’s only because it passes so much soda.
Oh, also, I saw an advertisement for The Mummy 3 which claimed it was “beyond imagination.” How did they think of it, then? They could not possibly have! Therefore, the story is true. And by extension, surely, the preceding The Mummy films (Abbott and Costello could not have met it otherwise). It also follows that fellow Brendar Fraser brainbusters Bedazzled, Monkeybone and Looney Tunes Back in Action are all true stories (and Daffy Duck is a real person), and so Space Jam is as well. And so I think it goes without saying that
I saw a Dr Pepper soda advertisement recently which I found alarming. No, not the one which was my first “dr pepper” search result, Zon Tayday confirming my suspicions that people have been giving him money to be further publicly made fun of despite his lack of everything. But I will complain at length about it anyway.
The “song” actually starts with lines about him being on the internet and getting money. Yeah, and for what? For being a ridiculous doofus incapable of giving any legitimate enrichment through his entertainment aspirations. The “song” is shorter and just slightly more non-horrible-soundy than the old, but only because people who Yad Yazton obviously learned nothing from have produced the heap out of it. And I’d hardly say this proves any fool can be picked off the street, placed in a controlled environment and made to seem like a competent artist to those with as much competence, because we already knew that. It’s always been that way. How is Yaya Tzond so different than an A. Idol winner/loser, then? Answer: he isn’t, and I’m sick of that.
They’ve got him goofed up on a throne surrounded by nameless ladies with dress priorities contrary to his own, a la a previous year’s public contract trainwreck, Flavor Flave, who has also done a Dr Pepper ad, albeit in a different form I will discuss with myself later. Oh, I will! But this, here, is a man whose biggest creative touch to his own, self-made music videos is using the annotation function to ad extra ads to fill in the temporary commercialism void.
The only reason to watch this silly person in front of a microphone for three minutes is to see those ads. Evidently that appeals to a great deal of people. Yoy Zandat is one of few recordy people whose brief, identical telephone-noises heard repeatedly throughout the day when combined accurately represent the experience of hearing the full song. But hopefully no one ever calls you. For their sake.
And if you’re wondering about “charity album” tagged on to the first clip, it’s just 16 yet dopier remixes of the original dopey song far too many people have heard before. The provided video has (very loud) sniplets of them all, all with the initial vocals incorporated and beeptrack represented in some way, with Mr. Yellowroom himself at both ends telling you about all his websites.
Yes, Babastank exists and is involved, and Of COURSE that’s a myspace link at the right, hovering above print I’m used to seeing in email I delete.
The actual charity aspect expired 30 days after the video was posted and was for eh half the, one assumes, scant proceeds to go toward the Electronic Frontier Foundation, which while apparently a decent cause is nothing that makes me feel heelish about complaining about supporters of for unrelated reasons (longtime unaware nemesis Robin Williams has a couple of those). Charity is supposed to be about helping others, and as a puzzlewit who but for the internet’s tendency to enshrine things nobody likes –if he had been a better musician, we still wouldn’t know about him–, the preservation of electronic anything seems more than a bit in Oyz Nadyat’s own best interest. If you believe EFF is worth giving your money to, I suggest you give money to it, and not risk encouraging Zat Donyay to do anything that involves the continued presence of his profile statement of his lack of piano and voice training. If he wants to be a clown that’s fine, but I don’t think he thinks he is a clown.
If Yatz Yonad made an attempt to assure me that the other half went to the team of remixers and not his own five second keyboard loop making grasp-digits… I’d still dislike it because all they’ve done is apply annoying noisy filters over something that was already unlistenable. Any good accomplished by donating half your sales to a charity is undone by distributing hard prints of an album that’s 48+ minutes of Chocolate Rain. There are people with actual digital audio composition/manipulation talent on the internet, and you’re generally not going to find them on a video site. A site where the most prolific and appreciated musicians sequence popular tunes for Mario Paint, an underpowered novelty tool, at best, 15 years ago,
that someone has made a special tool to encourage the online ubiquity of.
And you win again, internet. Would you believe it’s not long enough? FIVE STARS ANYWAY.
I was dead before you got here.
In summary: I need much better people to be jealous of.
Fleeplezeep.
Motor-driven lawnmower-ing is annoying to be aware of and about as fundamentally justifiable as lawns in themselves, but weed-whacking can occasionally be tolerable if an observer pretends the object carried is actually a [rather loud] metal-detector. What are you doing! There is no treasure buried in my yard! You look silly! Obviously this is even better if the one who whacks weeds happens to be dressed like a space alien. They studied us from space but didn’t quite figure everything out! Comical misunderstandings! Alternately, the whackist might be a ghostbuster specializing in cricket ghosts.
Also, apparently “weed whacker” is a brand name and the device I speak of in its generic form is actually a string trimmer. Why didn’t I know that prior to now? And if my circumstances prevented me from encountering anyone who could clue me to my ignorance, surely I ought to have thought my whacky terminology was needlessly wacky.
Hey, I made a funny.
I dispute that the motion picture Mamma Mia will have me dancing in the aisles, if indeed that’s what the opinion-less sentence fragment is accusing. I have never “danc[ed] in the aisles” one time in my entire life. And were that to inexplicably attempt to change, it would surely fail, as none of the cinemaplexoids I see around here even have aisles. The possibility that this might merely suppress the urge until the next occasion on which I encountered an aisle, such as at a supermarket or Gilligan’s Aisle, at which point I would begin flubbaging about in a most embarrassing and ungraceful fashion, that is reason enough to never see the film. I do not need that in my life at this point.
BEST GAS. Do not be fooled by that impostor, GOOD GAS, and I needn’t acknowledge the shameful pretender DECENT GAS. The gas here is better than all gas elsewhere.
Appropriately, it is now open for gas. I tell you, business was slow at Best Gas before it started selling gas. People just didn’t get it.
From earlier: I will tell you something possibly interesting later.
Ehhh, no, apparently I have to go somewhere today, too, so I will not be telling you anything.
There is important business to tend at. Those people are lined up and this ad was filmed a week ago. Imagine how many are there now! I shall have to make many challenges.