Magical Miscellany Tour

Much like a clip show episode of your favorite sitcom, I am about to employ one of the great blog cop-outs.  I'm not going to focus on just one vitriolic rant this time.  Naw, mothuafuckas, today we gettin more random than character names from fantasy novels.  I'm doing three, count it bitch three, muthafuckin articles.  And why not?  Everybody loves it when the Simpsons or Futurama or Family Guy does it, so who am I to not imitate shamelessly?

Luz bughun:

   "Poopeye's" tries to win back its Olive Oyl

You may recall in one of my tirades of yore that I had imposed a hefty curse on Popeye's Fried Chicken for their insolent cancellation of their cubic-orgasm-inducing Confetti Sweet and Sour sauce.

You may recall the ultimatum I gave them, and the call to action I presented to you, my loyal legionette of readers.  I asked you to fart, and fart hard.  In a Popeye's.

Well, my thralls, it seems your farts came to great stankin' fruition.  For Popeye's has attempted to appease the beast that is my belly:

I stole this picture from some guy's food site.  Hopefully he won't come waddling after me.  

Now, at long last, the whole story has come to light.

It seems, after my Confetti sauce was "Taken" and I told those bastards in Louisiana about my "certain skills, skills that make people like me a nightmare for people who hate farts", it seems Popeye's had my precious Confetti sauce executed so that it could move some new sauces up the condiment mafia hierarchy.  These cups-o-usurpury are pictured above.  To me, they look a lot like party crashers.

The Party Crashers that took my Confetti.  The bastards.  

Revenge is demanded.

But first, I had to know.  What had they taken Sweet Confetti from me for?  Was their some future parking lot so glorious that my beloved had to be paved over?  In short, was this new shit any good?

Of the three new sauces, it was clear that the Sweet Heat sauce was the Rufio of this upstart gang, flagrantly posturing himself as the newly crowned heir to the Sweet and Sour throne.  I had to face him.  Taste him.  Feel him in my mouth.

So I returned to Popeye's, forswearing my oath before God and man, and once more gave up my well-earned money that I might sup of the piquant fried fowl.

Spicy dark meat drumstick in hand, I plunged crunchy chicken skin into the amber-brown goo.  With great trepidation I drew it to my beneckbearded maw.  And I bit in.  Also, I tasted and chewed a little as well.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand...

AAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNND...

Wha???

It was allllllriiiiiight.  Spicy, sure, but not quite sweet in the way my dear Confetti sauce was.  Better than any of Popeye's remaining sauces.  But by no stretch of the imagination anywhere near on par with my pweeeeecious.

Nice try Popeye's, but no cigar.  Not even a dirty Monica Lewinsky cigar covered in fire ants.  Your failure remains unatoned for.

The farting will continue.  The farts will permeate the Popeye's.  They will permeate the chicken.  Then, the farts will permeate you.

Soon, only the fart will remain.

PNC'S XYLOPHONE TORTURE MUST CEASE!

Ok, this one's gonna be quick, but really, I had to say it:

WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE FUCKING PNC ADS AND THAT FUCKING XYLOPHONE TUNE?

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you're probably not in an area where PNC bank advertises.  At any point, PNC is a probably evil bank (because hey, aren't they all nowadays, amiriteguyzlol?) that features ads with this uber-annoying xylophone tune.  For your sake, I won't repost it here, but you most likely know what I'm talking about.

Take a moment to imagine that song now, or just watch tv for 20 minutes until it comes on:

Sooo, how super-annoyed did you get?  What's that?  All?  All the super-annoyed?  Well so did I!

Isn't it amazing, how such an innocuous little song can stick like chewing gum in the driver-seat doorlock to your mind?  HOW DOES IT DO THAT?  IN WORDS IT DOESN'T SEEM SO BAD:

DOO-DOO-DOO-DEE-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO-DOO
DOO-DOO-DOO-DAH-DOO--DEE-DOO-DOO-DOO

And yet, as I write this, my eardrums are callousing over in an attempt to never hear that song again.  But it's too late, it's stuck in my soul on infinite loop.

Please, somebody out there, kill this thing, before it spreads to other worlds.

From the "Things I don't get, but do, but hate anyway" Files: Bathroom Attendants

As you probably have come to imagine from my previous posts, after my many years of being a swingin', sophisticated gentleman, I've become a fixture at all the hottest hotspots my municipality has to offer.  The scene loves me, and I love the scene.  

Except for one fuuuucking thing... er, guy... this guy:

Well, not specifically this guy.  Just fuckers like him.  Which I suppose includes him anyway.

These fuckers are the reason why I clamp my urethra shut whenever I go clubbing.  I NEVER want to use any bathroom where some grown-ass man squirts soap for other grown-ass men.  I ESPECIALLY DOUBLE EXTRA NEVER want to have to use any bathroom where some grown-ass man squirts soap for other grown-ass men, and then expects a tip for it. 

A tip?  Really?  Even a homeless guy who tries to clean my Maserati's windows moves his fucking arm a bit.  You're telling me that you expect money for the operation of a simple cleansing-foam dispenser?

Oh, what's that?  A cigarette?  Candy, nuts?  Ah, well surely a tip is justified then, right?

BALLZNOSIR!  You know what that shit is?  It's a bribe, son, a straight bribe.  They expect you, like a fool, to go all "Nurp derp dis guy dun gabe me a little bit of soap urn sum peenuts, so i gibs him all mys monay."

And before you accuse me of being a classless ignoramus, let me tell you that I get it.  I get why bathroom attendants are there.  They're there to keep strippers from banging the clientele on the sink.  They're there to give mints to the guy who just threw up in the urinal.  They are classic sources of information, especially for spies and thugs and other such popular TV things.  So, I'm not saying they're useless - I'm just saying they're useless to me.  Which, if you know anything about me, means that they're useless period.

My breath is always fresh, I always keep tons of candy on me, and I always keep at least a carton of smokes on my person at all times, so I don't need your blood goodies.  I have my iPad and Kindle Fire to keep me informed of everything, so I don't need your vaunted information.  You know what else, Mr. I'm-Stupid-And-Obsolete?  I also rock the hand sanitizer.  So I don't even need YOUR FUCKING SOAP!

Hell, I don't even care if I did have the hand sanitizer!  You could dip my hands in a Chinese river, and I wouldn't take your damn soap.  I don't need you, and I obstinately wish you gone.

So?  What are you waiting for, Push-pump the Soapy Candy Cig Man?

GET.

OUT.

Keep It Stankin'

Word Avoision, First Sequence

To write means to be a man of words.  To be a man of words, however, requires spending years upon years learning metric Piss-Tons (TM) of words.  And sadly, not all of these words are good, fun, or even useful.  Many a writer squeals in delight at listing and lambasting those strings of syllables that offend them.

Sadly, I too am such a writer.  Despite my many attempts to "come original", there are certain threads of discourse in the world of scribblery that I find myself inextricably drawn to, like a Mothra to Monster Island.  And should I be ashamed for veering toward the flock from time to time?  Am I so different, so special, so unique, that I cannot touch on a subject simply because somebody else beat me to the punch?  

Hellz no.  I too can bleed, defecate, urinate, blow my nose, and occasionally vomit, just like the rest of the common rabble of the blogosphere. (More on fucking "blogosphere" in a moment.)

In short, I really wanna talk about a few words I hate, so I'MS GUNNA!  

Without further ado, here are some sequences of letters that have successfully enraged me:

"Blogosphere"

It would take me a very long time to rattle off all of the Internet-era portmanteaus that I despise, but I would always start with "Blogosphere".  Deriving itself from the hideous word "blog", which in turn comes from the quasimodo that is "weblog", "Blogosphere" is clearly one of those terms that its inventor was smugly satisfied with.  

Why yes, I am a white man with nerd glasses who is currently doing something conspicuously similar to what this guy is doing.  The difference is that I don't like coffee and I'm a far better human being.

I often imagine travelling back in time to the moment of the word's inception, doubtlessly at a Starbucks or some other fetid hovel of caffeine junkies:

"Herp a durr, I can combine 'blog' and 'atmosphere' to make 'blogosphere'.  Blorp-a-do, look at how clever I am," crows the 30's-something hipster.  

"NRRRRRGGGG..." said I, trying desperately to fry his laptop with my mind, hopefully causing him to comically spill his latte onto his tragically tiny set of genitalia.  

"ARGGH!" says the hipster, as his MacBook spews flecks of electricity at his shaved yuppie face.  

"ARGGH!" he says again, as his coffee boils his crotch.  

"What an awful experience," says the hipster, "I should talk about it in the blogosphere!"

At this point in the fantasy my psychic abilities turn back in on myself, and I perform the world's first self-induced headsplosion.  The hipster, witnessing this, mentions it in passing on his blog.  

"Pamper"

Here's a few images that come up when I Google Image Searched "pamper".  Think of this as a photographic essay whose message is "the word 'pamper' is garbage and should be murdered."

Looking at these three images, you'll notice that the first two are cartoons of women enjoying spa treatments (and what's up both black chicks having to sit all the way to the right?  RrrrrrAY-cissst...).  

The third image is of a product that is specifically designed for babies to piss and shit in.  

Putting together these two motifs of spoiled women and infant feces, we can see what the word "pamper" really calls to mind - mud masks of baby crap and pedicured feet dipped in steamy urine.*

At least that's what I think of, and you should too, if you have any decency.  Which you probably don't.

* - If that sounded appealing to you, then, well, you should...  really???

"Preggers"

As long as we're talking about baby-related words, let's prescribe this one some birth-control.  Zing!

I shit you not, this is really the first image that comes up when you search "Preggers".  Google Image Search, I don't always say this, but Bravo.  

You notice how most words that deal with serious, life-changing things don't have cutesie synonyms associated with them?  We don't euphemize murder as "murdies", or call cancer "canci-cans".  We don't call menopause "the m-pizzles", or genocide "a bad case of the gennies."   

Now, I know pregnancy isn't usually considered a bad thing, but it is a serious thing.  Your life, your responsibilities, your EVERYTHING changes when a baby comes into the mix.  So why, WHY I ASK YOU, is a word like "preggers" bandied about in this day and age?  

Imagine, if you would, that you were a man with two girlfriends.  Being a cad, you don't wear protection, and by every fault of your own you inseminate both of your special ladyfriends on the same day.  A week or two later, Girlfriend #1 comes up to you:

"Dear, I'm pregnant!"

Not long after, Girlfriend #2 comes up to you:

"Honey, I'm preggers!" 

Now which of these two women sounds ready to actually raise a child?  Knowing nothing else, just that one of them used the word "pregnant" and the other one "preggers."  

Which one has just told you "Sweetie, a heavy but important responsibility has befallen us, and it's up to us to be adults and accept both the burdens and blessings that are about to enter our lives."?  

Which one has just told you "Babe, I have a baby growing inside me and that's totally awesome because I'll have unconditional love forever and now I won't be the odd-girl-out in my high school Preggers Club!  I don't see how the future will be anything but sunshine and ponies and funtime!"?

It is absolutely no coincidence that the spread of the plague that is "preggers" coincides with the rise of teen pregnancy in this country.  Therefore, if we want to curb this epidemic of mass stupidity, we need to correct teenage girls when they use this poison word.  Since I'm not "supposed" to advocate face-punching as an appropriate form of correction, I'm going back to my mainstay:

That's right.  Shove that stupid Bieber-loving hussy in the nearest closet, and then pump your wet farts in.

ALL YOUR FARTS. 

Keep it Stankin'