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'