Infomercials: Forever Fucked Up

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 I don't really feel like I even have to say anything to make this funnier than it already is. Or more pitiful, for that matter.

However, I'm going to make some comments anyhow:

A) "Forever Lazy" will definitely ensure that you never, ever get laid again.

B) Why is this better (or different) than the feety pajamas we wore as kids? Oh, wait--I know. It's different because we were five then, and forty year old adults SHOULD NOT WEAR ONE-PIECE SLEEPWEAR.

C) "While Dad does what he does best!" Jesus...I feel so fucking bad for that fictitious father. He fell asleep (after a couple of brewskis while watching the game) and now drunken dozing is what he "does best"?
Naturally, they aren't showing him slaving away at a thankless job for 10 hours a day, mowing the lawn, taking out the trash, or making sensibly healthy lunch decisions like half a sandwich and soup at Panera instead of the meat lover's sicilian-style heart attack from Little Caesar's. He tries, goddamn it! And this infomercial tries to take that all away from him with an ill-informed little jab suggesting he's lazy. Fucking bullshit.

D) "With a drawstring hoodie to keep the chilly weather away"...Wow. PLEASE don't give people the idea that these are acceptable to wear out of the house. Frankly, they shouldn't even be worn WITHIN the house.

E) "forever lazy has zippered hatches in the front and in the back..." Oh, ewwwwww. Being unwilling to pull your fucking pants down to take a shit or piss is the ultimate in filthy humanry. That's seriously as low as it gets.

The Mobile Shoe Chronicles

Summer's just taken its final bow and already I find myself nostalgic for some of its finer points: a ripe, juicy raspberry from the rail trail, the rush of bubbles and zesty refreshment that follows jumping (not diving) into a lake or pool, a worn New Balance sneaker lying on its side along the sunny highway...

Wait a minute......What?!

Yeah. I don't know if this is something that just an overly observant crackpot like me would notice, or perhaps everyone is aware of this phenomenon and it's just one of the many things we don't discuss.

You know what I'm talking about, I think.
Shoes on the side of the road.
Where the fuck do they come from?!

I can't even really imagine the scenario wherein footwear (and it's always just a solitary shoe, never a pair) would be destined to spend its last days directly adjacent to a roadway.

Well, I guess I can imagine one or two scenarios, actually...

Possibility #1: Abandonment Amid Insurmountable Anguish

The dashboard lights in Chad's Chrysler start to flash red in unison, and the vehicle sputters to a stop.

"Aggggh!! Fucking Troy!" he bellows, slamming his steroid-infused fists on the steering wheel.

It's the second time this week Chad has broken down on 787. He cranks the wheel all the way to the right and swings his legs out of the vehicle, slamming the door behind him. Today, he's stuck on the exit 8 off-ramp coming into Green Island.

"Gotta push," he mutters.

 Chad gets behind the gray rust bucket and heaves his body weight against it. The wheels begin to turn. The vehicle moves and then slowly sinks, half astride the shoulder and halfway on the filthy, gravel-strewn grass.

He grabs his Monster energy drink from the cup holder and locks the doors.

Chad doesn't have AAA. In fact, he doesn't even have the money to get his cell phone turned back on, let alone enough cash to hire a tow truck if he could make a call.

He attempts to take a swing from the beverage can, but drops it mid-gulp, dripping radioactive liquid all over his stubbly face and mouth.

"GRAAAAAH!!!" Chad screams, spiraling into a sudden 'roid rage. He kicks his foot into the air, launching a size 9 New Balance sneaker into traffic. Then, he starts running against traffic along the highway, partially shoeless and panting.

He bursts into a nearby Gold's Gym, where he ends up punching a guy on a treadmill and throwing 45 pound weights at people as if they were weightless Gushers fruit snacks.

The abandoned New Balance sneaker sits on the side of the highway, shaking its head.

Possibility #2: Air-headed Reckless Abandon

It's a beautiful September afternoon. Taylor and Jimmy are on their way to 'Toga so they can eat overpriced hamburgers at Circus Cafe and then "get shitfaced" one more time before the summer ends.

Taylor is admiring her blue-painted toenails, positioned prominently on the dashboard. Damn, my pedicure looks effing awesome, she thinks to herself with a smug smile.

"Dude!!! Can you believe how, like...AMAZING it is out today?" she asks Jimmy rhetorically.

He turns to her and grins, wrap-around shades obscuring his terrifyingly pale, serial killer eyes.

"I know, babe, it's fuckin' unreal!" he says, leaning back in the driver's seat like a gansta.

Taylor hums along with a Ke$ha song playing on the radio. She just popped a Xanax and she's feeling good; frankly, dealing with Jimmy is SO much easier when she's on meds.

She tosses her head from side to side and and begins fist pumping. "This is my JAM," she cries.

She then transitions into a fist pumping/full body convulsive combo (maybe it's a spasm due to the medication, it's not really clear) which subsequently causes her to thrust her foot out the window. "Weee, hahahah!" she chortles.

The 70 mph highway speed creates a sheering wind, lifting Taylor's Havianas flip flop right off her foot. It sails happily into the breeze, glad to be rid of her.

 The sandal lands on the side of the Northway, where it currently lives today with an overweight husband, 2.3 children and a King Charles Spaniel.








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Thinking the Unthinkable...Doing the Unnatural.

 There are some things in life that seem plain unnatural to me. A large part of me reacts whenever I try to/consider doing these things, in a way that is most likely primal and self-protective. Simply put—something in me just doesn’t want to do it.

One of these things is diving.

I understand that people think diving is fun, and I would never begrudge someone else the pleasure of diving into water over and over and over again, but I just don’t get it, personally.

My cousin Sarah stood at the edge of the pool, her one-piece bathing suit dripping from previous Olympic-worthy attempts. “It’s not that hard,” she assured me. “Just arc your back and put your arms over your head in front of you. Then jump in head first, straight down.”

Ummm...go in head first? Straight down? I looked at her, and then the water, with uncertainty. Clouds rolling over the pool started to turn the water an uncertain shade of dark that failed to illuminate the depths.

Although I did eventually dive, I can’t say I loved doing it. Jumping into water headfirst is just...well, wrong. And when it’s diving into a lake, river or other watering hole that doesn’t have the reassuring “10 feet” painted along the side? Forget about it. Visions of paralysis and bloody head injuries dance around my brain.

Another thing that seems highly unnatural—When I first tried to do it, I never thought I could manage.

I was 11 years old, sitting in the optometrist’s room with the mirror, sink, and bright overhead lights. “Here you go,” my bespectacled doctor says cheerfully, handing me two small plastic ovals with numbers on them.

He peels them open for me. “See that little round jelly-looking thing there?” I nod my head. “That’s the contact lens. Now, I want you to balance that on your fingertip with the curved part touching your finger, like this. Good. Now, pull your eyelid down and place the lens on your eye. Then blink.”

...

Place the fucking lens on my EYEBALL? Are you insane? I look at him with obvious discomfort and trepidation. Aren’t we taught our whole lives to never put things in our eyes? 

“Be careful or you’ll poke an eye out?”

“Stop rough-housing or someone might lose an eye”?! 

This just felt so wrong. However, I got the hang of it, after at least an hour of agony and fighting with my reflexes to blink, pull my finger away at the last minute, and to not cry.

While I still hate diving, and the idea of putting a contact lens in my eye still seems unnatural, I can do these things now. One task that still eludes me from time to time has to do with a ubiquitous enemy: the Horse Pill.

The Horse Pill comes in many different forms—some seemingly innocent. I read an article in a magazine that touts vitamin and mineral supplements for everything from healthy, shiny hair to immunity boosts and more energy. Well, why the hell not? I ask myself.

I smuggle home the brown plastic bottle of pills and pry it open, a glass of water dutifully in hand. Then, I shake the bottle upside down into my hand and out comes...a fucking blue whale of a pill.

Taken aback and slightly fearful, I check the label. Yes, yes—it’s the Flax Seed oil that Dr. Oz guy recommended. But how could this be? Is there some sort of a height and weight adjusted pill size? Surely this version of the pill has to be for Shaquille O’Neil, because no one else has a throat the size of a fucking fully extended accordion to accommodate this nuclear submarine.

I place the pill on my tongue and slide it to the back of my throat. Then I fill my mouth with as much water as it can reasonably handle without spillover. I say a little prayer.

It may be telling to know that when I was about three years old, I choked on a Flintstones chewable vitamin. I hated the flavor of those godforsaken pills...”grape” flavor my ass. That shit did not taste like grape; more like a combination of dry dog food and Dimetapp cough syrup. So, I did what any respectable child would do when supervised and unable to spit something into a napkin.

I tried to swallow it whole.

Mayday, Mayday, abort mission...

I began to choke and fight for air as if I were pinned underwater by a wave.

I grabbed my mom’s voluminous 80’s sweater, her face contorting into a look of alarm. She throws me in front of her and makes a ball with her hands, pulling them sharply inward against my upper stomach.

After a few of these maneuvers, a purple object catapults from my gaping maw. Mom heaves a sigh of relief, and I gulp in as much sweet, fresh air as I can handle.

That’s the last time I take a fucking vitamin, I think to myself. (But without the “fucking” because I was three.)

******

Fast forward again to today.

Tipping my head back and scrunching my eyes shut, I fear the moment when I must hurl myself upon a sharp counter top corner, trying in vain to clear my throat of the Flax Seed pill with no one home to perform the Heimlich.

The horse meds go down without incident. “Thank you, Jeebus,” I quietly mutter.

Then, I look down at the kitchen table. Four more brown plastic bottles sit in a neat row, all varying in size, quietly taunting me like playground bullies. “Vitamin C” shrieks one. “B-6 and B-12 complex”, sneers another. I reach into each bottle, spilling out exactly one pill from each. My eyes widen with horror and disbelief.

All Horse Pills.

Every last one of them.

The Nuances of Interior Decoration

A couple of weeks ago, my pal Chantelle and I were trolling around Target. I just moved into a new apartment, and as such, was searching for some appropriate items to make my place inviting and home-y. A new bathroom rug was an important purchase on my list. It's not that I didn't have a bath mat already; it's just that it was a sickly, bloated-looking purplish pink hue, and it happened to look grotesque in the new bathing area.

My bathroom is now yellow, with white trim. This may be one of the many unfortunate side effects of possessing a vagina, but there is a large part of me that needs decor to "go with" its surroundings. A ghastly lavender-pink shower rug was certainly not going to do the trick in a yellow bathroom, LET ALONE with a cream and sage striped shower curtain. (Yep, I said fucking "cream and sage." Could I have said green and white? Yep, but I'm FANCY like that.) So, I did the thing that any self-respecting human with female reproductive organs would do: I sought an alternative.

Now, you are probably thinking: Cut to the chase, here...Did you get a white bath mat, or a yellow one? Or: I don't give a shit which color bath mat you chose! Well, then cease reading right now, because the plot thickens from here.

I didn't choose a yellow mat--I mean, what are the odds of picking up just the right shade of yellow without so much as a paint swatch? That's stuff and nonsense! Also, I know I could have gone with white, but have you SEEN how dirty white gets? My landlord comes in to fix the toilet with shit kickers on, simply riddled with cow feces. I'm not about to get a white bathroom rug so he can doodie all over it.

So in the end, I chose brown. I find it looks fantastic with most shades of yellow. it's basically a neutral, and nearly impossible to stain.

Stalking the aisles of Target, the elusive brown rug finally caught my eye. I saw the rich shag sticking out from the bottom shelf. Ahhh, here we go, I thought in delight. I grabbed it out; Chantelle nodded her approval. The rug was the perfect hue--a deep, chocolaty, earth color. I glanced at the tag, expecting it to say something like "Drizzled Cocoa" or "Rich Earthen Brown". Imagine my surprise when I see what it actually says:

WALRUS FUCKING BROWN?

"Sink your weary soles into the luxurious comfort of ...Walrus Brown."

"Nothing completes an elegant bathroom quite like the sensuousness of...Walrus Brown."

Yeah.

I know nothing makes me want to unwind and transcend the day's hardships more than the instantaneous nirvana that is Walrus Brown. I can enjoy a languid bath, an invigorating shower, or engage in some heated tusk wars.

...

Okay, okay...That shit ended up costing $9.99, and it looks pretty fly against my buttercup yellow walls. Not to mention the cream and sage shower cu--...Well; you get the idea.

Does John Fogerty Have a Secret Love Child?

The other day I was listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival, simultaneously perusing pictures of the band from their early days. While doing this, I found a couple of pictures that reminded me how very strange John Fogerty looked in the late 60's and early 70's.

Here's an image to jog your memory, or give you an idea if you don't know who the hell John Fogerty is and don't know why you are even reading this post:

OK, we've got that covered.

Now, as I was studying the images, some details immediately struck me.

For instance, his ridiculous hair cut, which looks as if he paid a homeless person on crack cocaine one dollar to lob off his locks.

Another thing I recognized was the fact that he has a rather square-shaped face, and a nose reminiscent of a hawk's beak. Finally, I thought it strange that his eyes are almost always closed in photographs. This probably serves to convey a level of rock and roll ecstasy that mere mortals could never achieve or comprehend, but I have another theory: could it be that he doesn't keep them open due to poor eyesight?

Then, an epiphany hit me.

There's someone else in popular culture that looks a whole hell of a lot like John Fogerty. 

Let's take another look at him:

 

And then....Take a gander at this little gal down below:

Velma Dinkley, of Scooby Doo fame. 

Let's get a close-up of her face to explore the eerie similarities:

1) Strange and unnecessary bowl cut = CHECK.

2)  A face that veers toward an equilateral polygon = CHECK.

3) Completely worthless eyes that are practically just there for show...

CHECK.

So, let me know what you think, guys. Could Velma Dinkley be the mysterious love child of John Fogerty? If so, who might her mother be? If you have any tip-offs, send them to: jeezumcrowvintage@yahoo.com.

Marketing Campaign Fail...Hilarious Comedy Triumph

Stewart's Shops have always featured notoriously horrific advertising.

A few questions I have in regard to the website, in particular:

1) "If We Get Another Shot of Winter This Weekend...We Are There For You!"  Oh, shit...Does this mean that, since we DIDN'T get any more snow, they aren't going to be there for me? That sucks, because frankly I was considering popping down there within the hour for a MYO sundae. Somebody hold down that snowmobile cow so I can squeeze out a milkshake.



2) The "Superbowl Grazing" video: not much needs to be said to enhance this film's goodness, but was anyone else surprised at Flavor the Cow's voice? Yeah, I didn't think she was going to sound like a SUNY Albany slut, either!

3) Gasoline News Update: Well, thank GOD we have Stewart's-affiliated brainiacs working 'round the clock to get us our political news briefings. I mean, I don't know about you, but Stewart's is my go-to place for serious updates on international affairs. It's really too bad those "darn speculators" are ruining gas prices for all of us normal "folks"!

4) The speculators are at it again--this time they're meddling in my morning coffee?! Is there anything sacred that these anti-American fucknuggets aren't trying to destroy?

Stewart's....The only place where you can people watch, be entertained by wretchedly rendered copy and get a heaping Mint Cookie Crumble cone all in one shot.

Snow Hype Overkill

What's that you say? A large-ish snow storm...In February?! In the NORTHEAST?!

Apparently, a blizzard is now "deadly"!

A "MONSTER" of mythical proportions!"Snowpocalypse"? "SNOMG"? Are you f-ing serious?!

Everyone Has Officially Gone Batshit at the Weather Channel

Guys. I know most of us hate our lives and need to find a diversion to quell the  misery in Upstate New York, but seriously? How many times in the past decade has there been a snowfall of over 12" in a two-day period? I don't care if it was a multi-state storm, just think about it: We get at least this much snow once each winter, typically multiple times. It's not the end of the world. We are not going to die in a cold, wintry snow-nado/nami. I'm genuinely sorry to tell you this, but life will go on. Spring will soon come (according to the groundhog), and then there will be furious FLOODING. Summer may bring gargantuan T-STORMS. Fall will bring a flurry of leaves, and possibly MORE flooding. Then it will all start over again.

So for now, let's just enjoy the fact that most of us had a snow day from work and/or school today. You can take a walk outside at night and there isn't a soul around. In addition, the snow actually looks kind of...well, pretty, sparkling in the street lights. As far as the weather goes, we are all going to be just fine.

Rotten Egg

In my humble opinion, this video represents everything that is wrong with music right now:



1) Emotionless lyrics in both topic and melody. (Attention: Hipster nonsense!)

2) Ridiculous costumes without any overarching theme. I'm not usually against costumes for the most part, but doesn't it seem like these "musicians" are having little to no fun at all, despite the costumes? (Hipster nonsense.)

3) Even more retarded dance moves--once again, emotionless, not conveying any story or worthwhile artistic aim. (Hipster nonsense.)

4) A myriad of noise that doesn't seem to logically mesh in any way. Eg: horn section, keyboards, 12 year old Asian clarinet player. (Hipster...)

5) A really talented female artist (Nedelle Torrisi of Cryptacize) marginalized by being delegated to crappy background vocals. It doesn't help that she's wearing a short, somewhat sexualized dress. (The Entire World As We Know It.)

Let me know what you guys think, especially if you disagree. For some reason this video made me feel as if I smelled a horrible fart and found out that there is no Santa Clause all at the same time...

Helping of Engrish Just in Time for Supper

OK, I know "Jessica" is quite the uncommon name and all, but...seriously?

Well, they can call me whatever they want. The Crazy Couple roll is worth it!