Yo’ Crazy, Yoplait!

This commercial sucks:

A woman goes to a tailor to have her clothes taken in.  She tells the lady behind the counter why her clothes need altering by going on and on about the sinfully delicious yogurt she’s been eating. “It’s all the pie (flavors) I’m eating,” she gleefully exclaims! The tailor, confused by the dessert-only diet, asks if she doesn’t actually mean that her clothes need to be let out?  They banter back and forth about “in” and “out” before Piemouth steps back from the counter and says, “In!,” while motioning to her body as if to say, “what more proof do you need, dummy!”

If the commercial ended there it would be fine—the tailor should look at the bitch and be able to recognize that she must mean “in” because she’s so effing skinny, which makes sense given the underlying message.  BUT THAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

After the narrator tells us that with so many delicious flavors to choose from, it only *tastes* fattening, we’re brought back to the tailor’s shop where she proceeds to ask her customer one more time if she really means to have her clothes let out instead of taken in.  To which our witty waif responds, “Ok, I was just outside, and then I came in…so (motions with hands inward)…”

Am I smoking crack?  Shouldn’t her body be the proof that her clothes need to be taken in?  I mean if you’re going to the trouble of having someone take your clothes in, doesn’t that insinuate you’ve lost a noticeable/substantial amount of weight?  If the fat tailor looks at you and thinks, “Actually, chunky, you need these babies let out,” how in the hell does that promote your low calorie diet food?

Someone really needs to be fired over at Yoplait.

Uhh-uhh-uhh-uhh

i once lost my voice because i did too many Lorraine impressions

best day of my life

Modern Inconvenience

Automatic-Flushing Toilets

On the count of three...one, two, PSYCHE!

Pro: Less chance that I’ll see a stranger’s poop in a public bathroom.

Con: I’d have to be an Olympic Wiper to clean myself and throw the t.p. in the toilet before there’s a new batch of water swirling around and spraying my ass.

Pro: I don’t have to touch the germ-infested flushing mechanism.

Con: When the sensor is broken I have to feel around for the manual flush button…or just run out of the stall before anyone sees me.

Verdict: Good for my eyeballs, bad for my butt. Keep it.

Security Sensors

Pro: Embarrasses petty thieves stealing Wet’n’Wild eyeliner from Rite Aide.

Con: Embarrasses me when I walk into a store and somehow set it off. “Sorry Mr./Ms. Minimum Wage Employee, it must be the nipple clamps I’m wearing. You can’t see them but they’re always making these things beep!”

Pro: Even if you do make one scream on your way out of the store, the likelihood that you’ll actually be stopped/searched is around 8%.

Con: They don’t do shit.

Verdict: Good on paper, bad in practice. Toss it.

Conveyor Belts at the Grocery Store

Pro: Moves your items across the counter quickly, requiring no manual labor from the buyer.

Con: Tapers at the end and has terrible sensors that cause 90% of your shit to get crammed into that tiny space, while Mr. A-Hole behind you loads up his haul pushing your junk into a misshapen oblivion.

Pro: Requires only the flick of a button to turn on. And off. Monkeys could operate it.

Con: The inexplicable wet-spot that makes it look someone’s dragged a squeegee across the top that ALWAYS gets pressed-up against your paper products.

Verdict: Convenient and quick despite its flaws. Keep it.

Self-Check Out

Pro: When you’ve only got one or two items, you can get out of the grocery/drugstore faster than a cheetah on speed.

Con: You’ll inevitably buy something that requires a checker or manager to come over and enter a mysterious 6-digit code before you can continue.

Pro: Allows you to buy embarrassing items without worrying about the judgmental eyes of other shoppers, and the condemnatory fingering of the cashier.

Con: The elderly, confused, and generally slow are drawn to this line like a stripper to a pole. And they’re guaranteed to have more than 500 things in their carts. And it’s their first time trying out the “new-fangled” check out. And they’ve forgotten their glasses.

Verdict: Sometimes convenient, other times the bane of my existence. If they put an item limit on the stations it’d be better. Keep it (Conditionally).

Kitten Friday

**Every Friday the receptionist in my company’s building brings in kittens–she’s a volunteer for the SPCA and fosters multiple litters at a time.  She likes people to come out and play with the cats, helping to socialize them, which is fantastic because I love animals but can’t have any of my own–YET!  Naturally it forces me to mingle with people at work whom I might otherwise never meet.  Everything has a drawback, I suppose.**

_______________________________________________________________________________________

 

ACTUAL CONVERSATION

ME: as you can imagine, fresh kitten Friday brings out weird cat people

the BF: yes.

ME: and to make matters worse, publishing is one of those industries that has more weird cat people per square inch of office space

the BF: understandable.

ME: so, I’m familiar with most of the weird cat people in my building, because my timing is such that they’re always hanging around the front when I go downstairs

ME: anyway, some of them are tolerable, while some of them are idiots

the BF: right.

ME: and some of them are REALLY weird.

ME: like this one lady.

the BF: Riiiiight.

ME: i don’t know her name, and i don’t know what she does.

ME: she looks like she’s allergic to the sun and gets her fashion cues from a charles dickens novel–but mainly from the men’s department

ME: she has short brown hair and makes odd comments that kind of don’t make sense

the BF: ha ha ha ha ha

ME: anyway

the BF: i’m with you.

ME: about a month or so ago i met her for the first time

the BF: i’m up to speed

ME: and she came down when i had one kitten asleep, totally curled-up and knocked-out in my lap, very content to be left alone

ME: didn’t want to be moved or messed with

ME: so I’m not holding the cat, it’s just asleep between my legs

ME: and she’s uncomfortably close to me—petting it

ME: because she can’t stand that it’s asleep with me and that I’m not dying to wake it up and hand it to her

the BF: close to your crotchal area.

ME: ok, fine. so after about ten minutes (in which most normal people would say, I’ll just come back later) she goes, “can i PLEASE hold the kitty now?”

the BF: HA HA HA HA HA

ME: and I’m like…ok, here you go

ME: and i go upstairs

ME:: and that’s the last time i saw her

ME: UNTIL TODAY

the BF: that’s awesome!

ME: today there are two cats

ME: both aren’t very interested in being cuddled, they mainly want to play

ME: so im using their toys while they’re in their little cage-thing, and another girl is down there with me

ME: and after 15 minutes i was though, ok I’ll take one out and hold it for a minute before i go back upstairs

ME: I’m sitting on the counter with my head down looking at the cat

the BF: right.

ME: when i hear, “oh that girl is a CAT HOG“

the BF: WHAAAAT?

ME: and i look up…and who should it be? FREAKIN’ OLIVER TWIST!

the BF: HA HA HA HA HAHA HAHA AHAHA

the BF: ROFL

the BF: a cat hog!

ME: SO i don’t say anything but kind of glare at her

ME: she’s brought some non-descript, plain looking fat girl (probably from editorial) with her

the BF: ha ha ha ha ha

the BF: this is too good!

ME: and she IMMEDIATELY comes to the cat I’m holding and starts petting it!

the BF: WOW

ME: but there’s another cat, five feet away from us!

ME: and she chose mine

ME: that bitch!

ME: so an employee walks in the front entrance with her dog

the BF: that victorian cat freak!

ME: and the cat gets a little scared

ME: so I’m like, alright it’s time to put him back in the cage

ME: and i get up and leave

ME: all the while I’m thinking about how much i want to throw gruel in her stupid manface.

the BF: wow. the cat hog strikes!

the BF: angry cat hog!

ME: who the fuck says that?

ME: CHRIST ON A CROSS

the BF: right!

the BF: HA HA HA HA

ME: the damn thing was ASLEEP IN MY FREAKIN CROTCH

ME: back off

the BF: bay PLUS bee, that’s the funniest thing i’ve heard all week. it’s terrible, but funny.

the BF: i’m with you.

the BF: and i thought this weird crap only happened to me.

ME: eff her and her stupid little pixie cut hairdo!

the BF: ha ha ha ha ha

ME: man, I tell ya!

the BF: oh, baby. you would quit that job in a hot minute.

ME: i wanted to wallop her! cat hog!

ME: can you imagine saying that to someone?  she’s met me once, and she called me “a girl”

ME: “oh no! that girl’s a cat hog!”

the BF: so strange.

ME: or maybe it was, “oh that’s the girl who’s a cat hog”

ME: alluding to a previous conversation they had about my cat hoggery

the BF: RIGHT!

the BF: wow. you’ve got a reputation there, lady.

ME: i know, right?  eff her!

the BF: eff her! not literally!

ME: i wanted to say, “wow, did you mean for that to sound as socially-unaware and completely rude as it came out?”

the BF: or as cat-crazy?

ME: but didn’t want to make my coworkers uncomfortable

the BF: yeah.

the BF: wow. it’s like a zoo over there!

ME: for realios!

If I were a rich man

A few days ago I had a dream. I was sitting behind the counter at work (the Mobil Station on 7th & Market) and the weather was just warm enough that it coaxed my eyes closed. As I leaned on my fist, and allowed my body to relax, my mind began to wander.

All of a sudden I saw myself in a field of daisies, casually chatting with Dalmatian puppy.

Lying on her tummy, paws crossed in front of her, she asked, “Joe, what would you do with a billion dollars?”

So I thought for a minute, and then I came up with a list of the Top 5 Things I’d do with One Billion Dollars:

i heart you slurpee!!!!!

1. Buy a house: Real Estate is one of the most sound investments you can make. Hey, the rich don’t stay rich by misspending their money! So I’d look for something humble–a little chateau-style mansion in Southern Georgia, no larger than 80,000 square feet. Two Olympic sized pools in the living room, and an indoor badminton court. I’d have a kitchen on all 12 floors, and install a Slurpee machine in at least six of those. I’d probably decorate in pre-war, French-Canadian style, with themed bedrooms dedicated to the Top-100 Grossing Films of All Time. Naturally I’d outfit the house with a wait staff that would attend to all my needs. I think a ratio of 5 servants to every regular person makes sense.

i'ma throw some rims on this beezie!

2. Own my dream car: A John Deere 5625 Utility Tractor (99 hp). I’ve had my eye on this beauty for a few hours now, and the thought of seeing it parked on the lawn in front of my chateau is making me salivate! She’s got two forward and two rear ROPS-mounted turn signal/warning lights, a climate-controlled cab, PowerTech™ 4-cylinder diesel engine, an electrohydraulic three-point hitch, and SO MUCH MORE! I’m gonna have to bat the ladies off with a stick in this monster.

3. Get a Wife: I hear you can order them from other countries, which is pretty convenient because I’m not really a talker. A language barrier can be sexy! As long as she doesn’t beat me nightly with a strand of sausages. I think it could work. Happily Ever After, right?

don't shoot!

4. Purchase a Panda: I figure since I’ll have a billion dollars, I can probably pay a scientist or zookeeper to hook me up with one of these. I’ll do my research, get the latest edition of Pandas for Dummies on Amazon, and grow a eucalyptus garden in my backyard. Naturally I’d prefer a baby panda, so when I bring it home I can paint dark circles around my eyes and it’ll think I’m its mom and develop an unnatural attachment to me. It would crawl around the house, mess up every room, and cause total pandemonium! Then when he/she turns one year old, we’ll celebrate his/her pandaversary with a trip to the ice skating rink. I’d let him/her host tea parties, and movie nights. I’d let him/her invite friends over for camp-outs, and tell them ghost stories around the fire. If the Panda is diabetic, we’d roast eggplant instead of s’mores, and we’d drink mud instead of juice made of high fructose corn syrup. When he/she turns 21 I’ll book a bunch of rooms at the Excalibur Hotel in Las Vegas, and we’ll party like rock stars. We might see Cirque du Sole, or the Blue Man Group–whatever my baby wants, my baby gets. It’ll be so great.

5. Keep my swimming pools constantly stocked with the tears of children: If you’ve never swam in the fresh tears of young children, I highly recommend it. Young tears have a salinity level that is just ideal for the skin. I take a 10 minute dip in the pool, and I feel like a 12-year-old all over again! Of course, acquiring said tears is not easy, nor is it cheap. I source them through a South American exporter, who does not tell me how he’s able to fly 10,000 gallons of children’s tears up to my chateu within 48 hours of me placing an order. Every single time.

Naked isn’t always sexy

Naked Mole Rat

Last night my defrosted chicken breast got tired of waiting to be cooked, sprouted legs, jumped off the counter, and stomped out of the house.

An Eruption of Love

Dear Volcano,

It’s me, your little fan. How are you? I’m good. I know that it’s only been like, three hours since we last saw each other, but I can’t help it! I need to tell you how much I. LOVE. YOU.

My mom says it’s crazy to be in love with a taco. I told her that if she didn’t get out of my room in THREE. SECONDS. FLAT. I’d run away with you and she’d never see me again. We’d move into a little apartment in the city, and you’d get a job in a record store and I’d stay home and watch the Food Network and cook you gourmet dinners. I’d knit you little sweaters to keep you warm on the subway during the winter. On weekends, we’d take the bus to Central Park and I’d cradle your little shell in my arms as we walked around and talked about our hopes and dreams. You’d buy me balloons, and we’d skip stones across the lake. Maybe we’d count our pennies and split a hot dog. It would be very romantic.

She said, “Sharon, you’re talking about a goddamned taco, for Christ’s sake! Get a grip!”

And that’s when I slammed the door in her stupid face.

be mine?

Volcano, I’ve loved others, but none as much as you. My first love, the (now hated) Cheesy Chicken Gordita, burned me badly time after time. His cheese warmed me, and his chicken filled me, but I always felt kicked in the gut about 20 minutes after he was gone. It was only later that I realized that he was literally tearing my insides up. I was naive! I didn’t know. He was my first.

I broke it off and then started a long and steady relationship with the 7-Layer Burrito. I never thought our good times would end. But one day, he was gone. I asked them about him, but they said he had just, disappeared. Somewhere out where the wild burritos roam. I like to think that there’s someplace out on the open range, where wild burritos can be free. Where they can toss their virile manes as they gallop in slow motion.

In time, I got over my intense feelings of abandonment and took up a brief but powerful romance with the Cheesy Double Beef Burrito. But alas — as you know –I got a little obsessive over him, and ended up paying the price for my love. They say it’s the first time a burrito’s successfully won a restraining order in a California court. So, you know, that’s a legal precedent.

But none of that matters anymore, because I’ve found you, Volcano Taco the Third. You’re so spicy, so exotic. You burn me sometimes, but I love you always.

Just when I thought the great Taco Bell in the sky couldn’t create a more perfect menu item, there you were, with your intriguing red shell and surprisingly hot Chipotle sauce. I will never let you go, Volcano. That’s why I’ve seen you twice already today… once at breakfast, and again two hours later for lunch. I know they say I’ve seen you too much already, but I may visit you again for dinner, and if you’re good, for the sacred Fourth Meal. I don’t know. I don’t keep a schedule. That’s life with me; unpredictable.

You’re hot, and you make ME hot. I’m literally salivating right now, thinking of you. Now, don’t you go running off like so many of your fellow tacos and burritos. I won’t bite! I just swallow.

Love,
Sharon