| Khal's Vomitorium
Please Watch Your Step
Welcome to my Vomitorium, where the world is viewed from a childish marketing perspective and where everyone else's opinion can go fuck itself.
Enjoy.
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Today I am 23.
Tomorrow I will be 24.
I hate these moments where I know I have to take a good moment to evaluate my life. I look at my accomplishments, and there’s a great deal of them, but instead of being happy about how far I’ve taken my life, I become apprehensive about what will happen if I let time slip away. How many people have said “I’ll get around to it, I’ll get around to it”, and then never do? They lie on their deathbeds going: damn, I’d always wanted to sail across the pacific.”
I guess I get the feeling that if the average person evaluated his or her life accomplishments in terms of a basic ratio formula, the numbers wouldn’t be too awesome. Here’s the formula with icy precision:
Ac / Ap = LAcQ
Ac – Accomplishments, Completed
Ap – Accomplishments, Planned
LAcQ – Lifetime Accomplishment Completion Quotient
Scoring:
1.0 – Prefect score
.99-.80 – Above-Average Accomplished Life-span
.79-.60 – Average Accomplished Life-span
.59-.01 – Sub-Normal Accomplished Lifespan (loser… or hit by a truck)
Now forward this email to 20 people for good luck.
Note: for those who lack the abilities to fully grasp the decimal output of the LAcQ, you can multiply by 100 and get your Lifetime Accomplishment Completion Percentage (LAcP)
I look at the people around me and try to guess how they’d score on their Lifetime Accomplishments Completion Quotient, and how it more than likely overshadows my own. The happiest, most fulfilled people seem to have done some of the more insane and amazing things in their lifetime. My father raced mustangs (the car) for years. My grandfather embezzled millions of dollars and left the United States as a felon, dying many happy years later on the beaches of the Isle of Mann, sipping margaritas while earning 7%. My grandmother owned a skunk as a pet and claims it was the best pet she has ever had. My friend Jon became fluent in French (insanity).
The older I get the more I feel like if I don’t get on the ball and start attacking my LAcQ head-on, I’m never going to get anywhere near a decent score. Also, the years are flying by a whole lot faster. Time is running out and I’m only 23.
The following is a list of things I’ve been planning to accomplish but haven’t gotten around to doing because I …. what? Was too busy?
- Build a Trebuchet large enough to catapult honeydew melons one football field’s distance
- Get into a bar fight where somebody actually goes through a window
- Have a vegetable garden and cook an entire meal out of it
- Stage a coup in some third world country to overthrow a suppressive government
- Own a pinball machine
- Save somebody from a fire/robbery
- Have a closet dedicated to my shoes
- Start up a company
- Paint a self portrait and have somebody say “hey, who’s this supposed to be” and when I tell them it’s me, they feel totally ignorant because they couldn’t read into my superior artistic psyche
- Own a Delorean
(Note: does not have to time travel)
(Note II: ‘Delorean’ not found on MsWord dictionary, suggests ‘Delran’)
(Note III: When searching for ‘Delran’ on Google, I get the following ‘No definitions were found for Delran, suggestions: none’)
- Get a call out of the blue from somebody ridiculously important asking for my advice
- Beat somebody at chess in less than, like, a minute
- Read The Odyssey and The Iliad
That’s a pretty big list of crap I’ve yet to do... and that is depressing. Or is it uplifting? At least I’m not bored right? I guess I just wish this awkward ‘in-between’ stage in my life would come to a close. I just graduated from college and have a mediocre job which I am holding onto only because “it will look good on my resume”. I wish I could step foot into a stage where I know where I am and where I’m going, because right now I feel like a rookie astronaut floating in his space station for the first time going “Cool... Now what?” (except he’s Russian, and has an accent, I don’t know how to type out an accentlikethatfuckyou)
On the upside, I can draw balloons and giraffes like nobody’s fucking business. And if that isn’t an accomplishment, I dunno what is anymore.
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Okay, so the AC is out at work. It is freaking 87 degrees in my office full of two human bodies exhaling hot air and three computers exhaling the same. We are sitting here with the lights off (as if that will make a difference at 87 degrees) and we are sweating balls. We tried to open the door, but as it turns out, it’s 91 degrees outside. The choice was either keeping the door open and letting in that extra four degrees in exchange for a (hot) breeze, or to tell those four degrees to screw off. We chose to keep our office at a cool 87 degrees, abandoning those four degrees like so many orphans peering into a ritzy restaurant, hoping one of the patrons will take pity on their dirty, yet adorable, faces.
It’s so hot in my boss’s office that when she booted up her computer, the screen flashed bright white in her dark, all-glass office and then promptly filled it with smoke. I put my hand up to the glass and felt like I was in a laboratory in which they had used a super-secret filtration system to distill pure evil into a smoke-like substance and that if the glass were to break I would have to engage in hand-to-smoke combat with this all-too-pure evil while the rest of the office ran for safety. I probably wouldn’t be able to overcome the monster, but I would be renowned as a hero, giving up my life to save so many others.
Side Note: I imagine if we bottled evil for individual sale, we’d use a potency system similar to the labels one finds on bottles of alcohol. For example, the evil in my boss’s office would be like 80-Proof, whereas the ice cream man only clocks in at about 53-Proof.
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Looks like we couldn’t quell the zombie uprising before it grew too powerful. I tried to recruit you all the defend our fine city, but on Friday, May 25th, Zombies marched through San Francisco, practically unopposed. Sad days for humanity.
I was one of the first to be turned.
( View Pics )
The Z-Day SF ’07 Music Video!
My group of zombies are in the first shot. I’m the guy holding up the sign in the opening shot, and then right after with the fake, colorful sword.
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| | "So I played HALO 2 yesterday." ¶ "Oh yeah? Gosh, that reminds me of the last time you and I played HALO, what? Two years ago?" ¶ "Yeah, yeah." ¶ "The time where the score was so close that the two of us needed only one kill to win." ¶ "Uh huh." ¶ "What was on the line? 56 bucks, I think." ¶ "Mmm." ¶ "And bragging rights for eternity." ¶ "Yep." ¶ "Oh, and the universe. We were also playing for ownership of the entire universe, I believe." ¶ "I don't recall the exact details." ¶ "Oh, I do: We'd set up our TV's in separate rooms and were yelling at each other down the hall. It was down to the last kill. We were playing snipers only, with perma-invisibility. You'd had the last kill, so I spawned fresh knowing your exact location." ¶ "Yeah. That was bullshit." ¶ "Oh, you do remember? So then you must remember how I snuck up behind you and punched you in the back of the head for the last kill." ¶ "Here it comes." ¶ "And then what happened? Oh gosh, it's been so long." ¶ "Just say it and shut the hell up." ¶ "I think you got so pissed off you stood up and threw your controller." ¶ "Mmm Hmm." ¶ "The controller broke as it went into your plasma screen." ¶ "And?" ¶ "And just as your controller hit the TV, it ran out of cord and pulled your Xbox off its shelf, four feet down to the ground. Leaving you with a broken controller, Xbox, and TV." ¶ "That sounds about right… did you have a point?" ¶ "Yeah. Ironically, I think I bought a couple controllers with that 57 bucks." ¶ "Fuck you." | | |
| Thank You For Being Naked
Yes, I know, they say that the media bombards us with images of nudity and sex all day long. I’m well aware that the internet is a filthy cesspool of naked pictures, movies, and humorous .gifs. This is not, however, where my daily dose of nudity comes from. No, no.
I reserve my daily dose for you, crazy old man that lives across the street.
Most people would tell you that your windows are far too large, too numerous, too open to cruise around your sweet pad in the mornings without pants on. Most people would tell you that it’s a violation of their rights to be forced to watch as you bend over to scratch your dog behind the ears.
Not I.
Although it’s morning, crazy old man, and although I’ve just woken up and have yet to get the chance to have a single cup of coffee, I respect your choice to advertise your nude form.
Although we have never shared words, you and I, I am certain that, should the subject come up between us, you would tell me that whatever you do in your house is your own business. You would probably tell me that it’s my choice to glance over in the wee hours of the morning to find your nude body basking in the morning sun as you read your newspaper on the couch and lazily play with your belly button. Some people might counter, crazy old man, with the argument that deep in these early morning hours it can be difficult to look away from the train wreck that is your bloated, overweight body, when caught off guard and without coffee.
Not I.
No, crazy old man, I respect your choice to bare it all. Someone tells you that you are hindering his or her rights by being nude? No! You are protecting their rights to do the same! I respect your choice to exercise your all-too-precious rights of self-expression and self-exposure. Our rights are far too few in this world and it’s up to people like you, patriots, if you will, to utilize and maintain these rights as citizens of the United States of America. You are a true American Hero, crazy old man, a fine example to the deeply impressionable children of this country, nay, of this world.
And that is why I thank you for being naked. | | |
| The "Free Drink Chain-Reaction" Theory
Okay, you know what I’m talking about. You go out with your parents. A friend treats you to lunch. Pretty much any occasion where you are getting food with a group of people and somebody else is paying for it.
You’ve got your eyes on the back of the menu, the part labeled “Beverages” (which, by the way, is displayed in a hardly decipherable squiggly font that only a stupid-ass rookie entrepreneur could choose). The person to your right is gearing up for a nice margarita while the person on your left is thinking “Jack and Coke”. You’re hoping for a wonderful night of casual drinking, good food and fun times. The waitress comes to the table but you wait, because you all force yourselves to follow the code of free-meal ethics: allow your host to order first. Well what does good old Dad do? He orders water, just water, and the chain-reaction starts as everyone realizes that it’s not going to be a night of drinking festivities, but one of those nights.
Oh god, you’re the next one down the line. “Uh…yeah, I’ll have water as well” you say.
Good call.
Tool.
Everyone down the line orders water after water. Occasionally somebody will get chancy and order a Diet Pepsi, but every beverage has been downgraded to something in the under-two-dollar range. Drinks out of the way, the conversation continues and you lose focus on the fact that you need to find something else to order instead of the gold plated lobster stuffed with ruby encrusted baby seal medallions you had your heart set on.
Eventually the waitress comes back to the table and the chain reaction starts again. The host orders something like spaghetti. The waitress pretends to be excited about his bland choice, marks it down and then looks at you with that quizzical “and for you?” look.
Oh god. You’re next in line again and you’ve yet to choose a cheap meal. You can tell you’re not the only one because everyone else is hurriedly flipping open their menus as well. Those lucky bastards, they don’t have to be the first to follow suit. While you’re sitting here sweating, you’re buying them time. Your eyes scan the pages as fast as possible. You want to pick something cheap, but you’d like your choice to remain tasty. Soon you aren’t even looking at the name of the dishes, but at the columns of numbers on the right. Quick, pick something. Anything, as long as it isn’t too expensive.
“Um…. Um…. Let’s see, here”
Up and down, up and down you frantically scan the pages. Hurry! You look like an Ree-Ree just stammering there. It’s just a menu! Pick something!
PICK!
“Uh, I’ll have the oatmeal please.”
Everyone looks up at you and cocks their heads to the side. Fuck. You picked from the breakfasts and you ordered oatmeal. Idiot.
It’s okay, though. Stick to your guns. Keep eye contact with the waitress and add something else so it seems like you’ve really thought it out and you don’t look like a total goon.
“And some gravy please.”
What?
The earth billows and the ground below you opens up to a fiery chasm of molten lava. You, your chair, and that goddamned menu with cheap oatmeal printed on it falls into the hole. You die, your skin melting from your body as you try to swim in liquid rock, and not a moment too soon because nobody likes a person that orders oatmeal and gravy.
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| This morning I got up after a 14 hour sleep. I've never been more groggy in my life.
I stumbled into the kitchen looking for anything with caffeine in it when I felt that post-sleep lump in my throat. A looge (lü-juh). So I start working this massive snot-ball up into my mouth while I find a coffee-mug and start pouring my coffee (yes, I set the timer the night before[boo-ya]). I add my creamer and start looking for a stir device. I take a spoon from the drawer and turn to face the sink so that I can stir my hot beverage over the sink and spit the loge into the sink at the same time.
Instead, I put the spoon in the sink and I spit the looge into my coffee. | | |
| I have two irrational fears: 1) Zombies and 2) The Ice Cream Man.
The latter is more of a hatred than a fear, but it is my opinion that to regard one’s nemesis with a hint of fear is a healthy standpoint, tactically speaking.
Why do I hate him you ask? That’s a good question, but I’m the author here. It’s the journey. Hush.
Here are a few surveillance photos:
 
 
A most menacing creature.
[BREAK]
1990.
Dallas, Texas.
I’m holding up the shiniest of shiny silver dollars to the ice cream man as he smiles, reaching into his ice chest. I had heard his melody permeating from his little cart as he traveled down the block and had rushed to my room to retrieve the only piece of currency I had to my seven-year-old name. I had my heart set on an ice cream in the shape of Michelangelo, my favorite of the Ninja Turtles, but he only had Donentello.
Still worth it.
As his vision focuses on the coin in my hand the look on his face goes from warm and welcome to angry and deceived. His short-lived experience in this country as a foreigner does not allow him to recognize the silver dollar as valid United States currency.
His gaze shifts from the coin to my face. His head lowers and his eyes narrow.
“This is not money.”
“It’s a dollar.”
“No.” He reaches into his pocket, retrieving a paper bill. “This is dollar”
“Then what am I holding, Mister Ice Cream Man?”
“A Fake.”
What the ass? This man was an adult. How could he not honor my money? It occurred to me at that moment that this man, with his dark skin and his bushy moustache, just might not have all of the worldly knowledge I assumed he had. If that were the case, then there must be other adults out there that don’t quite understand exactly how the world works. This man was forcing me to grow up right then and there, altering my views of the world with his ignorance. And he was being a cock about it.
“Ya know what, Mister Ice Cream Man?”
“What?”
“Fuck you.”
[BREAK]
2007.
San Jose.
I’m woken again by the bells.
I have at least six different Ice Cream Mans that drive by in their trucks or walk by with their cooler-on-wheels. They all have different mating calls they use to lure in the children and so I know which one is coming before he even gets to my block. I’ve been giving them names.
Sanchez is the most stereotypical of Ice Cream Men. He drives a real Ice Cream Truck and plays real Ice Cream Man music. His novelty borders on tolerable.
Andre drives and old brown mail truck and has hooked up a round, red fire alarm to sound in three second intervals every three seconds. BRING -3- BRING -3- BRING. Sure makes me want some ice cream.
Poncho is the saddest of them all. He has a cooler-on-wheels, which he has wrapped with cardboard as insulation. One of the wheels is always low on air so he has to push the thing at an angle in order to get it to go straight. Lacking any form of mating call other than his own voice, I recognize Poncho by his screams which drift down the block in Spanish. I don’t know the Spanish term for ice cream, but I get the feeling it’s: BAAAAHNYACCO!
Or some such thing.
The worst of them all is El Diablo. He has a decent looking cooler-on-wheels with various sized bells rigged up to the push handle. All he has to do is wiggle his little finger and every single one of those bells rings at a different, ear-piercing pitch. I can hear him from up to three blocks away, sometimes. He often slows down as he passes my house at 8am as if to say “Hey, wake up, Kyle. Want some ice-cream? I don’t have any Ninja Turtles, but I do have one in the shape of a clown whose gumball eyes are melting out of his head.”
WHO WANTS ICE CREAM AT 8AM!? IT’S SATURDAY, LETMESLEEPYOUFUCKINGASSHOLE
I’m considering taking on a project where I follow each and every Ice Cream Man to his place of residence and play my favorite ChumbaWumba tracks as loud as my car speakers allow while he sleeps.
…then I’ll beat them up and take away their birthday. | | |
| Two riots in six days.
I've lived in Chico for over five years. My first year was insane. On Halloween, there was something like 40,000 kids in costume running around under the influence of alcohol in a six square block area. Ground Zero was blocked off by police officers on horseback in riot gear, not quite willing to enter into the madness but not willing to let it spill any further than the designated downtown area. There were tear gassings, night-stickings, choke-holds, stabbings, and even a few flipped and torched cars.
I was dressed as a priest that year and happened upon a group of priests squaring off with a group of rabbis, each side about seven holy-men strong. I took rank with the priests and began reciting made-up scripture, thrusting my bible to the sky, all the while damning the sinful heathens deep into the worst portions of hell. Scripture eventually turned to insult, insult turned to beer-bottle projectiles, and beer-bottle projectiles turned into a seven on seven holy-man battle-royale in the middle of the intersection at 5th and Ivy.
Hate to say it, Christians, but when the dust cleared, the Jews took home the gold.
Back to the point: the overall Chico mentality of yester-year was as such: Tonight I’m gunna get drunk with hundreds of people I don’t know and hope that I’m not the one tasered, pepper sprayed, or ultimately taken into custody.
Times have changed. As of four years ago, there’s been a new Sheriff in town, literally, and he’s cracked down on the immense insanity that used to be the very definition of Chico. He’s begun to enforce every mundane law in existence, managed to convince the bars and liquor stores to raise their prices (I don’t care what anyone says, Im not paying more than $1.50 for 40 ounces of anything), and pretty much killed the overall mood of the entire town. Something about how “kids are here to learn”, or some such shit.
Anyway.
Last night was the beginning of something amazing. It’s a new semester, and everyone was downtown, thousands of kids wandering the streets looking for beer, kinship, and a place to party.
So there I am, drinking a 7&7 (the beverage that makes better drivers of us all) when I hear the shouts and see the movement. Now we’ve all been to high school, and we all know what happens when there’s a fight: somebody announces it and as everyone turns their head to see what’s going on, there’s that rare, complete silence. The silence is broken by a single bystander yelling something like “AWW, HELLZ YEA” and then pandemonium breaks out as everyone starts rushing to the scene. Picture that, but instead of a hundred high school kids, a thousand drunk college kids in downtown Chico.
So there he was. Some poor bastard without a shirt, running down the road as fast as his body would take him. His awkward, sideways gait betrayed his sobriety, but it didn’t matter. He was running from a sober cop, taser in hand and out for blood. Our drunk friend had a good lead on the police officer, but it was just a matter of time and distance.
The crowd came together, forming a gauntlet of noise on both sides of the street, some screaming for the cops, some for shirtless-Joe. Just when it looked like a sure thing, the cop on foot slowed down and backed off. A confused crowd became silent once again.
Tossing onlookers to the ground, two horseback officers burst from the crowed to give chase. The rider that pulled to the front looked like something out of a movie, a female Braveheart, perhaps. Her feet were in the stirrups, knees bent at 45 degree angles, and she was standing above the saddle like a jockey at the races. She held the reigns with one hand and used the other to raise her nightstick high above her head, parallel to the ground. Just as she came alongside our good, shirtless friend, she swung the nightstick backwards and down, putting not only the force of her blow to the back of the poor guys head, but the 20mph force of the animal she was riding as well.
The crowd when insane. It was as if an ancient, battle-hardened gladiator had just slayed a tiger in the ancient coliseum. I could feel the noise of a thousand people scream in unison. Sure, a man trying to defend himself just got his skull cracked in two, but nobody cared, we just wanted blood. The cop on foot eventually caught up and sprawled his own body on top of the bleeding man. The taser went straight to the neck time and time again.
PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK
(Taser to the neck)
PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK
I’m trying!
(Taser to the neck)
PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK
Okay! Okay!
(Taser to the neck)
(Taser to the neck)
All the while, the two horseback police officers were circling the scene, projectile tasers drawn, pointing at the man on the ground. Two red dots were dancing about the mans head so that should he try to stand up, the riders could be that much more precise when they shoot their dual pitons deep into his flesh, giving him an extra 50,000 volts running through his body. As the horses circled, they stepped on the mans arms and legs, causing him to writhe in pain, earning him another taser to the back of the neck.
The following pictures depict the man on the ground getting tasered and cuffed while the horseback officers keep the crowd at bay.
That’s when the beer bottle was thrown.
It came from somewhere near my own position in the crowd. It flew through the air with a ton of speed and a low arc. It struck the female rider in the helmet and shattered across her face. Unharmed, she and her horseback partner turned their attention to the masses and withdrew their nightsticks for the second time. This only excited the crowd as it began to close in. The circle tightened on the three peace officers as more bottles began to fly.
A rider would take a swing at someone’s face, forcing that side of the circle to draw back. As one half of the crown drew back, the other side would rally forward with a volley of vulgar battle cries and projectile beer bottles. The mass of people resembled something out of a cheap horror movie like The Blob. It looked like one fluid entity, pushing forward on one side while giving ground on the other. Taking advantage of moments when the officers would leave one of their flanks unguarded. Eventually the riders began to circle their steeds in wider and wider arcs, pushing back the blob, buying time before help arrived.
The following picture is that of the crowd moving in as a mounted officer shines her flashlight into the crowd:
Help arrived in the form of riot-busters: helmets, shields, nightsticks, and no sense of humor. The crowed lost interest in the horses and began to gather in the road, facing the brute squad, not certain they wanted to take on riot-armored officers. The officers acted quickly and before the crowd could decide what to do, they sliced straight into the middle, cutting the blob into two separate, controllable groups. Both groups were then pushed back off the road and onto the sidewalks where they were divided up further. It was quite an impressive display of tactics on the part of the Chico P.D. To attack the herd mentality instead of the herd is an act worthy of respect.
Six days earlier there was another riot in the same general location. Not quite as insane as last night, but pretty much the same story.
So it seems that Chico’s need to party and act out against “the man” cannot die. It was engrained deep within the heart of the Chico youth 40 years ago when the Coors Brewing Company tested a new beer on the Chico demographic. It sold for 14 cents a beer, and in mass quantities. Although Coors didn’t end up keeping that particular brand under its umbrella of products, the experiment left its mark and Chico has been alcohol crazed ever since.
Try as they might, the man apparently cannot change the face of our town’s youth. Perhaps things were different for a few years, but disruptive occurrences like last night have been popping up more and more as time goes on.
I doubt this is the last of it. | | |
| | Current Music: | Reggie & The Full Effect - Take Me Home Please | | Subject: | My X-Power | | Time: | 02:59 pm | | Current Mood: | ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/charitycam/goth_boy/happy.gif) chipper |
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| My X-Men Power
If I could be an X-Men villain, his name would be King Nickelous.
His powers would basically be that of Magneto's, the ability to control and manipulate metal, but restricted to American currency. The nickel would be my coin of choice. I would use everyone's good friend Thomas Jefferson to punch holes in bank vaults, blow out the tires of armored vehicles, and probably even use them to fly if I could glue enough to the bottom of my shoes.
I'm sure I would employ the service of Lincoln, Roosevelt, and Washington from time to time (hell, maybe even JFK) but as long as there are sufficient nickels around, you can bet that these coins-of-choice are the ones that will be flying at your face, should you be standing between me and my dastardous goals.
I would start small in my life of crime. I would sit on park benches and use my mind to carefully float the coins out of peoples pockets without them knowing. There you are, walking around with two quarters in your pocket, while the guy you are strolling by has five dimes. Then, BAM! Now you've got the dimes, and that other guy is walking away with your quarters, neither of you even aware that such a transaction has occurred.
FEEL THE WRATH OF KING NICKELOUS
Then I would go to an ice-cream shop and steal nickels out of the cash-register with my mind. I would float those nickels over to some kids ice cream and submerse them deep within his tasty treat. One moment he's licking ice cream, and the next, he's licking NICKELS. Only god knows where those nickels have been (God and myself, that is). For all he knows, he's licking nickels that have run the course of the digestive track belonging to that wierd stray dog with a skin condition.
Eventually I would use my power over Jefferson for personal gain. I would find an armored truck full of money and use the nickels within to pelt the passengers into an unconscious stupor. I would then lift the entire truck with those coins and take it to my secret hideout, which, incidentally, is in the shape of a nickel, where I would extract the precious money and use it to further expand my glorious empire.
Once I melt down enough nickels and use that metal to forge a battle suit, I would be unstoppable. This would allow me to fly, deflect bullets, or simply look like a total badass. Unlike most villains, however, (including magneto, sadly enough) I will not construct a costume that requires me to wear my all-too-tight underwear on the outside. That style is reserved for only two people in this world. Superman and Quailman. And yes, I did just drop a 'Doug' reference.
All of this having been said, please know that the day you come home with coins in your pocket aren't quite in the same denominations as when you put them there, it will signify the beginning of something big. Something amazing, awe-inspiring. And it sure as hell is going to take a whole helluva lot more than Hugh Jackman and Kelsey Grammer to stop me.
Beware your Nickels...
Beware King Nickelous.
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| | Current Music: | August Premier - She Likes Me | | Time: | 06:09 pm | | Current Mood: | ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/charitycam/goth_boy/working.gif) accomplished |
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| 2:03pm
2:07pm
A little spackle, and it's like you never existed. | | |
| | Current Music: | Futurama Theme Song | | Subject: | More Monkey Pics | | Time: | 10:38 am | | Current Mood: | ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/charitycam/goth_boy/sleepy.gif) sleepy |
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| | Current Music: | Godzilla sound effects | | Subject: | Oral Hygiene | | Time: | 06:36 pm | | Current Mood: | ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/charitycam/goth_boy/embarrased.gif) embarrassed |
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| Today I puked up rice and candy corn because I brushed my tongue too hard.
 
Thank you. | | |
| 
Yesterday my roomate Sean (shown above) was wandering around the house in his boxers.
Nothing new.
He stumbles over to me in a half-sleep stupor and locks eyes with me. I know something strange is going to happen, but I can't break the stare. He leans in close. Too close. I can smell the breath of a terribly hungover roomate.
"I have morning wood." he says
Hmm, I don't know about that. I'd better look down to verify that he does indeed have wood.
I look down.
Penis.
Damn it. | | |
| | Current Music: | Spledor - Yeah, Whatever | | Subject: | Join the Ranks ! | | Time: | 05:40 pm | | Current Mood: | tired |
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How many can join before they stop being of unique character? | | |
| | Current Music: | Pepper - Sitting on the Curb | | Subject: | Product Combo's | | Time: | 10:28 am | | Current Mood: | busy |
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| Pairing up two products as one package is a legitimate sales tactic, often utilized by large corporations to entice the populace into thinking that the "free" Product X that comes with their Product Y is an amazing deal. You see it all the time, and in almost every store you go into. Go into Walgreen’s and you can buy a stick of deodorant paired up with some deodorant spray. Meander into Big 5 and you can buy a Wiffle Bat with a free Wiffle Ball. Granted, it's not free at all, the cost is simply embedded in the price. This is due to legal restrictions called "Product Tie-Togethers", but as long as the package clearly states that you're "GETTING IT FOR FREE", everything is gravy.
Below are a few picture examples you may have seen around town:
Sure, us Americans are known for going a little crazy with our Marketing ploys, and we sometimes pair up a strange combination of products. I saw in Wal-Mart the other day a bottle of Shampoo that was combined with a toothbrush. A bit of a stretch, but they're both products that keep ya clean, and who doesn't want a free toothbrush? Ree-Ree's. That's who.
I recently spent some time in Mexico, and discovered that the seemingly illogical product combinations brewed deep within the Marketing Dungeons of American Corporations can't even compare to the ridiculous product-pairs concocted in the minds of Mexican desk jockeys:
That's right, Kellogg's Corn Flakes now comes with FREE SALT. And who doesn't need free salt? (Ree-Ree's)
As ridiculous as the "pairing schemes" can seem sometimes, it can't compete with the some of the early Marketing schemes executed by American establishments in the past. Since we're on the topic of Kellogg’s, we'll use them as an example:
In the mid 1800's Kellogg's pushed a marketing campaign for Cornflakes, as well as their own brand of Graham Crackers stating that these products were SO WHOLESOME that they would keep your children from falling into the downward spiral of evil known as "Masturbation". That's right, people, feed your kids our products, and their ungodly urges to touch themselves will simply vanish.
Thousands flocked to the stores to purchase Cereal and Crackers in an attempt to keep curly black hair from growing on the palms of their children. Thus, the universe was saved, and the very thread holding together the fabric of society was spared, preserving everything the bible has taught us to be pure, thanks all to those saintly folks over there at Kellogg's.
True Story. Kellogg's sales skyrocketed to (at the time) record breaking heights, and stayed there for more than a decade, giving them the foothold they needed to become one of the top three cereal production/distribution entities in the world for the last 150 years.
And you thought the Mexicans were ridiculous for giving out free Salt?
You are a racist. | | |
| | Current Music: | August Premier - Tuckered Out | | Subject: | Kegs ! | | Time: | 09:55 am | | Current Mood: | Tuckered Out |
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"Uh.. no, I think we'll take that keg 'for here'. We'll just sit in a circle around it over there on isle three where the keg cups are. You don't mind if we crash in the bread isle afterwards, do you?" | | |
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