Category Archives: infomercials

Volcanic Eruptions! VOLCANIC ERUPTIONS! Also super-cool hats.

One of my favorite movies is Magnolia. I know, I know. A LOT of people hate this movie, like, with the fire of a million billion fiery suns. I get it. But I adore it. Which is funny, because it stars one of my least-favorite actors on the entire planet.

Gah.

Tom Cruise makes me nervous. It’s the teeth. And the grinning. And the laugh. And the couch-jumping. And the Scientology, but really, anyone into any religion that insanely would make me nervous. And the “Matt you’re so GLIB.” And the arrogance. And that I think probably he’s got his wife in some sort of drugged up cult haze. And in Rob Lowe’s autobiography, he came across as a gigantic douchenozzle. And I totally like Rob Lowe. If Rob Lowe says you’re a douchenozzle, you probably are. AND THE TEETH. Also, I didn’t even like him when all the girls were all “SQUEE SQUEE” back in Top Gun days, because he’s short and wee. I hate short and wee men with little-man complexes.

Also, once, I was sort of bashing him on Twitter? But only a little? And HE TOTALLY STARTED FOLLOWING ME. No, not a Tom Cruise FAN BOT or something. THE REAL TOM CRUISE. With the blue check next to his name and EVERYTHING. So I’m pretty sure he’s coming to eat me with those gigantic teeth any day now.

So, anyway. Magnolia. In Magnolia, Cruise plays Frank “T.J.” Mackey, who’s a love guru who runs this live infomercial thing called “Seduce and Destroy.” And I totally hate Cruise. Like, in EVERYTHING. Even Tropic Thunder, where everyone was all “HE’S SO FUNNY,” I was disgusted when his shouty ass came on screen. I know. He’s coming to eat me any day. If I stop posting, you’ll know to check his stool for little chunks of me, right? Right. ANYWAY. I love him in Magnolia. I can only assume it’s the writing and directing, because it sure as hell isn’t Cruise.

Here’s a scene of Mackey doing his seminar for men, teaching them how to both seduce AND destroy. It’s got some naughty language. I promise I have a point and this clip ties into it. But if you hate naughty language, it’s ok to skip it. I’ll still love you. (SPEAKING OF NAUGHTY LANGUAGE SIDE NOTE! At the theater last night? There was this group of children from a school who all looked like they couldn’t be more than probably 14 or 15? And they were TOTALLY CUSSING THE MOST YOU GUYS. Like, SO MUCH USE OF THE EFF WORD. Is that normal? Really? I didn’t use the eff word out LOUD until college, at least. Because I thought it would send me directly to hell without stopping to pass Go OR collect $200. Little baby-faced teenagers are saying it like it’s just another word? Is this worrisome or am I being an old person about this? I totally wanted to go wash their little mouths out with all the Lava soap. My stars and garters.)

As you can see, Mackey is teaching a conference room at the HoJo’s or something how to seduce and destroy ladies. It’s both hysterical and sad.

WELL! @grngeekgirl, my partner in crime over at Insatiable Booksluts, pointed THIS out to me the other day.

ZOMG YOU GUYS. Real-life T.J. Mackeys. REAL LIFE T.J. MACKEYS.

There’s a call for this? IN REAL LIFE?

I can’t even. NOT EVEN.

So! From the about page, we see that these people are J.D. Dallas and Johnny Bravo, running this thing called the “Modern Male Lifestyle.” The “Modern Male Lifestyle” means you walk into bars and you pick up ALL THE LADIES just by using ALL THESE TECHNIQUES. I mean, all the ladies. ALL. No lady is immune. EVEN STRIPPERS AREN’T IMMUNE. This is AMAZING.

This is J.D. Dallas. No, I am not 100% sure what’ s going on in this photo, either. He’s playing with a guitar while ignoring a girl who looks embarrassed to be there, based on her posture. Also, is the “modern male lifestyle” sneering? That’s sure to get a lot of embarrassed women and guitars into your bed. Oh, and suitcases. I think there’s a suitcase over there, too. He also wrote a book about how to pick up women on MySpace, which I’m sure is selling a LOT of copies.

ZOMG this is Johnny Bravo. I feel a chill. IT IS BECAUSE MY PANTIES JUST FELL TO THE FLOOR. THROUGH MY JEANS. According to his bio, which has some really odd random capitalization, he used to be into “world of war craft” but then started learning the rules of being a “PUA” (that is PICK UP ARTIST, come on, people, if you can’t learn the terminology, I don’t know if I can work with you here) and now NO WOMAN IS OUT OF HIS REACH NO WOMAN.

OK. Here’s the scoop. I have a lot of male readers. And you know what? I love you to pieces. I totally want you to get laid. So, because I love you all, I’m going to help YOU become a PUA (you remember what that is, right? Pick up artist. Seriously, if I have to keep holding your hand through this, it’s going to be a long haul) so YOU, TOO, can wear an awesome hat and ripped-up jeans in a doorway or get an embarrassed girl, just like Johnny or J.D. I am going to READ THIS WEBSITE and GLEAN THE MOST HELPFUL TIPS FOR YOU.

Oh, probably this might work for my lesbian readers, too. So also this is for you. Just switch out “male” for “female” and you’re golden. Sorry, straight female readers. Also, married and coupley male readers, this COULD work for you, but probably don’t use these tips. I don’t want to break up your happy home. I’d feel terrible. And gay male readers, this won’t work for you at all. Also, I don’t think you would wear a kickin’ cowboy hat and rippy jeans, anyway.

I know. I can hear you starting to cry tears of joy. Please just invite me to your weddings. I do so love wedding cake. Why does it always taste better than regular cake? It’s like it’s baked with magic.

Become an Alpha Male

First, you have to become an Alpha Male. Apparently, that’s the key to this whole thing. Alpha males are winners and can screw all the strippers. Beta males are apparently losers who lose.

Here are some traits of Alpha Males. THESE ARE TOTALLY IMPORTANT YO.

  • Never makes excuses. For example, if he doesn’t want to ride a roller coaster, he doesn’t say, “I don’t want to ride that roller coaster, because I am scared of heights and also might hork into your hair.” He INSTEAD says, and I QUOTE, “Roller coasters? Nah, that’s not me. Let’s do something cool instead.” So, as you can see, not only did you get out of rollin’ and coastin’, you subtly insulted your female friend. TWO FOR ONE BABY.
  • Is confident and honey badger don’t give a shit about what people say about him.
  • Talks slowly and in deep tones, and his movements are smooth. His movements are like he’s “walking through water.” Like Barry White, I’m thinking. Like a merman Barry White.
  • Never apologizes for his desires and beliefs. NEVER.
  • Does not have a big ego – has an ego that is his ally. “Here is the truth: big egos are a result of low-esteem, lack of control over emotion, and too many female feelings.” ZOMG. You do NOT want too many female feelings, Alphas! What’s next, getting in the kitchen and making up a mess of pie or something?
  • Does not get jealous. “He laughs at the thought of his girlfriend choosing another guy over him.” LAUGHS I TELL YOU LAUGHS. Uproariously.

Now you are totally an Alpha, but what do you do? You can’t sit at home. There are women to conquer like wolves in the night. WHAT DO YOU DO.

Well! Don’t fret, my little butterbeans!

Johnny Bravo says you should:

  • Join online communities of pick up artists. I guess you can share techniques with them? Because I’m sure the people in the community aren’t really losers in their mom’s basements eating HoHos in the dark.
  • Join a local lair. A LAIR. This shit is getting REAL. I hope there are FRESH KILLS and SPOOR in the lair. Oh, wait, it’s not a wolf lair, nevermind. Apparently, it’s a place where all the PUAs go to be together and share tips for how best to get ALL THE LADIES. Apparently, if you hang out with your regular friends who have known you forever as you embark on your new lifestyle as a playa, those friends might “hold you back.” You need a wolfpack, yo.
  • Next, you need to study the THEORY of being a PUA. If you want to study Johnny and J.D.’s theory, it’s available but you totally have to pay for it. Apparently there are places you can get other theories but they’re probably not as good. I mean, scroll back up there. HE HAS A GIRL IN HIS BED YOU GUYS. A REAL LIVE GIRL. Who I assume has REAL WOMAN-BOOBIES. I mean, do you NEED any more proof?
  • Go to a training or boot camp. BOOT CAMP. This is NOT dicking around. No no no. I hope they ask you to spit-shine your shoes or do KP duty or something. That’s how you know it’s a real boot camp.
  • Go out in “the field” and practice technique. I guess that doesn’t mean a real field like with cow shit in it. I think it means bars. Bring money. You’re probably going to have to buy a lot of drinks and shit, and also on your way home you’ll be sad so you’ll want to stop at Taco Bell and buy Fourth Meal.

Now, both Johnny Bravo and J.D. have some articles they’ve written with helpful tips. And, to help YOU, my little budding PUAs, I’ve read them ALL* (*not many of them at all) and pulled out the tips that I think would totally help you in your quest. LISTEN. I think you all will be getting laid tonight. Barring that, the Chicken Quesadillas at Taco Bell are really tasty. There’s nothing embarrassing about Fourth Meal. NOTHING.

TIPS FROM JOHNNY BRAVO

Ask random questions that are not at all creepy

Examples:

“You must plan your own death. How old are you? How does it happen? And what is the funeral like?”

This is a GOOD QUESTION to ask at a bar. I’m pretty sure the minute you ask it, the girl will be humping your leg like a Scottie dog, right? I mean, nothing turns someone on more than talking about pre-planning their funeral. FUNERAL PLANNING IS SEXAY.

Make her talk about high school

“…for the most part, we tend to remember all the good times – how wonderful it was to be in high school for example, even though when you were there it seemed like hell. But now we remember it fondly. So ask her about, say, high school. And when she goes on that’s the time to pull her in. While she’s experiencing these good feelings, she’s looking at YOU. And she associates your face with feeling good, innocent and fun. Then she’s into you.”

Oh, this is EXCELLENT. YES. Please use this. Please grab me at a bar and start talking to me about THE WORST TIME OF MY LIFE while maintaining creepy eye contact and refusing to change the subject. This will get me into your bed faster than you can say “I was a victim of childhood bullying for years and years and I still cringe when I hear a locker door slam!”

Know what women want

According to Johnny Bravo, that is “someone to take charge, be confident, and have zero insecurities.” I AM SO GLAD SOMEONE TOLD ME WHAT I WANT WHOO.

Also, according to this totally helpful article, women want:

  • you to never email, text, or call them
  • you to tell them stories like the following: “I ate a Rattle Snake once, riding on a four wheeler through the desert, and ran that bitch over, it was all wigglin’ and shit, grabbed it up, and cooked it over an open flame.” (I’m sorry, a., this made me laugh so hard I snorted, and b., does this NOT sound so much like something I’d write? Hee! I mean, not the CONTENT, but the DELIVERY.)
  • you to ask them for their number, then shove it in your pocket and say, “I’ll add it to the list of women’s numbers I got tonight and call you, maybe”
  • you to do magic tricks or play the guitar
  • you to “peacock” which is apparently to dress like a gigantic douchebag like with a hat with a feather or something because that will make you stand out in a crowd and also make everyone want to take a ride on your pocket rocket and not laugh at you until they get a side-cramp

I expect you to learn these things and start practicing them, seriously. I can’t expect you to get all the ladies until you do them.

TIPS FROM J.D. DALLAS

Don’t be nice

If you are nice, then women WIN. You don’t want women to WIN, do you? No. According to J.D. Dallas, you want to be the man inside your man. Or – well, I’ll let him tell you: “Be the man inside you – the volcanic eruption below the surface – and you’ll start to experience the success you desire. Trust me, it’s in there. You just need to let it out.”

VOLCANIC ERUPTIONNNNN

Also, I am officially getting creeped out reading J.D. Dallas’s blog because I think I know where the Twitter spambots are getting their profile pictures. SO MANY GROSS SHOTS OF PLASTIC CHICKS IN BIKINIS MAKING DUCKFACE YOU GUYS.

Ignore her and/or lie to her

If she texts you asking what you’re doing, either tell her you’re busy or don’t answer. She’ll love that. Because you don’t want her to think you’re available whenever she wants you to be. FOR THE LOVE OF PETE PEOPLE.

Don’t act like a lady

Women are emotional! And insane! THEY WILL BUY TEN PAIRS OF SHOES! And SPEND THE RENT MONEY ON THEM! HA HA! But not men, no no! And you know how opposites attract? Crazy women like CALM RATIONAL MANLY MEN. So if YOU act crazy and womanly, women won’t want you! Act like a MAN! Probably THUMP YOUR CHEST and GROWL!

I don’t exactly know what this says about you if you WANT one of these insane women who would spend the rent on shoes and not a nice normal woman who spends the rent on…oh, I don’t know…RENT. But I am not J.D. Dallas. I DON’T HAVE REGRETFUL WOMEN IN MY BED AND ALSO GUITARS.

Now you have TIPS and you are an ALPHA MALE and you are READY TO HIT THE DATING SCENE. Also, probably bring protection. You’re totally going to be having all the sex with regretful duckfaced girls. And the website says you also need to work out a lot. I don’t know when you’re going to have time to do all of this, so probably quit your job. There are also about fifty sections on how to score with exotic dancers. People want to sleep with exotic dancers? Really? That seems sad to me. Don’t they think that’s a bad idea and probably that will end badly? Life isn’t Pretty Woman, you know?

Then I was thinking, back in the day, my roommate and I used to watch this show that made us laugh like morons on VH1 called The Pickup Artist that starred this guy called Mystery trying to turn losery men into PUAs and it was the worst because THIS was what Mystery looked like and he purportedly could get every woman he wanted:

I did not make this graphic, but it kind of makes my point for me, so I stole it.

Seriously, this guy would give tips like the ones above (he had a friend whose name was Matador, no, I’m totally serious) and the two of them would go into bars and Mystery would be wearing this HUGE FURRY HAT and sometimes there would be goggles on it and he has a neck tattoo of lips and he’d be all, “I’m PEACOCKING” and my roommate and I would laugh so hard we almost died. It was obvious the bar was filled with extras because no one in the bar even pointed and laughed when he came in like I’d have been doing. Why aren’t there awesome shows like this on anymore? I feel cheated.

Here is a random video of him teaching a room full of women how to…sway? I’m not sure what’s happening here. Also, I don’t remember him sounding this Canadian. It makes me laugh.

BACK TO THE TOPIC AT HAND.

Anyway. You now have the tools you need at your disposal! To summarize:

  • Lie constantly.
  • Treat women like disposable shit.
  • Be super-cool, to the point of meanness.
  • Get a guitar and a suitcase and put them on your bed.
  • Get a large hat of some sort. Either cowboy or furry will do.
  • Learn some magic.
  • Get your shots up-to-date because you’re totally going to be exposed to syphilis.

Also, I just think it bears mention that you might want to go somewhere that the women you’re trying to pick up have either all had lobotomies or have been exposed to high levels of toxic gases so are extraordinarily drugged-out. Because otherwise I think maybe they might either walk away laughing or be onto your clever ruses in like .0004 seconds. Or laugh at your hats.

I’d wish you good luck but I’m pretty sure Alphas don’t NEED luck. Alphas either make their OWN luck or they TAKE IT LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.

Have fun, my naughty friends. Don’t blame me if you have so many women outside your house you have to beat them off with sticks! (Disclaimer: please don’t beat anyone with sticks, thanks.)


I think it’s fairly likely I’m either dying or pregnant with a magic dream tractor baby.

So today’s just hunky-dory. TOTALLY THE BEST.

Here’s the scoop: I have the stomach flu? No, that really doesn’t deserve a question mark. I do. I MOST DEFINITELY DO. I totally have the stomach flu. My stomach seems bound and determined to exit my body through my mouth. Which is AWESOME. I mean, I suppose I could be pregnant, but that would be even MORE awe-inspiring than the virgin birth, because I didn’t even have an angel visit me that I remember recently. I did have a dream about a runaway tractor last night but I’m pretty sure you can’t get religiously impregnated by a runway tractor. OR CAN YOU.

BUT, you know how most people have jobs where they can call out sick when they have illnesses? Well, I’m not saying I DON’T have one of those jobs. Everyone ELSE I work with can call out sick – and does, ALL THE EFFING TIME – when they’re sick, or “sick,” let’s air-quote that sucker, because a lot of these “sicknesses” remind me a lot of the Breakfast-Clubbian girlfriend-in-Niagara-Falls, to be perfectly frank. But not me! Because I somehow (DAMMIT) inherited this stupid thing called a work ethic? And I knew this morning, my probably-dying-because-she’s-out-sick-more-than-she’s-here coworker needed the morning off to do…something, honestly, I don’t know, I don’t pay attention when she talks to me, I PRETEND I’m paying attention, I look, for all intents and purposes, like I’m paying attention, but really I’m counting backwards from 1,000 by 13s, or I’m thinking about how many ways there are to prepare chicken, or I’m wondering if a person could get away with murder if you could convince a jury the victim was really, REALLY annoying. SO! I knew, if I called out sick this morning (as I was lying on the bathroom floor thinking, “MAN BUT YOU SHOULD CLEAN THIS BATHROOM FLOOR MORE EW”) the following would happen:

  • There would be no one to answer the phones, causing everyone to FREAK THE HELL OUT;
  • I would get a million phone calls, asking me “how do I answer the phones?” and what would be the point of going back to bed if the phone kept ringing every five frigging seconds?
  • When I got back to work, probably tomorrow, my boss would give me “the talk,” which is this: “ Amy, you know, you really can’t just call out sick, we RELY on you to BE here and WORK, no matter WHAT, and I don’t think you’re thinking about your CAREER when you just CALL OUT SICK, I mean, what if OTHER people were REALLY sick, and you were out sick, and you really put an added BURDEN on everyone ELSE, and also here is a project that I wasn’t GOING to give you, and it’s the WORST, and involves HEAVY LIFTING and MANUAL LABOR and TALKING TO PEOPLE WHO HATE YOU, and oh, no no no, don’t think of it as a PUNISHMENT, but, you know, it totally is. You look pale. Why do you look pale? It can’t possibly be because you spent the last twenty-four hours vomiting and you’re dehydrated and you feel like a toddler’s been punching you in the abs or anything. Maybe you should wear more makeup. Like LADIES do.”

(That was an exaggeration. Sort of. Barely.)

So, yeah. That’s my morning, sunshines. I feel STELLAR. Like a fancy person. Full of VIM AND VIGOR. Blergh. And I totally haven’t broken down into self-pity tears twice at ALL or anything. No not ME.

This is going to be a little disjointed. I’m pretty sure my brain’s not working correctly. Mostly because, you know how when you’re all full of food, or thinking about sex, and you’re unable to do anything else really all that well, because all your brainpower’s concentrated elsewhere? Right now, my brainpower’s concentrated on NOT VOMITING ALL OVER THE RECEPTION DESK. Because I can’t LEAVE the reception desk to go to the restroom? Because no one will come up and give me a break so I can do so? And I really, really don’t want to vomit in the wastebasket, because then I’ll have to deal with the cleanup of that, now won’t I. So really, my brain is thinking this: “Don’t vomit. DO NOT VOMIT. No, seriously. DON’T. I know you want to go and vomit on your boss. YOU CAN’T. I’m pretty sure that would be the straw that broke the camel’s vomity back over here. HOLD IT IN PUKEY PAULA.”

I will attempt for the next little while to not talk about vomiting. Sorry to those of you who are so grossed out right now.

So yesterday I met my friends C & C and we had dinner, and I wasn’t feeling the most healthy, but I was not aware it was the onset of death illness and I was really excited to see them. And I got Christmas presents! A book, penguin socks, and THIS:

I KNOW. An as-seen-on-TV thing! Which you all KNOW I love. And I totally like this one because the commercial makes it so CHEERFUL! The magnets sound so jolly! Click click click! But I cannot install it now, obviously, because it is WINTER. So I have to wait til summer to see if it works, or if it’s a huge pile of crap like all other as-seen-on-TV things in the world. It won’t be, right? RIGHT. Because hope springs eternal! And, powerful magnets!

Oh, crap, I just did a search for the image and there are some reviews that are…um…not so impressed with the magicness of either the mesh OR the magnets. THIS IS DISHEARTENING. People say that bugs STILL GET IN and the magnets ARE NOT MAGIC and the stitchery is awful and it does not line up and also pets are confused by it which is not at all what the commercials lead you to believe. I think these must be lies, because since when is something as-seen-on-TV not as it is purported to be? Since NEVER, is when. It WILL be magic, I’m telling you. Dumbcat will LOVE Magic Mesh. LOVE LOVE LOVE.

OK, I am going home early today, this is cuckoo-bananas. The receptionist finally got here and I’m sitting here alternately freezing and hot and also I’m pretty sure I’m going to yak at my own desk now. Are we sure I’m not pregnant by the tractor dream? I mean, totally sure? Stranger things have happened. I mean, prom babies and shit. Oh, wait, those people have been sexually active in the recent past, haven’t they. FINE, it’s just the stomach flu and not a tractor-dream magic-baby.

Oh, ok, let’s talk about this for a minute because it will take my mind off the fact that I’m most likely dying:

I just finished nefariously watching Season Two of Sherlock yesterday. No, no, I won’t spoil you, I’m most likely dying but I’m not an asshole.

It was the most amazing thing since probably Game of Thrones, I’m not going to lie. (Speaking of Game of Thrones, APRIL FIRST BABY! Sorry. Carry on.)

The first episode made me laugh and cry and laugh and cry; the second episode was totally frightening; and the final episode was so seat-of-my-pants suspenseful that I was on edge the entire ninety minutes, not to mention that I also cried so much that twice I had to pause it in order to clean my glasses because they got salty and smeary like a crazy-person.

The chemistry between Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman is some of the best work being done on television today; the writing is absolutely top-quality; the art direction is brilliance and just as good as anything you’d see in the movie theater; and the supporting cast (especially Andrew Scott’s Moriarty – if the guy doesn’t win some sort of award for that role, there’s no justice) creates a perfect, real, living-and-breathing world that is just utter and complete perfection. I don’t have enough good things to say. It’s already been greenlit for Season Three – thank you, whoever is in charge of such things, for being intelligent enough to realize this needs to continue! – and I want you all to watch so we can discuss. Now. Immediately. Because I have questions, and I want to discuss things, but, like I said, I don’t want to be an asshole, because it’s SO DAMN GOOD that if you go into it even a little spoiled I’d feel like I told you there was no Santa Claus. SHIT. I’m sorry. There’s totally a Santa Claus, Virginia. SHIT SHIT SHIT.

I think what hooks me about this show is this: the gray areas. I don’t like when people are all white-hats or all black-hats. I like people with the gray areas. I like people who have to think before they do the right thing. I like people who are conflicted and who are torn and who, maybe, ultimately, do the right thing, or maybe they don’t, but they, like us, don’t just immediately gravitate toward one choice or another – because life is one big gray area, isn’t it? There’s never one path or another; there’s never the right way or the wrong way. There are a million ways, any of which could branch off into a million more ways, and no one’s all good, and no one’s all bad, no matter how much we’d like to think we’re the hero all the time. I like a show that lets us see the conflict cross someone’s face – the “I could do this, but what if I didn’t.” I like seeing them make the hard choices, even when it kills them. I like seeing people fail, sometimes. I like when there’s some reality in my unreality.

So, in short – GO WATCH SHERLOCK. You can get Season One on Netflix right now; Season Two comes (legally) to PBS in the US in May, or you can (ahem) find it online right now, not that I’d recommend that, no no no, totally I would not at all recommend that, what are you, a pirate, arr, matey?

OK. I’m going to do ONE MORE HOUR OF WORK then I’m going home and I’m collapsing in my bed with a bottle of Pepto Bismol and I’m not getting up until tomorrow I totally mean it. Gah. Also, if I end up having a dream tractor baby in nine months, I told you all so and you poo-poohed me. Who’ll look foolish THEN I ask you? Oh, me? Yes, me, yes, that’s right, I will, that’s right.


These guys are pros, Michael. They’re gonna push the tension ’til the last possible moment before they strip.

Random crap post today, you guys. RANDOM CRAP POST. Oh, but FIRST! Happy MONDAY! Are you all totally enjoying your Monday? Was your weekend the most productive? Mine was full of laziness. Apparently the Christmas presents are NOT going to buy themselves. I’ve waited like a month and it hasn’t happened. I think I have to get on that at some point. Also, the cookies are not going to bake themselves, and the cards are not going to write themselves. This is totally disappointing. Why don’t the cats get on this while I’m at work? What else are they doing, just sitting around being lords and ladies of the manor and sunning themselves and sleeping and licking and whatnot? THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE. They are totally the worst minions. I really have to do something about this. Is there a DVD I can buy or something? I mean, once I saw a video where a dog went and got his owner a beer out of the fridge. I don’t like beer or anything, but the SENTIMENT is totally STILL THERE. How come my cats can’t write some simple Christmas cards? I’m not asking them to write a POEM or anything. Just an “I love you, happy holidays, hope your year was fantastic.” SERIOUSLY CATS.

Whew. OK. RANDOM CRAP POST LET’S DO THIS.

Everybody out of the pool!

So today, the office caught on fire again. I say again, because this happened once before, a few weeks ago. So for those of you with a scorecard at home (and seriously, that’s kind of awesome, send me a scorecard, I want to play, do I get a bingo dauber?) that’s TWO OFFICE FIRES in LESS THAN A MONTH. The people upstairs are total firebugs, seriously. Last time they set their toaster oven on fire and the firemen came out cradling it in gigantic Ove Gloves like they were in The Hurt Locker (although they did NOT look like Jeremy Renner, much to my dismay) and this time they came out empty-handed because apparently they couldn’t even find a flaming toaster oven. Was it hiding behind a potted plant?

What is going ON upstairs? Are they all Apocalypse-Now-ing in the break room or what? This is very perplexing.

Also, here’s what happens when the fire alarm goes off in my office. Brrrriiiingggg! Fire alarm! And I IMMEDIATELY HAVE TO PEE. It is UNFAILING. I didn’t have to pee BEFORE the fire alarm! And now it’s like this urgent call of nature where I’m going to have a bladder rupture. So last time, I didn’t pee, and it was the worst twenty minutes of my LIFE out there in the cold all “OH MY GOD FIREMEN SERIOUSLY” and “I wonder if anyone would notice if I peed behind this bush right here.” This time, I seriously stood up and said loudly “I don’t care if I burn to a crisp I am GOING TO THE BATHROOM FIRST” and I went to the bathroom. When I came back to my desk, one of my bosses (who I love, he’s like this little Nervous Nelly but sometimes he comes out with these little dry jokes and I just want to hug him because I know making a joke for him is just totally painful like being gutshot would be for anyone else) was running through my area and saw me and was all “AMY OH MY GOD FIRE FIRE YOU HAVE TO GET OUT” and I said, “Yes, I know, getting my coat now, see, all is well, I don’t even smell smoke, honestly” and he got CRAZY EYES and said “NOW THE FIRE IS HAPPENING NOW!!!!” and ran past me with his trenchcoat flapping in the breeze. I’m pretty sure he’s about one more office fire away from a massive heart attack. It’s totally worrisome.

Also, listen, aren’t firemen supposed to be hot? Television and movies tell me this is the case. Neither time the firemen have been especially hot. Also, they haven’t come out all sooty, and I was really looking forward to the sootiness like on television. This time, I got very excited and when the doors of the fire truck opened one fireman came out and he looked FOURTEEN. This is very upsetting. I mean, there are CALENDARS of these people. I KNOW. I have PURCHASED THEM. As GIFTS. Was this fourteen year old in the calendar? That’s probably violating a bazillion laws I don’t want to know about. Then later a hotter fireman showed up but I didn’t get a very good look because he went in to battle royale with the toaster oven or whatever the upstairs tenants lit up today and I didn’t see him come back out so I could ogle so he might be dead up there, I don’t know. UGH. This is SO DISAPPOINTING. (I will also take Arrested Development’s Hot Cops, in a pinch. I AM NOT PICKY.)

That is not a good idea, Mom. Seriously.

So apparently, when you have a blog, people think it’s a good idea to tell you things like “I found something for you to blog about! This is SO FUNNY!” and sometimes that’s really nice because then you have something to blog about that’s not a post just randomly putting together a bunch of crap because your brain is too fried from doing a fat lot of nothing all weekend to put together a real post.

So my mom told me this weekend, “I found something you have to blog about! It is the worst thing! Ever!” So I’m not really sure what she thinks I talk about here. Apparently, the worst things ever. She hasn’t ever even read my blog. She thinks it will get her fired or possibly download porn onto her work computer.

This is what she found.

Did you click? If you didn’t, here is a photo.

IT IS A REAL DEER BUTT WITH A BOTTLE OPENER IN THE ASSHOLE. You are supposed to hang it on your WALL. So you can open your BEER with a deer’s ASSHOLE.

Although, my mom didn’t say “asshole” because my mom doesn’t cuss. I think she said “bunghole.” Because she is a CLASSY LADY.

Um. I don’t even know…this…this is for Truck Nutz people, right? Can you even imagine going over to someone’s house, like on a date or something, and he brings out a couple bottles of beer and is all, “Hey, we need to open these I HAVE JUST THE THING” and then OPENS THEM WITH THE DEER BUTT HE HAS ON HIS WALL.

Also, just so you know, on that same site, you can buy a kit? So you can make your OWN Deer Ass Bottle Opener. Or, if you’re a conservationist or just classy, a PLASTIC deer ass. Or a Deer Ass Bottle Opener with deer fur Truck Nutz hanging off it, for that added touch of je ne sais quoi. Or a taxidermied squirrel holding a bottle of alcohol so he looks like a little furry drunken hobo. OR ALSO GIFT CARDS.

My question is, how did my mother find out about this? And I’m pretty sure the answer is, there was probably an infomercial on about it. Because my father watches a lot of hunting shows and NASCAR on the weekends. That seems like the place where an infomercial for those things would be shown, right? Also, have you ever watched a televised hunting show? They are totally the funniest. The hunter always is saying “Shh…shh…coming up on the prey now…shh” and when I mock it my father’s all “SHHH AMY COMING UP ON THE PREY NOW” and I’m like “DAD THEY CAN’T HEAR ME.” Then I start saying “RUN AWAY DEER! RUN AWAAAYYYYY! LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY MY FRIEND!” and he gets mad and tells me to go do something else because I’m ruining his program.

So listen, it’s that time of year! When you are looking for that perfect gift that NO ONE ELSE will buy for anyone! So you know what’s a good idea? NOT THIS.

I think it’s slightly better than being a regular whore.

So apparently, the spammers I’m getting on my blog now are trying a new tactic to get me to publish their spammy links, which is to INSULT AND INSULT ME. That’s totally humorous? But I think a little misguided? Because why would I a., publish a comment where your link is not a link to your blog or your Twitter feed or whatever but a link to an erectile dysfunction site, and b., publish a comment where you’re insulting me?

Their most common insult (I’m pretty sure they work from some sort of common spamming script, which makes me laugh, thinking they pass the script around or something, “YOUR TURN WITH IT NOW JIMMY”) is “It’s obvious you’re just begging for attention with this blog post.”

Dear Spammers: YES I AM. Yes we ALL are. Why the hell would we be bloggers if we didn’t want attention? I mean, I like doing this so much I’d do it even if only a few people read it, or no one, or whatever? But you know what’s awesome? ALL THE PEOPLE READING IT. Because I like attention. If I didn’t like attention, I probably wouldn’t have an online presence. Right? I’m a TOTAL attention whore. For the love of Pete, spammers! I’ve been a theater person since junior high. If I didn’t want people to look at me, I probably wouldn’t have gotten ON STAGE IN FRONT OF ALL THOSE PEOPLE, I’m thinking. Who doesn’t need validation? That’s stupid. YOU’RE A JACKASS VIAGRA SPAMMER.

I refuse to have my feelings hurt by “attention whore” because the WHOLE INTERNET IS ATTENTION WHORING and I totally accept it. I think it comes down to a., your clientele, and b., how you go about ATTRACTING said clientele. If you’re a sad panda attention whore (i.e. those people on Facebook who are all “Life has lost all meaning…I feel like a grey cloud, drifting from place to place, aimlessly…I can’t taste food”), you’re going to attract the rough trade of attention-whoredom. And who wants that? NO ONE. Well, maybe sad pandas do, I don’t know. But if you attention-whore by doing something you love, and you have fun with it, and you’d be a whore even if you DIDN’T get money left on the metaphorical nightstand, then probably you’ll get the classier clientele. Like SENATORS and CONGRESSMEN and maybe CHILDREN’S BIRTHDAY PARTY MAGICIANS.

Also, there’s one spammer who keeps saying “you relied too much on videos to make your point” on posts WITHOUT VIDEOS and that is very confusing. SPAMMERS I AM ONTO YOU. Sort of. Mostly I’m just befuddled.

I want to go to there

So in about two and a half weeks I’m off for Christmas. And you know what that means, right? No, not presents. Well, YES, presents, but not the point. NO NOT FOOD. Although yes, that too.

THE NEPHEW THE NEPHEW THE NEPHEW.

I spoke to The Nephew on the phone last night, which is always the most exciting because if there’s anyone who’s more excited about life, the universe, and everything than I am, it’s The Nephew. Here is how a typical conversation with The Nephew progresses:

Someone gives him the phone.

He holds it to his ear.

I say “Hello The Nephew! Hello baby! I miss you! I love you! I can’t wait to see you!”

He starts pushing all the buttons until the phone disconnects.

But yesterday, we had the following conversation:

Me: Hello, The Nephew!
Him: Who’s The Nephew?
Me: YOU are The Nephew!
Him: I AM THE NEPHEW.
Me: Yes! You are! Do you know who this is?
Him: On the PHONE.
Me: It’s Aunt Amy!
Him: (button-pushing noises…my father saying “Let’s not do THAT, The Nephew, because then Aunt Amy will disappear like she does EVERY TIME YOU TALK TO HER”)
Me: I will see you soon, babe! In a few weeks! For Christmas!
Him: *squeal noise so high only dogs in outer space could hear it, banging noises, screaming of “Presents! Presents! PRESENTS!”*
My dad: Nice one, Amy.

Apparently, The Nephew (and NO, I didn’t SAY “The Nephew” in our conversation. I said his NAME. Which I’m not going to TELL you. Because you might be KILLERS or KIDNAPPERS. And I’d totally go all psychoballistic on your ass if you touched my kiddo. So that’s his internet name, until he gets old enough to pick one out for himself) is as excited about Christmas as anyone can be. Is that not the best? Listen, my heart’s a total lump of COAL, you guys, but you can’t help but melt over a child’s excitement over Christmas. Especially when said child is one of the only people in the world you’d stop a stampeding wildebeest for with your bare hands and a bent paperclip, were those the only weapons available to you.

As stated multiple times recently, I am not in the Christmas spirit. I put up the tree this weekend but it produced a big old meh. I don’t want to shop; I don’t want to do anything holiday related. What I want is to sit on the floor and put together endless Duplo towers with the best little person in the planet and let him knock them over and squeal with joy and say “Again! Build it again!” And I will. Over and over. Unceasingly. He’s just that kickass.

OK, that was a LOT OF CRAP. Don’t you totally feel more enlightened? I know you do. Enjoy your Monday! Kick its ass squarely! YOU CAN DO IT! If not, well, it’s almost HALFWAY DONE! There is always a silver lining, what can I tell you?


It Slices, It Dices, It Makes Julienned Fries – BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE!!!!

I have now had my totally kickass awesome as-seen-on-TV grabber for three days and here are the things I have learned about it.

  1. It doesn’t really grab onto anything so pretty much anything you pick up falls right onto the floor. I suppose I could be using it wrong. This is not out of the realm of possibility.
  2. The cats aren’t digging it at all. I KNOW. I mean, you’d THINK they’d be SO EXCITED when I wiggle a toy mouse in front of them using my sort-of robotic arm. NOPE. They just wander off like it isn’t even awesome. And then the mouse falls out of the grippers anyway because they are suck.
  3. I don’t see how this really would be much help to anyone who’s in a wheelchair like on the packaging because it only extends your grip a few feet at most, and, as mentioned, drops everything it picks up. I have a lot of dented cans in my place now. I mean, I did before, too, but they’re totally dented now.
  4. On the package it said not to use it as a walking cane. Well, first, who would do that as it looks nothing like a cane at all, and second, now that you told me I CAN’T do that, it is ALL I want to do.

And now I have to apologize. I was SO EXCITED about my grabber that I forgot that last Christmas, my friends R & A got me the best as-seen-on-TV thing ever, which makes this grabber thingy which is totally misleading me in what it can and cannot do pale in comparison.

SNAZZY NAPPER.

Tell me you know about Snazzy Napper. IT IS THE BEST.

I heard about this online, and then watched the infomercial there. I never saw it on television. Which is a total shame, because I think if I had seen this on television, I would have DIED.

Here is the Snazzy Napper commercial. Please take the time out of your day to watch this. You will not regret it. I promise.

Now, apparently this has been parodied and Ellen did a segment on it and this is OLD NEWS now. Whatever. IT IS THE BEST. The best part of this commercial is when the person in the waiting room puts this on and the people on either side of her don’t even look up as if a crazy person is sitting between them. I’d be snapping camera photos of that insanity, but NOOOOO, not those dudes. Their magazines are totally engrossing, apparently. More engrossing than the Snazzy Napper.

Well, after R & A, who have the best senses of humor ever, sent me this as part of my Christmas package, I put on the Snazzy Napper. And here’s the scoop. SNAZZY NAPPER IS VERY HOT.

No, not “hot” like I want to make out with the Snazzy Napper. It’s made out of some non-breathable fabric and has a ton of iron-on appliques that are made of plastic so that makes it even hotter and it sticks to every bit of exposed skin you have and makes you sweaty. The nose hole doesn’t line up with your nose and so it’s like breathing under a blanket and you’re getting HOTTER AND HOTTER and also there’s a lack of oxygen because you’re breathing in your CO2 and you are probably DYING.

Here. Because I am HELPFUL I have some photographic evidence.

Hi.

This is me in the Snazzy Napper. This is photo 4,600 because none of them were turning out correctly due to lack of light or too far away or too close or what have you and as you can see I AM GETTING DEHYDRATED and my hair is doing a weird alfalfa thing. It is REALLY HARD TO TAKE A PHOTO WHEN YOU ARE WEARING A SNAZZY NAPPER. If I was getting enough oxygen I could have held the camera further away and maybe shown you the JUMPING SHEEP that are ironed onto the Snazzy Napper that you can kind of almost see in the corner there, that thing that kind of looks like a little cloud? But immediately after taking this I passed out for a little while. FROM HEAT EXHAUSTION.

As you can see, I kind of look like either I’m wearing a burka wrong or maybe I’m in the KKK wrong or a not-very-scary ghost. Whatever I’m doing, it’s wrong. On a lot of levels.

Now, I thought, you know what Snazzy Napper needs? Accessorization. EVERYTHING IS BETTER WITH THE RIGHT ACCESSORIES.

Hi!

See, this one is exciting, so the “hi” gets an EXCLAMATION POINT!

This is totally better. Now I am JAUNTY. Now I’m kind of like a hipster Snazzy Napper. This is a hat my mother got me to wear when it’s really cold out. I like to tell myself it’s not made of real fur because that makes me feel better.

And, sidebar, it’s now an hour later and I AM STILL COVERED WITH FUR AND HAVING SOME SORT OF ALLERGIC REACTION TO THE HAT AND HAVEN’T STOPPED SNEEZING ONCE.

But seriously, so effing jaunty!

Now, if I sat down next to you in the waiting room looking like THIS would you keep reading your magazine?

Also, remember how hot it was without the sub-zero fur hat on? I don’t even want to talk about the heat issues, you guys. ALL FOR YOU.

Now listen, I don’t even own a Snuggie. I KNOW. I’m a total heathen. Did I talk about how I used to think they were called Slankets? I saw a commercial for them once and they were called Slankets, and I called them that and my roommate at the time informed me that they were called Snuggies and the KNOCKOFF version was a Slanket. I like Slanket better. It sounds redneckier. No, but seriously, I think Snuggies or Slankets or whatever you want to call them seem UPSETTING. I feel like they would be constricting and you would smother. I don’t like being too hot. Also I kind of feel like they’re a fluffy straightjacket. I feel like I wouldn’t be able to breathe. Also, aren’t they just a backwards robe? If that’s the case, why can’t you just wear your robe backwards? Or put on a blanket? I have a lot of blankets. I don’t see the need for a Slanketuggie. I know. I’m like ten years too late for my Snuggie rant. LEAVE ME ALONE ALREADY.

But then I found out this is a thing and I don’t know, am I filled with glee or disdain?

I think a little of both. DOG WEARING GLASSES IN A LITTLE SNUGGIE READING A BOOK ABOUT HIMSEEEEEELLLLLFFFFF!

So of course, as you do, I thought, these Snuggie people! They will sell anything. BUT DO THEY DARE…

No, they don’t, really. Fooled you. This is a cat in a DOG Snuggie. AND IT IS PISSED YO.  This cat is totally going to eat your face when you’re asleep later. Or not save you from the troll in your walls. Why are you so mean? You deserve to have your breath stolen by the wall-troll if you put a dog Snuggie on your cat. One time my friend put a striped sweater on her cat and that sweater stole her cat’s mojo. The cat couldn’t leap or slink or ANYTHING. It was horrible to watch, so of course I laughed until I cried.

Listen, I am LOST when it comes to infomercials. It doesn’t matter what they’re for? I am immediately sucked in and want it. I want that Garden Weasel thing. Do I have a garden? Nope. Don’t even have a YARD. I want the Cricut, even though I’ve never scrapbooked and have no intention of starting. I even wanted those moving men things that you put under furniture. MY WHOLE HOUSE IS CARPETED. I’d be one of the people buying tonic off the back of a medicine wagon, back in the day. APPARENTLY, EVERYTHING SOUNDS FEASIBLE WHEN SOMEONE YELLS IT AT ME IN A HUCKSTERY TONE OF VOICE.

Want to be brought down to earth while watching an infomercial? Watch one with my father. He will DASH your infomercial DREAMS. And save you a ton of money, I’m sure.

My take/my father’s takes on:

The ShamWow:

Me: “I could totally use one of those because I am constantly spilling shit.”

My dad: “Those things wouldn’t even work to clean up a raindrop. Also I hate that guy SO MUCH.”

(Sidebar but OMG why didn’t anyone tell me that the ShamWow guy got arrested for beating up a hooker and then she bit him or something? Holy hell. You KNOW the EMT’s made ShamWow jokes about cleaning up all that blood when they picked him up, right? AWESOME.)

The Garden Weasel:

Me: “How handy would that thing be? I want one.”

My dad: “Yeah, handy if you want crap hanging around you’ll never use because you don’t have a yard. Also, I’m sure it doesn’t work.”

TV Listener Thingy:

Me: “You should get that because you’re old and you can never hear things.”

My dad: “I wonder if you ever get tired of your sarcastic mouth. You got that from your mother, you know. Also I got one and it didn’t work because that stuff is garbage.”

That fake grass that animals can pee on in your house:

Me: “I’m pretty sure if I died right now and God asked me, ‘what’s the grossest thing you ever saw while you were on my Earth, my child?’ I’d say, ‘that fake grass you have your pets pee on in your house that probably makes your house smell like a shitty sewer.'”

My dad:  “Yeah, I can’t even imagine that one made it past the stage where idiots are just yelling ideas out in a room full of other idiots.”

But NOW I have found my NEW FAVORITE THING. Magic Mesh! MAGIC MESH!

I don’t even want to tell my father because I KNOW he’ll punch holes in how awesome this no doubt will be. You know what’s the most magical about this? The clicking noise it makes when it closes. SO CHEERFUL. Also the dog knows how to use it so that’s a bonus. I’m pretty sure my cats would claw it to ribbons in like 4.2 seconds flat therefore letting in ALL THE BUGS and NEGATING THE MAGIC. But Magic Mesh! WANT WANT WANT.

I need an As-Seen-On-TV-tervention.


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