If you’re starting your own business, at what point do you eschew the family name for something a little more appealing? These guys couldn’t tell you. Seriously. Bland Landscaping. That’s like opening a car lot if your name is Lemon – or a butcher shop if your name is Unsanitary.
Archive for March, 2015
I’ve always been a bit miffed at Hooters. Not that lovely women in skimpy outfits don’t hold their attraction for me, but what I’ve always found more than a wee bit disingenuous is the party line from Hooters brass that the name isn’t sexual or misogynistic in any way. “Hooters? It’s our owl mascot! I mean, look at the sign!’
And sure enough. There is an owl on the Hooters sign. But be fair, huh? When was the last time you used the term “hooter” to describe anything feathered and flighty rather than something on someone feathered and flighty. Bottom line – Hooters ain’t fooling anyone.
That’s why I’ve always wanted to open up my own chain of hot dog diners called Wieners & Buns. I’d staff it with young, good-looking guys who wear tight T-shirts and even tighter shorts with a big ol’ suggestive hot dog logo on the front. Then when the same sexist lamebrains who decry that Hooters refers to nothing more than a Woodsy wannabe get all hot under the collar, I could counter with a deadpan, “Hey, Wieners & Buns refers to the hot dogs we sell. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
I guess the only things stopping me from going through with this sardonic plan are my lack of capital, my raging vegetarian tendencies and the fact that I would never stoop to the same sophomoric level as the dillweeds at Hooters.
Pass the mustard.
Five Hipster Books
To Kale a Mockingbird
From Here to Urban Outfitters
A Beard Grows In Brooklyn
Their Eyes Were Watching Wes Anderson
The Artisanal Grapes of Wrath
Five Euphemisms For Pregnancy
In the family way
Up the duff
Go Go Gadget Zygote!
Cribbin’ the ute
Pulling a Duggar
Five Reasons to Hate Winnie the Pooh
He’s not a real bear
He got his stupid head stuck in a honey jar
He hunted the heffalump to extinction
He smells like wet stuffing
He poohs in the woods
Five More Ways To Leave Your Lover
Leave on a ferry, Gary.
Grab an axe and decapitate, Nate.
Shove her bloody face in, Jason.
Dose her with strychnine, er –uh, Rick … stein.
Get your gun and shart shootin’, Putin.
Five Retroactove Product Placements in Movies
“Well I got her number. How do you like them Snapples?”
“They call me Mister Pibbs!”
“Forget it, Jake, it’s Chinet.”
“As god is my witness, I’ll never be hungry again – thanks to Stouffer’s Lean Cuisine!”
“A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some BUSH’s Baked Beans and a nice Franzia, the wine in a box.”
I’ve decided how I will die.
No, no, no – don’t get me wrong. I’m not being morbid. I have no intention of passing any time soon. Trust me on that. When my time comes I will fight the grim reaper with every ounce of strength, grit and deceit I can muster. But I have seen the future of my mortality and it has a name.
It’s the Pop Tart Stuffed Doughnut.
Yep. A bakery in San Francisco has taken all the delicious goodness found in Kellogg’s breakfast pastry and shoved it, like a dessert turducken, into the cavity of a yummy doughnut. Sound amazing? Of course it does.
Now, I’m not in the City by the Bay and I have no plans of visiting. I don’t even eat desserts anymore. Yet I know that as sure as the sun will rise that I will – one day – somehow be in the position to try one of these so-called Big Poppa Tarts and I will seize the opportunity because it is the most incredible thing I have ever heard of and I will put it into my mouth and savor the sweet, delectable goodness of this hybrid confection and then my heart will asplode and my brain will seize up and I will die because humans are not made to withstand such utter decadence delivered in the form of a high-caloric sweetbomb.
Of course, armed with this prescience, I could avoid the pitfalls of a patisserie-plagued demise and steer clear of the Pop Tart doughnut. But no. The foreknowledge of my doom places me on a perfect path that leads me inexorably toward this sinful streudelkin in a way that comforts me with its surety. I live, I breathe, I exist in contentment, knowing my perverted pudding oblivion awaits.
So fare-ye-well, Pop Tart Stuffed Doughnut. We shall meet one day. Yes, we shall.
And it will be glorious.
Come to me , my ambrosial amor and let me embrace my mortality.
I realize I’m about forty years too late in my outrage but I think the guy who is ostensibly the singer of the song Signs (originally by Five Man Electrical Band, later remade by Tesla) is a completely and total dick. Yes, I know the tune was released in 1971 when it was a counter-culture anthem and the main character is supposedly a rebel who stands up to “The Man” in all his forms but the hippie haranguer is, at best, a fraud, a trespasser and a thief. I mean, he applies for a job under false pretenses, he stands on a guy’s property and yells at him and he steals the offerings from a collection plate in church. What a d-bag! I guess I’d be really upset if I didn’t imagine the jerk died horribly when he ignored the “No Skating – Thin Ice” sign one late winter because he felt that Mother Nature is just too cool a chick to not allow him the dynamite pleasure of skating in March.
Happy Saint Patrick’s Day! Are you wearing green? Drinking excessively? Does it really matter?
Since most Americans’ knowledge of Irish history and culture comes from a Lucky Charms commercial, I thought it might be an apt time to examine the real reasons behind the celebratory revels.
So here are 10 things you didn’t know about Saint Pat, Irish history and culture!
1. Saint Patrick was probably born in Roman Britain, about AD 385. He was originally called Maewyn, a name that, even in that historic era, no doubt got his butt kicked at recess more often than not. (more…)
A wild, wonderful, wacky world of web whimsy. From unique and useful archival information to creative and artistic fiction and video, the dubya dubya dubya is a portal for the everyman to access the universe as we know it, warts and all. But has technology gone too far?
Driving to a movie a while back, I heard a radio promo for an NPR show on fertility science. A throwaway line used to tout the piece mentioned a fact about our online outlet that I did not know. Maybe you did. Check this out:
You can buy sperm over the Internet.
That’s right. Sperm. The male gamete! The juice of life! Poppaseed! SPERM!!!
Understand that I am not out to make fun of the impotent or the infertile, but I must point out that if you are so desperate to make a baby you are willing to purchase semen over the Internet then maybe you aren’t cut out to be a parent.
At the very least, maybe you should seriously consider adoption! Or a goldfish.
Today is the birthday of the late Douglas Adams. Sadly, my grief is still tender as we lost him, far too soon, 14 years ago. Has it been that long? Tragically, it seems longer. Here’s a piece I penned shortly after I heard the news of his death. A little something to manage the grief and bid adieu to a friend I only wish I had.
I didn’t know him.
We weren’t friends. I never sent him a card for his birthday. We didn’t go to see movies together, grab dinner sometimes after work or play Scrabble to pass the time. I never called him up late at night to talk about “The West Wing” or forwarded a funny email that someone sent me. He couldn’t have picked me out of a lineup if his life had depended on it.
But I met him. Once. An encounter, more like. At the ICA, the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London.
He was there to promote his newest book. I was there to catch a glimpse of my idol. I skipped class and sat in the back, just thankful to be in the same room with the man. (more…)
Five Lame Insults
Your Mom flosses!
I’ll make you change your pants!
Eat sheet cake and diet!
May your offspring require proof of childhood vaccinations upon entering university!
I hope a chiropractor overcharges you!
Five Childhood Crushes
Tina W. in my 5th grade class
Paula H. in my 6th grade class
Paula’s friend, Wendy A.
Five Irrational Fears
Fear that corn can hear you
Fear of being haunted by the ghost of Boris Yeltsin
Fear of asphyxiation by caramel
Fear of the known
Fear of being forced to dress up like a rabbi at gunpoint
Five Live Performances I Saw
Rick Rock, Buddha Buddha
Gordon Lightfoot, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Steve Forbert, Romeo’s Tune
10,000 Maniacs, Trouble Me
Suzanne Vega, Marlene On The Wall
Five Ways I Nearly Died
Falling down that manhole during a snowstorm
Being thrown from that ride at the county fair
Of embarrassment when Courtney’s mom caught us
Kidnapped by Scientologists in London
In Your Arms Tonight (It must’ve been some kind of kiss)