Tag Archives: consumerism

You turn to us

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For:
kitty winn

bukkake

alien souveniers

antoinette k-doe

ass-bear

bad kitty skulls cat

cat anal leakage –sex

crawfish drive thru new Orleans

do dachshunds wheeze

g-l-a-m-b-o-y steve strange

heather morgan god

how do goths lose weight

kitty winn rumors

louis vuitton on newbury street

marabou christmas tree

And Heather and I are happy to serve, for we love our audience.

Actually, we are a smidge appalled by some of those investigations. Most importantly, Louis Vuitton is in the frigtastic Copley Mall, not on Newbury Street. I should know, they made the bags under my eyes this week. As an aside, hard work is really bad for my appearance.

Also, I am just kidding, I wouldn’t carry a Louis Vuitton bag if my life depended on it. Unless it were free, in which case I’d write MY name all over it. Or possibly if they managed to make one without gold-toned hardware. I will admit to fleeting temptation when the Murakami bag came out, but it’s just not me.

Some of the other searches make perfect sense, especially the marabou Christmas tree. If I had any inclination to celebrate Christmas, I’d order one right away. Maybe I’ll settle for a non-denominational wreath. What is a better symbol of pagan fertility than pink marabou? As for the rest of the terms, I am sure you have your reasons, but please do not tell US about them.

Back to the steppes of Hell. Er…work.

-xxoo

Well, I swan

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This morning Mr. H shellacked my quaint old Carrie Bradshaw PowerBook with a slick coating of Panther.

“They’re going to run out of cat names soon, huh?” I said. “Jaguar, Panther, what else is ferocious? Puma?”

“Um…Tiger?” said Mr. H. “They already used Puma. I think the next one’s going to be Tiger. And then they could do…what’s that one that’s like a mountain lion but out west?”

Cougar-Mellencamp, dear. I guess there’s always Cheetah and Lion. I would hate to think Apple would have to stoop to something like Tabby or Ocelot.

I hope they go with a solid regimen of dog names for the next incarnation. Dingo, Hyena, Chihuahua, Melvin, Goblin. Or dinosaurs. I’m always partial to the velociraptor.

Then I logged into iChat and found that my usual icon was magically replaced with a pink lipstick smooch on a white background. They did it for me, all for me! How did they know? So I went to the Lisa Frank site for old times’ sake. Yup, still scary.

But even the dastardly Ms. Frank could not have orchestrated the wedding I went to yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, I like the happy couple. But I would have fired the DJ on the spot. The guests were each forced to take out a dollar, hand it to their “table captain,” and pass the wad around the table to music. Then the lucky soul left holding it was impelled to dance around the table, passing it to the person in front of them when the music stopped. Finally, the ordeal ended, and the “captain” was awarded the centerpiece (which involved a pumpkin), and all the captains descended en masse to the head table to shove the dollar bills down the bride’s top.

-xxoo

Or are you just happy to see me?

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I was in Pottery Barn the other day (I KNOW, but I like their picture frames), and I saw that the powers that be at the ‘Barn are pimping out fake fruit. Aw man, now I can’t find suitable pictures on their site. It’s all tasteful autumnal garlands and shit. Understated Halloween decorations.

Anyway, so I had some serious lust in my heart for this fake fruit. There were pears, apples, grapes, pomegranates. Luscious and bountiful. Just like my gramma used to have on top of her wood-paneled telly. I was going to indulge, since we’ve recently acquired an actual coffee table and need to festoon it in some manner. But it was $20 for a bunch of grapes!

So I got to checking, and I found out that fake food is expensive. That banana split up there is $47! Now I almost feel bad for shoplifting all those barbecue displays from Sears when I was a kid. I had a fixation, I tell you. It was the little lines on the fake hot dogs.

-xxoo

The Tango of the Manatee

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Behold the arcane rite of passion!

We finally got our confounded marriage license. The most surprising part was at the end of the delicate dance between windows in the cavernous basement of city hall: we were handed a goodie bag. It contained samples of Downy, see Pepto Bismol, viagra a carpet spot remover, whitening toothpaste, and assorted coupons. So take heed, newlyweds are apparently prone to dyspepsia, halitosis, and spotty carpets! Apparently we should have registered for a Bissel steamer. Or a tarp. Or a hose-wielding zookeeper.

-xxoo

Alien Fetus Putty with my Latte

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Day Three: Texas just goes on and on and on. By the third day of Texas, I was ready to see something besides Texas. It was a zillon degrees in the middle of nowhere, West Texas, when we decided to let the truck run out of gas. The handy thing about having a cell phone is that there are no cells in nowhere, West Texas. We got the truck to roll about 3 miles on empty before we disembarked to head for a nearby gas station on foot. I hadn’t gotten five feet before I saw the carcass of a deer on the side of the road, completely desiccated, its head and cloudy eye tilted searchingly toward the hazy sky, as if to say Help Me God Why? I tried not to think about that or the blistering heat. Shazzam! Within two minutes, we were within sight of the station. And with that, we cheated death. So screw you, deer. Stupid spiritual guide.

After what seemed like a thousand miles of staring at discredited landscape painting while the sun went down, and the silhouettes of oil pumps and their pendulous motion in an otherwise barren land, we finally made it to New Mexico.

Day Four: We woke up in Roswell. It was not as sad and hopeless as I thought it would be. Rather, it has turned this whole alien obsession into a hip and kitschy strip. Silver flying saucers sticking out the sides of buildings, UFO marquees; even the streetlights had alien heads for globes. I had the best cup of coffee in the southwest in a starbucks type cafe. And alien souveniers galore. Knowing how much Lickety loves aliens, fetuses, and especially putty, I was joyful to find the three combined! Hurray for Roswell!

We left around midday and headed for Phoenix. I met up with my dad along the way and we had dinner at this spiffy mexican joint where I picked up margarita glasses as big as my head, in the shape of a sombrero-ed hombre y mujer. My dad showed me around Phoenix a bit and we sat at this beautiful old church sharing a smoke before I had to hit the road. Thanks Dad!

By the time we got to Blythe, California, I was delirious. Wacky mexican polka on the radio pervaded my half sleeping consciousness the whole way.

-xo

It looks like a porcupine

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This morning at the mini mart, treat I almost got knocked over by a woman trying to haul her brood of monster children out the door.

“Bioré, prescription get OVER here!” she shrieked.

“Bzzzt!” went my cerebral cortex. Yes, medicine it really sounds like a bug zapper. Did I just hear that correctly? Bioré was busy ripping open packets of Fun Dip at the counter and had to be hollered at again and again. Yep, there was no way I misheard a more “traditional” name.

By the time I got my card out of the ATM, acid-washed mommy had succeeded in getting the kids back to the truck. Luckily Nivea, Olay, Almay, and Little Max Factor were better behaved.

-xxoo

Blow me up Buttercup

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So, the project I’m dealing with is now officially in “flaming barge of school children heading right for the Statue of Liberty” mode. Did I mention the kids have explosives strapped to them? And head lice? In other words, an unmitigated disaster. Only Spiderman can save it now. You think I’m kidding? Well, someone just asked me a question about an “XML std.” Uh, that person meant dtd, but I’ll take all the comic relief I can get. Now I’m just going to sit back, put my feet up, and wait for the FBI and possibly the ATF to contact me regarding my earlier gratuitious analogy with the school kids. And tomorrow I’m going to call out sick with a bad case of the “XML.”

Speaking of firearms, I have a new hobby a’ brewin’. Target shooting with small side arms. With a wedding gift haul of unwanted Precious Moments figurines just a month or so away, I’ve got to learn to shoot. A friend has promised to buy me and Mr. H a gun for a wedding present if we get our licenses to carry. We actually hope we get some sad-eyed angel figurines now, so we can take them to the range and pick them off one by one. The destruction will be filmed. Sometimes just returning something to the store is not spiteful enough!

I’m feeling especially entrepreneurial lately, as I wile away the hours thinking of how to get out of this job without being totally poverty stricken. So Mr. H gave me the idea for “blowyourshitup.com,” an extension of our own awful gift disposal plans. It’s a niche market, to be sure. Newlyweds unfortunate enough to not receive wads of cash will mail us their stash of useless crap from Things Remembered, and we’ll do the rest. Just choose “shotgun,” “steamroller,” or “sumo” from our destruction menu, and your commemorative DVD in a flocked velvet box will arrive in 4-6 weeks.

But really, my true calling is designing escape fantasies. I’m a natural. No, really. It’s my number one export these days. The gross national product of Licketysplit.

On a much more positive note, Lambchop has landed! There was a sighting today on Newbury Street. It was hard to tell it was her at first because of the huge dark glasses, but the fawning throng that assembled gave it all away. So she’s back in Boston, and you should beep her 9-1-1 and call her on her cell phone. Meet her by the friendly-ass bear.

-xxoo

Annie got my gun

I am not afraid to try new snack foods

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I have frequent opinions, and I love giving them. It’s even better when I am paid to do so.

See, I was walking through Faneuil Hall, and I saw that a crazy lady up ahead seemed to be stopping people. I was about to scuttle by and avoid her, but I was arrested by her line of questioning: “Do YOU eat yogurt?” Why yes, yes, I do.

“Do YOU want to make $15?” Once I ascertained that it would take about ten minutes and not involve photography or removal of clothing, I could honestly say “Why yes, yes I do. ” Self-interest really is the key to any sales pitch.

So I was ushered up into an office above the F.Y.E., and filled out a short demographic questionaire, on which I lied flagrantly. Then I was taken to a conference room. The table was covered in empty yogurt packages, all different brands. My interogator came in, bearing a tray of dixie cups and little baby plastic spoons. She made me identify the yogurt brands I currently purchase, those being Stonyfield Farm and Colombo. She seemed pleased. Then she hauled out some Stonyfield Farms cups with new packaging. The first one was a chocolate flavor, and it featured wavy grass with some chocolate chips in it, being surveyed by some omnipresent cow head.

I started laughing, because I am exceedingly juvenile. “You must know what that makes me think of,” I said. Oh Lawsy, what a design mis-step. I hemmed and hawed, mentioned that they had better add a dewy sheen to their fruit photography, and I want to see some fruit cross-sections, damn it, and that the ivory plastic looked more hippy-dippy recycled than the white plastic, which is what they are going for, right? Then I had to go through a tedious evaluation of competitor packaging. As a general aside, I will say that those Yoplait whips, custard yogurt infused with air, have got to be the nastiest thing every invented. Carbonated milk curd, mmm.

Finally, on to the taste-testing. And the first flavor was…banana-vanilla. I fucking hate any unnatural approximation of banana. I politely gummed around a spoonful, trying not to gag. “Well, it tastes like some ungodly bastard offspring of a tropical Starburst with an infection. I wouldn’t buy this in ten million years. What were you thinking?”

Next, blackberry. Hurrah, why not. It was pretty good. A little too sweet. I was given water and made great show of cleansing my palate. What fun. “Wait, wait, let me SWISH.” Then I tried some other stuff which was basically flavors they already have reformulated with that franken-fiber, inulin. Whatever. “Will this make me poop a lot?” Enquiring minds want to know!

Finally, “So when do YOU eat yogurt?” Ummm….when I’m crash-dieting? I mean “as a healthy snack to supplement meals.”

Soon I was being hustled out the door, $15 in cash in my sticky paw. I also got a whole bunch of coupons. Whee.

After I spotted this link on Rebecca’s site, I realized I had been a part of the ground-breaking “Trends in Yogurt Consumption” study. How monumental! If I could only secure employ doing a survey every hour. That’s $15 an hour, plus I would never have to buy food again. Sure, the sour cream survey could get a little hairy. Don’t get me started on the prospect of the hot dog survey. But I would be doing good in the world, as banana-vanilla has so far stayed off shelves, clearly all thanks to my vehement protest.

-xxoo