Saturday, July 31, 2004
Friday, July 30, 2004
Shooting stars passed by like headlights on a wet road, and headlights passed like shooting stars in a clear sky. The WiseGuy was driving, breaking all the laws, but not doing anything that anyone else hadn't already done. He was 25 miles from somewhere, and half a mile from nowhere in particular. He passed a sign for birth, missed the exit for life, and got lost on Death Ave., before finding a glowing sign on the edge of the road that simply stated: questions answered, fortunes told, ice cream eaten, T-shirts sold.
The WiseGuy pulled his car into the parking lot, which seemed to stretch on for miles. Each spot was full until he passed them, at which time the cars pulled out and waited for him to circle back, then once again pulled into the spots when he thought he had one. Finally he found a spot 1.73 miles from the door, and the moment he parked all the cars left.
The door didn't have a bell, but instead had a dog hanging from a basket hanging from the door. The WiseGuy thought it strange, but a simple sign changed his mind: the basket bassett. He shrugged and walked to the desk.
An old woman was hunched over a newspaper clip-out of old Kathy cartoons. She laughed a shrill, piercing cackle every now and then, possibly just to reassure the world she was indeed still alive.
"Ahem," The WiseGuy coughed. The woman tilted her head to the side, her left eye focused on his face, her right eye drifting to the pocket where his wallet dozed.
"May I help you?" she asked, in a voice that made every movie The WiseGuy had seen about witches look normal.
"Umm, yes. I would like my--," she interrupted him.
"..Future told, your fortunes read, your questions answered, yes, I know," she said in a sarcastic tone.
"But... how did you know that? Did you read my mind? Did you see my future through a crystal ball, or read it on tea leaves?"
"No-- that's what is written on our sign."
"We also have ice cream."
"Chocolate dipped, with walnuts, pecans, almonds, peanuts, and sprinkles on the side."
"I'll take one vanilla cone."
"We don't have vanilla."
"No. We have only Neopolitan." The WiseGuy was baffled, but soon found confusion bows to ice cream. The woman dissapeared through a doorway with beads instead of a wooden door. He stood in a trance eating the ice cream cone for a few seconds before she popped her head through the beads. "Your fortune, child." The WiseGuy walked through the beads and sat down on a small red cushion.
"Hey, comfy chairs."
"Don't tell anyone, but they're actually ottomans."
"Really? They don't look like members of a 600 year old empire, which in it's prime, stretched from Northern Africa to southern Turkey." The woman simply stared at him for 27 minutes. After that, she took his finger tips in her hands, and began looking at them, occasionally saying things like, "ahh yes" and "oh my" and "good" to add to the effect that she was actually doing something that was worth the $55.00 he had paid her. She was almost finished with his hand, when she suddenly went stiff.
"What? Did you see something?"
"My dear," she said shaking, "you are going to--- DIE!"
"Well, you know, eventually. Well that's the end of the session, give me more money or get the hell out." The WiseGuy sat for a while looking at her as if her eyes were suddenly glowing red and fire was coming out of the tips of her fingers, which was very appropriate because that was exactly what was happening at the time.
"WiseGuy," she said in a chilling voice that made the basket bassett yelp with terror, jump off his basket, change his named to Carlos Sanchez and move to Mexico, "Leave this place. You are in danger, for the damned and cursed that hunt you come nearer each minute."
"Really?" Suddenly the on the tip of her fingers went out and her eyes returned to their normal glassy glazed over look.
"No," she sighed. "Listen, I want to go home and watch re-runs of Seinfeld, so will you just leave?"
"But you didn't answer my questions!"
"Fine. You want answers? You will get married three times before finding the perfect woman. Each of your first three wives died due to your stubborn insistance on hitting her with cake on your wedding day, and your misjudgement of your own strength. Your fourth and final wife is allergic to cake. You will have three children, each of which will be beaten up and teased during high school, but all three will retire at the age of 19 after inventing three inventions that changed the world: something better than what replaced DVDs, a color darker than black, and the Mike Tyson Roticery Oven. You will die loved by some, liked by a few, hated by
many, and wondered about by all. There, how are those for answers?" She looked up to find The WiseGuy had fallen asleep. After being tossed out, The WiseGuy woke up and got back into his car.
After driving for a while, he saw a man on the edge of the road. He stopped to offed the man a ride. "Hello sir, can I give you a lift?"
Other than not being old, over-weight, haaving a beardand a mustache, wearing glasses, a red suit, black belt and boots, or a hat, not having white hair, and not being jolly-- the man was exactly like Santa Clause.
"Wow, you know, despite looking nothing like him, you look exactly like Santa Clause!"
"I get that a lot."
"Can I offer you a ride?"
"Why are you asking my permission if the question you want to ask is implied in the question you already asked before knowing if I wanted a ride or not?" The WiseGuy looked like a particulary wasted deer looking at a particulary bright pair of headlights on a particularly nice car, driven by a particularly nice looking person. In other words, he stared at the man, eyes wide open, and tongue hanging out of his mouth at an odd angle. "I mean," the man said, "Yes, I'd love a ride."
The WiseGuy's car sputtered, and puttered, and uttered, and sometimes just ttered along, until it finally sputtered it's last sput having run out of gas. This would have been a problem, had the car not, just moments earlier, hit a tree and flewn miles through the air, coming to rest right by a gas station. Convenient.
The man who looked almost, but not quite, nothing at all like Santa Clause (HHGG fans, wink wink) offered to pay for the gas. But, thinking the man was calling him fat, The WiseGuy said he'd like to pay for the gas. The man said that he would feel bad if he didn't, and would gladly pay for the gas. The WiseGuy disagreed, saying the man was his guest, and he didn't want to argue about it anymore. The man said it would really be no problem. So The WiseGuy untied the rope that was safely securing the man to this planet, and watched as he floated off into the sky.
Miles away, the man got tangled in a tree. It took all the King's horses, and all the King's men, and all the King's cherry pickers, all day to get him back down. After seeing he wasnt a) Humpty Dumpty, and b) broken in pieces, they put him in an egg suit and beat him with pipes until he was broken into pieces. They then reached the conclusion that none of them could put him back together again, so they tied him back to the ground, safely securing his various pieces to this planet.
Back at the gas station, The WiseGuy had paid for his gas, and was now on his way home. He combed his teeth, flossed his hair, pressed his dog, and walked his shirt. Then went to bed.
When The WiseGuy woke up, he had had the strangest dream: he was sitting at his computer writing a post on blogger while listening to Modest Mouse and drinking a Mountain Dew. Man, his dreams sure were strange.
Outside his house, all the King's horses, and all the King's men were busy stealing vegetables from The WiseGuy's garden again.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
When I watch the news, read the newspapers, listen to the news on the radio, or any other way I happen to catch the news that week (sometimes I see it grafittied on walls. "21 soldiers killed in Iraq, G-UNIT!") I don't picture the world as it is. Sure, I'm "insane" with an "over-active imagination" who ate "paste" as a kid, but I find my way a lot more entertaining. I picture it as an elementary school playground:
Instead of countries, there are kids. For instance, everyone picks on Canada and France, who are the geeky, unpopular type. "Hey Canada, that's a nice outfit, did your mommy pick it out for you?", or "Hey France, I'll trade you an inch of my cupcake for 3/39.37ths of your twinkie (I had to look this one up, 3/39.37ths is three inches). Haha! You metric geek!".
Of course, kids are cruel, and there have to be the bullies. America and England always try to get France, Germany, and Russia into trouble. Someone pushed China off the monkey bars? England and America point at Germany. Someone beat up Afghanistan and stole their milk money? They saw Russia do it. Ruthless, but of course they play it innocent.
Some kids are just plain bad eggs. Some are snitches. Take Pakistan and Iraq, for example. Both have been caught with fireworks before, and decided they would tell Principal Blixx that North Korea has bottle rockets in his locker.
Then there are the playground feuds. The biggest one is between Palestine and Israel over who gets to use the slide. It started out with name calling, then they started pushing and shoving, and now they throw rocks at each other over.
But in the end, the bell rings, and they all go back in for class. Iraq falls asleep, America and Britain get in trouble for passing notes, Palestine throws a paper ball across the room at Israel, and Canada is in the back eating glue.
Ahh playground politics, so much better than the normal kind.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
Mushroom Picture Collection: Part II
Back with nature, part 2.
Mushroom in a can. Not pictured, the can.
Mushroom at the pool hall.
Mushroom for hire.
Mushroom soup, anyone?
Self concious mushroom?
Double the pleasure, double the fun.
Rock on, Mushroom, rock on.
Mushroom with family, part 2.
Monday, July 26, 2004
Once again, it was Friday night, and The WiseGuy was at home watching re-runs of Leave it to Beaver while eating Cheetos. Unaware of the startling effects of digesting too much artificial cheese flavoring, The WiseGuy continued eating until he suddenly passed through the fabric of time (which was soft and pleasant smelling because of the Lavender Rain scented fabric softener of time). He fell through time, and landed hard on the ground. He stood up, dusted himself off, and looked around. He was on a playground. Suddenly he heard a voice.
"Hey mister." He looked down at a little girl. "Will you tell that boy over there that I think he's cute?" The WiseGuy was somewhat confused, but agreed to it. He walked over to the boy who was sitting on the swings surrounded by his friends.
"Uhh, hi, yes. That girl over there," The WiseGuy said, pointing at the little girl,"told me she thinks you're cute."
"Well," the boy said, "Tell her I think she's a poo-head." All his friends laughed. Ahh yes, Elementary School, back when anything with the word "poo" in it was golden, The WiseGuy thought. He walked over to the girl.
"What did he say?" she asked quickly, looking up at him with wide eyes.
"Umm, he said he-- thinks you're-- very--," Suddenly The WiseGuy was noticing how the sky looked alarmingly similar to the grass. He then realized he was lying face first on the ground. He once again stood up and dusted himself off. A little boy walked up to him.
"Watch out for my kickball," the boy said innocently.
"Thanks for the warning," The WiseGuy responded sarcastically. He handed the kid the red ball, then suddenly stopped. "Hey kid," The WiseGuy said, "What's your name?"
"The WiseBoy," the kid responded, turning around and promptly knocking 4 other kids over.
The WiseGuy stood in shock. "I just met myself in the past," he said to himself, "Who knows what effects this will have on the future!" Behind him a swingset turned into a tank.
The bell rang, and the kids started walking inside. The WiseGuy followed them until the teacher stopped him. "Excuse me, who are you?" she asked.
"I am-- uhh-- a---," he decided it would be easier just to karate chop her in the neck instead of answering her question. He stepped over her body, and walked into the classroom.
"Hi, I'm your substitute teacher, Mr. The WiseGuy," The WiseGuy said, writing his name on the black board. "Your teacher called in sick this morning."
"No she didn't," a geeky kid said, "You just punched her in the face and she's currently lying unconscious outside."
"Actually, it was a karate chop," The WiseGuy said, annoyed. "And shouldn't you raise your hand? Go to the Principal's office!" All the other kids laughed. The WiseGuy walked to the teacher's desk, and picked up her lesson plan. He flipped through a few pages, then threw it in the trash can. He looked up at the clock. "Well, it's time for recess again." All the kids cheered and got up. But the real teacher was blocking their path out the door.
"Children, sit back down," she said through clenched teeth. "And as for you," the teacher said, walking towards The WiseGuy, "You better be ready to to get beaten, because I have a black belt."
"And my belt is made of twine and duct tape," The WiseGuy stated simply. "What's your point?"
She ripped off her blouse and skirt to reveal a ninja outfit. In one swift movement, she picked up two rulers and a paper clip and made a pair nunchuks.
"Wow, you Elementary School teachers sure are pretty creative," The WiseGuy said, fashioning his own weapon out of Crayola Markers. "But, unfortunatley for you, I watched a lot of McGyver!" He swung his flimsy sword in the air. The teacher ran at him.
Just before they hit, he felt himself getting sucked back through time. When he came out the other side, he landed hard on a table, which then broke in half, sending bingo chips flying through the air, and old people flying to the floor. The WiseGuy stood up and looked around. In front of him an old man was sleeping. He immediatley recognized the face as his own, only a little more wrinkled, but still a devilishly handome fellow. TheWiseGuy walked up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder. Nothing. He tapped him again, and still nothing happened. He tapped him harder, and continued tapping on him until his taps became more like punches. Suddenly the man woke up.
"What the?" The man looked around confused. "Where am I? Who am I?" The WiseGuy put his hand on the man's shoulder, but soon found his nose hurting more than it did as the old man's cane hit him in the face. "Who the devil are you," the old man asked.
"I was wondering the same thing about you."
"Well I asked first," the old man responded stubbornly.
"And I asked second," The WiseGuy said sarcastically, "Just answer the question."
"I think you should answer first because--," the man suddenly hit The WiseGuy in the kneecap with his cane. The WiseGuy fell to the floor.
"Ok, ok. My name is The WiseGuy."
"The WiseGuy, eh? I'm The WiseMan."
Now I met myself in the future. Man, I think I'm going senile.
"Actually," The WiseMan said, "I've been senile for a while. Sometimes I forget I'm senile though." He paused. "Who are you?"
"You read my mind!" The WiseGuy was once again shocked.
"Your what now?"
"You responded to something I thought."
"Oh yeah, that happens once in a while. So does this," The WiseMan pulled his face off, revealing an alien. Suddenly The WiseGuy felt himself being pulled back into time. Too bad, the alien looked pretty cool.
Suddenly The WiseGuy was back in his living room. He shrugged, and sat back down on the couch and started eating Cheetos again. Suddenly Jarrod from Subway walked into his living room, followed by a camera crew.
"As you saw, it's important to eat right. Junk food ruins your body and your mind. So you should run out to Subway right now, and buy hundreds of our sandwiches, because you're all fat! You're like my stupid brother," suddenly Jarrod turned into the devil. "THAT STUPID FAT BOY, I'M GLAD I KILLED HIM AND STOLE HIS HUGE PANTS, BECAUSE WITHOUT THESE PANTS, I WOULDN'T HAVE A SUCCESFUL COMMERCIAL." He quickly returned to plain old Jarrod. "I lost 300 pounds by eating Subway, exercising, lifting the bags and bags of money I used to pay for my lyposuction operations, and of course KILLING MY BROTHER!"
The WiseGuy tackled Jarrod and started punching him in the face. "Can you hear me now, JACKASS?" Between punches to the face, Jarrod managed to tell The WiseGuy that he wasn't the "Can you hear me now? guy", but in fact, was the man who claimed to have lost 300 pounds by eating Subway. The WiseGuy continued pumeling him until he turned into the devil, and both were sucked down into the bowels of hell.
The WiseGuy woke up sweating. "Man, that sure was a bad dream."
"Tell me about it," a strange man lying in bed next to him said. "By the way, Can you hear me now?" The WiseGuy screamed.
He woke up again, but this time he was really awake. "Man, that sure was a bad dream."
"Tell me about it," another strange man lying in bed next to him once again said.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Mr. Wendy's."
"Are you with Wendy's?"
"THAT MEANS NO YOU LYING BASTARD!" The WiseGuy slammed Mr. Wendy's head into bed post repeatedly, then fell fast asleep.
(NOTE: I have no clue where any of that came from. I don't make decisions here, I simply keep telling until my brain tells me to stop)
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Each year people across the country stumble into their basements, only to be trapped under an avalanche of old clothes, christmas ornaments, odds and ends, Aztec gold, and anything else that happened to have crawled into the basement to die. That's when, after a prolonged period of scratching their heads and pretending to be thinking deeply, they realize it's time for a garage sale. Oh garage sales, what would we do without you? You give us the perfect opportunity to dump our old crap on other people! All we have to do is haul it out, throw a sticker on it, and sell it to our neighbors (who then use it for a short ammount of time, and throw it back into it's old habitat, a basement: fuel for future garage sales). With the money you make, you can almost pay for the cost of the gas that you used to go to the store to buy the stickers. But still, if you don't think too hard, it sounds like a good idea.
Or you can donate it to such groups as the Salvation Army or The Purple Heart for a tax deduction. On second thought, the feel of cold hard cash in your greedy hands is so rewarding.
But neither of those are for people like me. I take more drastic actions, resorting to what I refer to as GUERILLA GARAGE SALES. Instead of waiting for someone to come along and buy your exercise bike that is missing both it's seat and peddles or your partially metled toaster-- get rid of it quickly and easily by digging a hole in the middle of nowhere, filling it with a mixture of your old crap, and explosives. Then light the the fuse, run for cover, and tell the police someone stole everything in your basement, including your collection of Picaso's, your briefcase of lost Elvis recordings, and your Oscar. (Insurance fraud? What the hell is that?) Sure, some people call this "dangerous", and "illegal", but it sure beats doing extra work. That's the American way: do everything fast. Sure, we could do it the right way, making sure it was a quality product. But who are we, Japan? No! We're America, the only country where the corners are cut for you!
Wednesday, July 21, 2004
Scroll down. I have a chatterbox! Only post the deepest, darkest thoughts that make the back of your mind itch, please. Unless it is painfully random, it has no place here. Fooey.
(NOTE: Yeah yeah, yeah the cow is back!)
Monday, July 19, 2004
Everyone knows that celebrities can, and will say whatever they want to. True, sometimes the things they say make no sense, or the reasons for why they said those things make no sense (Mike Tyson and Bill Clinton, anyone?), but they still do it. Some take criticism (or get fired, Whoopie) for what they say, but usually we simply forget it a week later. But when a celebrity becomes a politician, they have to realize that more people will hear their coments, and more people wont forget them.
But in Arnold Schwarzenegger's case, people are just over-reacting. So he called some Democrats "girlie-men", what is wrong with that? Homophobic? Sexist? HE'S A FORMER AUSTRIAN BODY BUILDER, I don't think he knows what those words mean! He was just quoting a Saturday Night Live sketch. Come on people. Didn't you see Jingle All The Way? (muffled laughter) The man makes jokes for a living! Sure, now that he's Governor of California he has to watch what he says a little more carefully, but this is just absurd. Do they even know what "girlie-men" means?
The word comes from an SNL sketch involving two Schwarzenegger-like body builders, who used the word to make fun of people without muscles. Now seriously, how many of the people who thought the word was sexist or homophobic have bulging muscles and can bench press a school bus? Not too many. According tp Schwarzeneggers definition of the word, they should have no problem with it. But of course, some people imediatley look for a negative meaning to it. "Girlie" = oppresed women. "Girlie-men" = homosexual men. Or maybe it's just Ahh-nuld trying to crack a joke. Loosen up Democrats. I bet you wouldn't have a problem if Kerry called Republicans "Girlie-men".
Friday, July 16, 2004
THE RANDOMNESS CONTINUES PRESENTS:
SEE? I TOLD YOU IT WOULD HAPPEN EVENTUALLY (part II)
A SPECIAL INVESTIGATIVE... THINGY.
In the end, I guess Martha secretly got the last laugh. She got a decreased sentence of 5 months in federal prison, 5 months of home confinement, and fined $30,000, instead of the 10-16 months we were all hoping for. Immediatley after being sentenced, standing on the steps of the courthouse, Martha said, "I'll be back." Stewart then put on a leather jacket and sunglasses and went on a rampage through the city trying to kill Sarah Connors. Oh wait, that was The Terminator, my bad. That was just one of the many hilarious acts she performed during the sentencing. She begged the judge to "remember all the good I have done", hoping it would get her a reduced sentence. Good? You call slapping your face on every piece of cooking crap, polluting the airwaves with Martha Stewart Living, Cooking With Martha and Ask Martha, and being the spokesman for K-Mart good? I call that pure evil. Maybe the "good" she was talking about was how she made every woman think they could cook in her easy to follow recipes. Unfortunatly, Martha doesn't have magical powers ("She turned me into a newt.... I got better."), so many of those women still can't cook. Oh well, nice try Martha. She then said, "Today is a shameful day. It's shameful for me, for my family and for my company." Wait, it's not shameful for our country? The prison sentencing of a woman who controls a "media empire" worth over $1 billion dollars isn't shameful for The United States? Tisk tisk Martha, that could have earned your extra points by making the people feel like you had let them down, but then appologized. You bitch. I mean... yeah, that pretty much says it all. So while Martha is in prison, who else will tell me the many uses of dried rosemary, or how to cook a gourmet meal in 30 minutes (it especially helps if your stagehands do all the work for you!), or how to add a spice to my living room using drapes with a nice floral print? Who? The world will crumble and... oh wait, we can all watch I Love the 90s!
Thursday, July 15, 2004
THE RANDOMNESS CONTINUES PRESENTS:
SEE? I TOLD YOU IT WOULD HAPPEN EVENTUALLY (part I)
A SPECIAL INVESTIGATIVE... THINGY.
As Martha Stewart prepares for her sentencing tomorrow morning, I thought it fitting if we bid The Queen of Crap one last farewell.. atleast for the next 10-16 months (why am I laughing?). Now, I don't like to say I told you so.. (haha, I told you so, you shitheads!) but I have been saying that someday Martha Stewart will get arrested, for atleast the last 3 years. What made me say that? Insanity? Precognition? Drugs? No, simply wishful thinking. But now that she prepares to take one final look at her kingdom of crap, one last sip of her $17 french bottle water, and one last greedy shoving of money into her pockets, I have to say this: It couldn't happen to anyone more deserving. Good luck Martha! Don't drop the soap! (NOTE: that might just be for men's prison, but then again, with the increasing popularity of waking up one morning only to find you are now a woman, who knows!)
THE TOP FIVE WAYS MARTHA STEWART CAN STAY ALIVE IN PRISON:
5. TEACH A CLASS ON HOW TO GET BLOOD AND PUKE STAINS OUT OF ORANGE JUMPSUITS.
4. DECORATE JAIL CELL IN DOILIES AND CURTAINS MADE OF CUT UP TOWELS AND GO INSANE, PRETENDING SHE IS STILL AT HOME, UNTIL HANDED OVER TO THE NICE MEN WITH THE BACKWARDS JACKETS AND NICE PADDED WALLS.
3. RAT ON AS MANY PEOPLE AS SHE CAN (after all, everyone already hates her. There's no where to go from here except down!).
2. BRIBE THE GUARDS WITH FREE TUPPERWARE FOR THEIR WIVES IN EXCHANGE FOR STOCK OPTIONS AND LOBSTER.
1. START AS MANY FIGHTS AS POSSIBLE UNTIL LOCKED IN THE SAFETY OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT. THEN GO INTO HIBERNATION CYCLE UNTIL THE MOTHERSHIP ARRIVES.
Part II tomorrow, after the sentencing!
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
As a kid, I watched a lot of cartoons. As a teenager, I still try to watch a lot of cartoons. Who doesn't? What's so bad about watching Bugs Bunny while studying for SATs? I don't see a problem with that. Well, one morning, I was flipping through chanels, when I saw Scooby Doo. When I was younger, that show scared me. It wasn't just one thing about it, but more of a combination of things, like ghosts, scary settings, and Velma.
However, unlike my fear of geeky women in glasses and red dresses, I eventually got over my fear of ghosts. Whether they are real or not is anyone's guess. But what cured my ghost-phobia, was movies. Ghostbusters taught me that even Rick Moranis wasn't "afraid of no ghosts". Ghost taught me that ghosts could be sexy, then incredibly frightening as they pull that one guy down to hell. And finally, Field of Dreams taught me (to dislike Ray Liotta) that ghosts like Iowa. How did that help me? I don't live in Iowa. Those damn Hawkeyes can have all the ghosts (and Ray Liotta) they want.
Monday, July 12, 2004
THE FOLLOWING IS A BRIEF STATEMENT FROM THE WISEGUY:
I really try hard not to review movies on this website. I realize there are many critics out there who have more crediblity, are better at writing, and are simply better at playing poker than I am (of course, that does not include Stephen Whitty, but you already knew that!). But every once in a while, I see a movie so fantastic, so amazing, so "super duper", that I feel compelled to share it with my loyal readers, both of them. Today I saw a movie that simply redefined what a comedy should be. This movie is Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy. Will Farell was great, but he wasn't the only one who carried this movie. The whole news team, especially Steve Carell ("One time, I ate fiber glass insulation. It wasn't cotton candy, like that man said."), were great. But the best thing about this was the cameos from Luke Wilson, Vince Vaughn, Ben Stiller, Jack Black, and Tim Robbins. The fight scene was an instant classic. I cannot recomend this movie enough. Go now, see, laugh.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
Monday, July 05, 2004
Have you ever had one of those days when you just feel like taking the person in charge of making advertisements for companies, and beating them over the head with a multi-colored, rubber malet? Well today, I once again felt like that.
I was walking past the bra section at JCPenney, minding my own business, when suddenly several horribly awful pictures jumped out at me. You've seen them. At clothing stores, they have pictures of good looking people wearing their clothes. I usually do not have much of a problem with that. However, I've always assumed that the point of those were to show that beautiful people are happy while wearing over-priced clothes, and you should be too! But these specific ads, well they don't seem to have a purpose at all. Each one shows a beautiful woman wearing short shorts (I can only think of Chief Wiggum when I hear that song), with no shirt or bra, covering up her chest with her hands, or by leaning against a wall. First of all, under normal conditions, I have no problem with nudity (in reason). But, like I said, I thought those posters were supposed to make you see how great the clothes look on beautiful people, so you will think it's the clothes, and not the millions of dollars of plastic surgery, that made them beautiful! But when you're trying to sell bras, you would think it would make sense to show women using them. The nudity doesn't even add anything!
Since I am here to make the world a better place, I've decided I will come up with a way to right the wrong. All they have to do is make a few pictures of women wearing the bras they want to sell, and put them where the nude ones were. Then they can put the nude ones in the men's section! Now everyone is happy! Well, except for the starving children in Ethiopia. But there's only so much I can do... today.
Sunday, July 04, 2004
Ahh yes, The Fourth of July. What better of a way to celebrate our nation's independence than getting drunk and blowing ourselves up? Unfortunatley, as fun as fireworks are-- they are about as American as the American flag (most of which are made in other countries). Fireworks actually started in China. In 1777, fireworks were used to celebrate the United States' freedom from Britain-- which actually didn't happen for six more years. Regardless, fireworks fit the American people. They are loud, bright, explode violently, and often find themselves in other people's business (or on other peoples' roofs)-- kind of like us! But perhaps there is a deeper meaning. Fireworks could be a metaphor for the history of America: A fire was lit that forced us to explode from the oppresive control of Britain. We then shot through the wilderness to reach the other side of the nation, where we exploded to become the dazling spectacle of power and beauty we are today!
Or maybe we're all just a bunch of pyromaniacs... Happy 4th of July!