All the things you never wanted to know about a profession you didn't know existed.
This position requires that the data collector (DC) in question be able to abstain from any normal bodily functions during a period of time between 2.5 and 3.5 hours in length. Chief among these are actions like urinating, menstruating, and sometimes blinking. If you're keen on the job, try flying from Calgary to Toronto and disciplining your body like you would a dog. "No" is a key command, as is "Sit", "Stay", and the common "You Only Think You Need To Pee, But In Another Two Hours You'll Have Completely Forgotten About That Lower Abdominal Pain".
Step two involves that eye technique employed by pilots and sometimes Albertan drivers in the dark when normal eyesight is at it's worst and you must defocus to focus. You know what I'm talking about! It's much easier to see Japanese tourists in the jaws of a grizzly bear at dusk if you let your eyes relax. Seeing in the dark is like counting the massive amounts of business-casual occupants of the downtown core. Less is more, if you will. This technique comes in especially handy around noon, when absolutely everybody has the same, original idea: to go for lunch. Hilarious you think! How bad can it be. People crossing a bridge to buy lunch at Marcello's, no big deal right! I mean, you're only pressing two buttons! One for south-bound pedestrians, and one for north-bound pedestrians. But just like Dr. Seuss's fabled characters, it's like counting 10,000 South-going Zax and 10,000 North-going Zax, determined to butt heads on the prairie of Prax, otherwise known as a minimal amount of space and time to log all the occupants from the offices in the northern half of Calgary's CBD on route to buy Quiche Lorraine or Pad Thai Salad. Add to this fact this week's frigid temperatures, and you come up with the appropriate Human Stampede.
Thirdly, look as uninviting and unapproachable as humanly possible. In fact, if possible, don't look human at all! Otherwise you will have curious onlookers deviating from the torrential river of +15 pedestrians to stand and completely block your view, look pointedly at your counter, then where you're staring, eyes red and swollen from the lack of blinking for the past half an hour, read the sign that says "Transportation Data Collector On Duty", look at the counter again, still fail to connect the dots, and say: "I have to ask a stupid question."
At this point, your mind is racing with such thoughts as:
Yes, Yes it is a stupid question. Why? Because I already know what the question's going to be, YOU already know what the answer is going to be, and yet you're STILL going to stand there open-mouthed and ask me.
Then the question turns out to be one of the following options:
1. Are you counting people?
2. Can you tell me what exactly it is you're doing?
3. What's going on here?
And after you tell them:
1. Yes.
2. I'm counting people.
3. I'm counting people.
They then ask:
1. Are you counting men and women?
2. Are you counting men and women?
3. Are you counting men and women?
Your mind races ahead yet again with:
Why the f*ck would I differentiate between a man pedestrian and a woman pedestrian. What the hell kind of information would we get out of that? Oh. More women use this particular +15 bridge. That must be because of the availability of feminine hygiene products on the other side and they all got their period at the same time. Oh. More men use this particular +15 bridge. That must be because at 7:30 AM they're all going for a boy's morning out. All of them. At the same time. Together. No. I'm not even going to answer you. No. No no no no no.
After the security guard tells you to put your feet down from the table, you end the day beaten, humiliated, and poisoned from holding your bladder. Repeat three more times and you'll have "successfully" completed a week in the life of a +15PSDC. Congratulations! Your taxes are paying for this!
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
How to be a Pretentious Fuck
So a friend and I decided to give this detox a second round because it's after Christmas, it worked pretty well the first time, oh and so I can feel like a Pretentious Fuck (PF).
Why do I want to feel like a PF? How does it make you feel like a PF? What are the pros and cons of being a real PF? This should be someone's thesis topic.
Feeling like a PF is like no other feeling in the world! It enables you to judge other people without guilt, it allows you to enter health food stores like Germany entered France, and you can drop names of 18th Century philosophers in any conversation, whether it's relevant or not.
Dr. Joshi's Holistic Detox required me to shop for such food items as Hemp Hearts, Unsweetened Almond Milk, Organic Oatmeal, and Herbed Goat Cheese. Side note: This last product is only for the PFs of North America; Europe has other standards which would be too complicated to get into without said thesis.
And, unlike Hipsters, Scenesters, and Yogis, the PF's pretentiousness range is far greater. It's like comparing a Molotov cocktail to a rocket launcher.
Certainly, being a PF might not garner you as many close internet acquaintances as you would otherwise prefer, but the benefits of the title often outweigh the negative impacts. For instance, without the feeling of a PF, when I have to open my car door from the outside after rolling down the window because it still broken from last August, I feel ashamed to the point of a few crocodile tears (waterproof mascara only). With the feeling of a PF, I feel it is my right to open my door however the fuck I want, and in fact, feel that people not opening their doors in this fashion are six caste levels beneath me.
So if you're feeling low after the holidays, try a detox! The feeling of complete and utter pretentiousness will leave you glowing like a Mormon the day before giving birth to her 19th child.
Why do I want to feel like a PF? How does it make you feel like a PF? What are the pros and cons of being a real PF? This should be someone's thesis topic.
Feeling like a PF is like no other feeling in the world! It enables you to judge other people without guilt, it allows you to enter health food stores like Germany entered France, and you can drop names of 18th Century philosophers in any conversation, whether it's relevant or not.
Dr. Joshi's Holistic Detox required me to shop for such food items as Hemp Hearts, Unsweetened Almond Milk, Organic Oatmeal, and Herbed Goat Cheese. Side note: This last product is only for the PFs of North America; Europe has other standards which would be too complicated to get into without said thesis.
And, unlike Hipsters, Scenesters, and Yogis, the PF's pretentiousness range is far greater. It's like comparing a Molotov cocktail to a rocket launcher.
Certainly, being a PF might not garner you as many close internet acquaintances as you would otherwise prefer, but the benefits of the title often outweigh the negative impacts. For instance, without the feeling of a PF, when I have to open my car door from the outside after rolling down the window because it still broken from last August, I feel ashamed to the point of a few crocodile tears (waterproof mascara only). With the feeling of a PF, I feel it is my right to open my door however the fuck I want, and in fact, feel that people not opening their doors in this fashion are six caste levels beneath me.
So if you're feeling low after the holidays, try a detox! The feeling of complete and utter pretentiousness will leave you glowing like a Mormon the day before giving birth to her 19th child.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Grey's Anneatomy
I tried to watch Grey's Anatomy once, but soon realized there was no doctor I'd rather have tend me than George Clooney, and sadly he's moved on from the field of medicine. Not that I'm one to judge the competency of a medical professional. The only reason I'm alive today is because I got hoodwinked into going to the local family clinic after three days of a fever due to an infection I like to call "clubfoot", that doesn't even have a remotely good story to along with it. No, instead, I wore a pair of pumas which cut open my right achilles while walking the dog, only to reopen the wound a week and a half later by wearing the same pair of shoes again during a catering gig that lasted not even 4 hours. That sounds so lame it rivals the one where I went too slow over a six inch drop that ended my first and last day of mountain biking. I need a better story.
Possibilities include but are not limited to:
"Went skiing in the Alps with half of the German slalom team. I was racing Hilde and Sepp when I cut a corner too sharp and opened my heel trying to stop myself after losing one ski, both my poles and a glove. I could have bought hoegaarden for the entire country with the revenue from that yard sale!"
or
"An entire theatre full of teenage girls attacked me during the premiere of New Dawn when I called Edward a fairy, and Stephanie Meyer the devil's mother for birthing the literary wasteland that is the Twilight series into this world. Floyd Mayweather had been difficult to beat into submission in the fourth round, but this was a whole other story."
Regardless, I'm pretty sure I was doomed from the start. I have this sneaking suspicion that my family members and I have all been subconsciously trying to sabotage ourselves into winning Darwin awards from day 1. For example, one summer's night when I was fourteen I experienced excruciating pain on my right side. My mother told me it was just cramps and to sleep it off. The next day I had my appendix ripped out just as it was about to burst, and spent the next three days in the hospital doped up on morphine.
My brother has a steel plate nailed in his shoulder. The other one cuts the casts off he seems to get once a year off himself. We bought custom-made crutches because there will always be a need, and clinics rarely have ones made for those six feet or taller.
So it was that I found myself discussing tying my tubes with Tijana Saturday morning at the family clinic, as some child tried to bash his toy truck into my head, and I am now relegated to sitting at home doing nothing because of injury, from sitting at home doing nothing because of unemployment. Add to this no music to listen to as my laptop got wiped when it went in to get fixed and I have become a Betty Draper without children, contemplating life as a member of the Terry Fox club. At least she had horses.
Possibilities include but are not limited to:
"Went skiing in the Alps with half of the German slalom team. I was racing Hilde and Sepp when I cut a corner too sharp and opened my heel trying to stop myself after losing one ski, both my poles and a glove. I could have bought hoegaarden for the entire country with the revenue from that yard sale!"
or
"An entire theatre full of teenage girls attacked me during the premiere of New Dawn when I called Edward a fairy, and Stephanie Meyer the devil's mother for birthing the literary wasteland that is the Twilight series into this world. Floyd Mayweather had been difficult to beat into submission in the fourth round, but this was a whole other story."
Regardless, I'm pretty sure I was doomed from the start. I have this sneaking suspicion that my family members and I have all been subconsciously trying to sabotage ourselves into winning Darwin awards from day 1. For example, one summer's night when I was fourteen I experienced excruciating pain on my right side. My mother told me it was just cramps and to sleep it off. The next day I had my appendix ripped out just as it was about to burst, and spent the next three days in the hospital doped up on morphine.
My brother has a steel plate nailed in his shoulder. The other one cuts the casts off he seems to get once a year off himself. We bought custom-made crutches because there will always be a need, and clinics rarely have ones made for those six feet or taller.
So it was that I found myself discussing tying my tubes with Tijana Saturday morning at the family clinic, as some child tried to bash his toy truck into my head, and I am now relegated to sitting at home doing nothing because of injury, from sitting at home doing nothing because of unemployment. Add to this no music to listen to as my laptop got wiped when it went in to get fixed and I have become a Betty Draper without children, contemplating life as a member of the Terry Fox club. At least she had horses.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Remember when we met?
There must be some kind of perk to being the only single person in a room with three couples, all staring googly-eyed and unable to lose physical contact with one another. Like, maybe a bag of candy, or psychadelic drugs to hallucinate yourself a partner to match the other groups. Not that everyone should act like a single person to appease me; that would be elitist and wrong. But I felt slightly mislead, as I thought I was going to a party. Subjective in nature, a party could really be anything, however I think we can all agree that it rests somewhere in the vague realm of less than a wedding, but more than a poker match. I'm not sure what this was, only that it was dangerously close to a smoky backroom and a deck of cards (high Twos).
A friend recently informed me that at a dinner party, she once sat between a couple, only to have them hold hands behind her back whilst reminiscing fond moments, like the time they met. Really?
It's not like I haven't tried being a non-single, or the subjuntive form, a "couple". It's that every time I try, I become uninspired and unmotivated. I realize it's difficult, being a whole couple of inches taller than most people. One suave champion told me not that we would have beautiful babies together, but that we would have giant babies together. In my top ten pickup lines received are the bold "You must bench 350.", the more predictable "Can you slam dunk a basketball?", and the painfully emasculating "I had to wait until you were sitting down." I'm still confused about the third one. Were we to ever enter a relationship, would I have been sitting down the whole time? How would I get from place to place? How would I slam dunk a basketball? How am I not married with children?
The dating scene in this city is dismal. I am either confronted with men who can't place Spain on a map, men who think a P.Eng will earn them a one-way ticket to the bedroom, or men who try to recruit me for rugby. I'd even try dating one of them, like say the engineer with the watermarked business card, except at dinner he'd probably end up with a fork in the eye and I'd end up with the hospital bill, which I could only afford if I was married to the P.Eng in the first place. They say a bird in hand is worth two in the bush...is a ring in hand worth a fork in the eye?
The saddest part of all is that there are so few eligible bachelors left in this socially-wasted metropolitan that unbeknownst to him, a friend of a friend actually tried setting me up with my own brother, because, of course, we were both tall! Because when there's no one left to turn to, take a note from European royalty! It's not incest, it's succession!
A friend recently informed me that at a dinner party, she once sat between a couple, only to have them hold hands behind her back whilst reminiscing fond moments, like the time they met. Really?
It's not like I haven't tried being a non-single, or the subjuntive form, a "couple". It's that every time I try, I become uninspired and unmotivated. I realize it's difficult, being a whole couple of inches taller than most people. One suave champion told me not that we would have beautiful babies together, but that we would have giant babies together. In my top ten pickup lines received are the bold "You must bench 350.", the more predictable "Can you slam dunk a basketball?", and the painfully emasculating "I had to wait until you were sitting down." I'm still confused about the third one. Were we to ever enter a relationship, would I have been sitting down the whole time? How would I get from place to place? How would I slam dunk a basketball? How am I not married with children?
The dating scene in this city is dismal. I am either confronted with men who can't place Spain on a map, men who think a P.Eng will earn them a one-way ticket to the bedroom, or men who try to recruit me for rugby. I'd even try dating one of them, like say the engineer with the watermarked business card, except at dinner he'd probably end up with a fork in the eye and I'd end up with the hospital bill, which I could only afford if I was married to the P.Eng in the first place. They say a bird in hand is worth two in the bush...is a ring in hand worth a fork in the eye?
The saddest part of all is that there are so few eligible bachelors left in this socially-wasted metropolitan that unbeknownst to him, a friend of a friend actually tried setting me up with my own brother, because, of course, we were both tall! Because when there's no one left to turn to, take a note from European royalty! It's not incest, it's succession!
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
And now for the title of MOST random job...
For the past little while I've had the pleasure of working for the municipal governing body of my residing civic centre, and my title is both prestigious and highly sought-after. Yes. I am a Data Collector.
What does this mean to you? This is such a general term I could be doing anything from interviewing toddlers to picking up dog poop. However, it is actually much more exciting than that! I count cars. Cars turning left, cars turning right, cars going straight through the intersection!
Currently, I am also responsible for the difficult task of differentiating between single axle and dual axle trucks, between a pedestrian going with or against the traffic on my side of the street, and noting occupancy. Now, if all I had to do was figure out how many nutella-smeared 6 year-olds soccer mom #12 wedged into her land cruiser (dodge caravans are so 1998) in the playground zone adjacent to Canadian Prime Minister elementary school, then perhaps my eyesight would not have deteriorated quite so quickly. As it is, I now mistake semi-trucks for motorcycles with two passengers.
Perhaps the best part about this job, was how I acquired it. I don't actually remember applying for it, but I definitely remember the interview. Three out of the four questions asked of me were entirely relevant, but the last one, "Tell us about a time when your life was disrupted. What happened, and how did you handle it." is more than a little puzzling, especially as the only clarification I received was "Oh you know, for instance, when a family member dies."
Now I'm not really sure what they were expecting, maybe, "Last week my twin sister got run over by a dual-axle truck carrying petrol. Not only did the contact between human and truck rend her unrecognizable, but then the hull of the truck cracked and the whole thing exploded. But not to worry! I have no grudge against dual-axle trucks and will count them like I would any other vehicle on the road." Or maybe "My grade three art teacher sexually harassed me with his entire Modern vs. Ancient Transportation portfolio (acrylic on canvas) but I managed to get over my fear of both horse-drawn buggies and motorized vehicles within a year, thanks to counseling and a friendly Honda CR-V".
Since none of my coworkers got asked this question, I'm assuming I was the first guinea pig interviewee and Dick told Jane that after that shitshow he'd be the one doing all the talking.
What does this mean to you? This is such a general term I could be doing anything from interviewing toddlers to picking up dog poop. However, it is actually much more exciting than that! I count cars. Cars turning left, cars turning right, cars going straight through the intersection!
Currently, I am also responsible for the difficult task of differentiating between single axle and dual axle trucks, between a pedestrian going with or against the traffic on my side of the street, and noting occupancy. Now, if all I had to do was figure out how many nutella-smeared 6 year-olds soccer mom #12 wedged into her land cruiser (dodge caravans are so 1998) in the playground zone adjacent to Canadian Prime Minister elementary school, then perhaps my eyesight would not have deteriorated quite so quickly. As it is, I now mistake semi-trucks for motorcycles with two passengers.
Perhaps the best part about this job, was how I acquired it. I don't actually remember applying for it, but I definitely remember the interview. Three out of the four questions asked of me were entirely relevant, but the last one, "Tell us about a time when your life was disrupted. What happened, and how did you handle it." is more than a little puzzling, especially as the only clarification I received was "Oh you know, for instance, when a family member dies."
Now I'm not really sure what they were expecting, maybe, "Last week my twin sister got run over by a dual-axle truck carrying petrol. Not only did the contact between human and truck rend her unrecognizable, but then the hull of the truck cracked and the whole thing exploded. But not to worry! I have no grudge against dual-axle trucks and will count them like I would any other vehicle on the road." Or maybe "My grade three art teacher sexually harassed me with his entire Modern vs. Ancient Transportation portfolio (acrylic on canvas) but I managed to get over my fear of both horse-drawn buggies and motorized vehicles within a year, thanks to counseling and a friendly Honda CR-V".
Since none of my coworkers got asked this question, I'm assuming I was the first guinea pig interviewee and Dick told Jane that after that shitshow he'd be the one doing all the talking.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Stampede...I always regret it.
I had nothing to update for a while, ironically, because I was working. Working a job where the extent of my social interaction was with the Weird Guy who typically communicates using only surprised grunts. At an office where shoes are optional and a trip to the photocopier is cause for celebration, you can imagine how weird that is.
I've determined that this isn't enough social interaction for a person with my extensive personality (read: likely too much for people with zero personality) and who picks up books entitled things like "Dinner with Friends". I need to be around other people, you get the idea. That and one more day with Weird Guy and I would have suffocated him with a map of the South-Western quadrant of the Yukon.
So thank goodness my contract ended right before Stampede, a 10-day extravaganza where you get just a little too much social interaction, even for me. Serving in the clubhouse doesn't guarantee you great tips, but it does guarantee you great stories. A group of highly civilized customers threatened to walk out and call the police because the chip machine was temporarily down; a woman handicapped by her own obesity fought me over a $3.50 pint of endlessly refillable iced tea because she thought iced tea and hot tea were the same thing. Anybody else see that SNL Celebrity Jeopardy? The Grandstand show has effectively lost any semblance of a plot, the costumes are getting suspiciously more reflective, and pre-recorded songs about the Garden of Imagination make me want to sink my head into a tub of margarine.
Riding the c-train during Stampede is about as much fun for me as playing mini golf against a midget. So this year, my pleasant public transit experiences included rescuing some cracked-out chick from a drunk and lecherous native, enduring the predictable and overpoweringly obnoxious drunken cheer chants people feel the need to have only on the train, and stopping a drunken brawl as half the contestants in that beauty pageant were keeping the doors from closing and thus, keeping me from my final destination, and the sweet embrace of sleep. I did manage to score a free ride on the Slingshot from my undeniably heroic (stupid) actions. Though this wasn't really a reward as I am completely terrified of anything that isn't a children's tire swing. Because of this, in my spectacular video montage, I either look like I'm giving birth to sextuplets, or Hulk Hogan is shoving a JC Penney dining set up my ass.
To conclude, by the end of Stampede I had:
A video of me apparently in labour on the slingshot,
Several stomach ulcers,
A lot more wrinkles,
Disproportionately muscled arms,
1 lost wallet,
1 lost ipod,
Mysterious bruises,
Half a can of pop in my hair,
No job and;
None of my sanity.
Until next time, when I enlighten you all with the wonders of unemployment!
I've determined that this isn't enough social interaction for a person with my extensive personality (read: likely too much for people with zero personality) and who picks up books entitled things like "Dinner with Friends". I need to be around other people, you get the idea. That and one more day with Weird Guy and I would have suffocated him with a map of the South-Western quadrant of the Yukon.
So thank goodness my contract ended right before Stampede, a 10-day extravaganza where you get just a little too much social interaction, even for me. Serving in the clubhouse doesn't guarantee you great tips, but it does guarantee you great stories. A group of highly civilized customers threatened to walk out and call the police because the chip machine was temporarily down; a woman handicapped by her own obesity fought me over a $3.50 pint of endlessly refillable iced tea because she thought iced tea and hot tea were the same thing. Anybody else see that SNL Celebrity Jeopardy? The Grandstand show has effectively lost any semblance of a plot, the costumes are getting suspiciously more reflective, and pre-recorded songs about the Garden of Imagination make me want to sink my head into a tub of margarine.
Riding the c-train during Stampede is about as much fun for me as playing mini golf against a midget. So this year, my pleasant public transit experiences included rescuing some cracked-out chick from a drunk and lecherous native, enduring the predictable and overpoweringly obnoxious drunken cheer chants people feel the need to have only on the train, and stopping a drunken brawl as half the contestants in that beauty pageant were keeping the doors from closing and thus, keeping me from my final destination, and the sweet embrace of sleep. I did manage to score a free ride on the Slingshot from my undeniably heroic (stupid) actions. Though this wasn't really a reward as I am completely terrified of anything that isn't a children's tire swing. Because of this, in my spectacular video montage, I either look like I'm giving birth to sextuplets, or Hulk Hogan is shoving a JC Penney dining set up my ass.
To conclude, by the end of Stampede I had:
A video of me apparently in labour on the slingshot,
Several stomach ulcers,
A lot more wrinkles,
Disproportionately muscled arms,
1 lost wallet,
1 lost ipod,
Mysterious bruises,
Half a can of pop in my hair,
No job and;
None of my sanity.
Until next time, when I enlighten you all with the wonders of unemployment!
Monday, March 14, 2011
Real music...at last
Today I discovered a musical phenomenon to rival Justin Bieber. The only reason I haven't blogged about him is because I don't have the words in my vocabulary to equal his greatness.
The song, entitled "Friday", depicts the incredibly dull, homogeneous daily activities of a tween with really wealthy parents who provided all the funding for this music video, hence the only reason it got made. Please note the carefully worded and syntactically exact lyrical sonnets of Rebecca Black's autotune, and her many (read: one) facial expressions. For your pleasure (read: comic relief):
Friday
Once you've hit the replay button until it no longer functions (who am I kidding, if you made it through to the Gregorian calendar countdown, I congratulate you on your strength, if not your sanity), you may be interested in a critical review of Rebecca's talent, her parents money, the production company, and the presence of auto-tune in current pop hits. Such reviews include:
Bondslave
But who the hell is Rebecca Black?;
Pippa
A part of my soul died while wasting my time watching those videos.
I sincerely hope the parents of these children realise that their children are being exploited as young prostitutes.;
and for the more intellectual among us,
AJ
I actually think Rebecca Black’s song FRIDAY touches on some powerful ideas:
Metaphysics:
“LOOKING FORWARD TO THE WEEKEND” – Our perception of time is limited, we can only have knowledge of the past, not the future. However even though we can have no knowledge of the future, we can “look forward” in a joyous desire for frivolity yet to happen.
Clever.
History:
“YESTERDAY WAS THURSDAY, TODAY IS FRIDAY” – measured human evolution. We are progressing at a constant rate of 24 hours per day. You simply cannot deny it. So true.
Environment:
“FUN, FUN, FUN, FUN” – Human excess. Not merely content for a single dose of fun, many people demand more. Is this desire for ‘fun’ sustainable for our planet? We need to think about this.
Economics:
“I SEE MY FRIENDS KICKING IN THE FRONT SEAT, KICKING IN THE BACKSEAT”
In the wake of the GFC Major motor companies are cutting corners to squeeze dollars out of consumers, is lack of leg room the latest rort?
Individual Freedom:
“GOT TO GO DOWNSTAIRS, GOT TO HAVE A BOWL OF CEREAL..”
- Do we really ‘got’ to do these menial tasks? Must we conform with social expectations of daily progress? Can we not think outside the typical urban (or suburban) paradigm of rote living? What The Beatles expressed in “Piggies” is clearly also a concern of Miss Rebecca Black.
I want to meet AJ.
For the full in-depth article, go here
The song, entitled "Friday", depicts the incredibly dull, homogeneous daily activities of a tween with really wealthy parents who provided all the funding for this music video, hence the only reason it got made. Please note the carefully worded and syntactically exact lyrical sonnets of Rebecca Black's autotune, and her many (read: one) facial expressions. For your pleasure (read: comic relief):
Friday
Once you've hit the replay button until it no longer functions (who am I kidding, if you made it through to the Gregorian calendar countdown, I congratulate you on your strength, if not your sanity), you may be interested in a critical review of Rebecca's talent, her parents money, the production company, and the presence of auto-tune in current pop hits. Such reviews include:
Bondslave
But who the hell is Rebecca Black?;
Pippa
A part of my soul died while wasting my time watching those videos.
I sincerely hope the parents of these children realise that their children are being exploited as young prostitutes.;
and for the more intellectual among us,
AJ
I actually think Rebecca Black’s song FRIDAY touches on some powerful ideas:
Metaphysics:
“LOOKING FORWARD TO THE WEEKEND” – Our perception of time is limited, we can only have knowledge of the past, not the future. However even though we can have no knowledge of the future, we can “look forward” in a joyous desire for frivolity yet to happen.
Clever.
History:
“YESTERDAY WAS THURSDAY, TODAY IS FRIDAY” – measured human evolution. We are progressing at a constant rate of 24 hours per day. You simply cannot deny it. So true.
Environment:
“FUN, FUN, FUN, FUN” – Human excess. Not merely content for a single dose of fun, many people demand more. Is this desire for ‘fun’ sustainable for our planet? We need to think about this.
Economics:
“I SEE MY FRIENDS KICKING IN THE FRONT SEAT, KICKING IN THE BACKSEAT”
In the wake of the GFC Major motor companies are cutting corners to squeeze dollars out of consumers, is lack of leg room the latest rort?
Individual Freedom:
“GOT TO GO DOWNSTAIRS, GOT TO HAVE A BOWL OF CEREAL..”
- Do we really ‘got’ to do these menial tasks? Must we conform with social expectations of daily progress? Can we not think outside the typical urban (or suburban) paradigm of rote living? What The Beatles expressed in “Piggies” is clearly also a concern of Miss Rebecca Black.
I want to meet AJ.
For the full in-depth article, go here
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Back of the Box
A Complaint to General Mills
Dear General Mills,
Contrary to how you assume I should be feeling after consuming your product, original Cheerios, I am not happy, because the back of the box is racially segregated. Though you have satisfied diversity in age, you are entirely ignoring diversity of culture. This is an extremely poor representation of the Canadian populace and I feel, even after more than a decade of purchasing this otherwise tasty cereal, that I can no longer continue adding it to my weekly grocery list. You might argue that the large image at the top depicts a family, and would be strange if all members were not homogeneous, but to this I would point out the many opportunitiesto present a person with Asian, Hispanic, African, or Indigeneous background, and I am flabbergasted to see how you could only come up with images of Caucasian people for all twelve individuals on the back of your box.
I would suggest, for the benefit of your sales, and your conscience, that you adjust the side all 8 year-olds stare at as they slurp down breakfast at 7am before school to represent a more realistic picture of the grade 3 classroom they'll soon be asleep in. Mexican-Canadians can be happy eating Cheerios too.
Sincerely,
An advocate of diversity, even on the back of the Cheerios box.
This letter of complaint was first posted to my facebook in hopes that others eating Cheerios around me would notice this crime against humanity and revolt in the style of the French - strike.
Dear Miss Farineau,
We have received your letter dated February 28, 2011, in which you have requested a racial diverse Cheerios box. We regret to inform you that a great amount of research has determined the packaging to be fully representative for the Canadian population. Based on Statistics Canada, visible minorities make up only 16.2% of Canada's population (2006). We apologize, as it happens that we have selected the other 83.8% of the population, representing diverse ethnic regions surrounding the Caucasus Mountains.
General Mills is a equal employer and follows the Canada's Employment Equity Act. We are not racist. Please accept these 2 free boxes of Cheerios redeemable at your local supermarket for any inconvienience this has caused.
Sincerely,
General Mills
Dear General Mills
Thank you for your extensive research into the matter, in which you no doubt employed a Caucasian to complete the task. The heavy Aryan tone to your response leads me to believe that you are effecting a Neo-Nazi regime and that your corporation is heralded by members of the Ku Klux Klan. Your flimsy attempts to mask this fact with labeling schemes such as "Multi-Grain" (read: Multi-Cultural) Cheerios are pathetic and offensive.
I refuse your offer of the two free boxes as the presence of your flaxen-haired devil children on the back will only serve to further my shame in having participated in increasing the shareholder value of your stock.
SIncerely,
Always a Champion of Justice
Dear Champion of Justice/Miss Farineau,
Thank you for your diligence in this matter. You are correct, there is a picture of multi coloured Cheerio's at the back of the box, which depict a harmonious gathering of all shades.
Other brands that depict the diversity of General Mills include the Green Giant brand of vegetables. He is obviously, wait for it, green.
We are also a proud supplier of Old El Paso, which serves your Mexican-Canadian population you speak of. We also have extended past the human realm to reach out to full-shaped dough people with our beloved Pilsbury brand.
Here are 2 free coupons for Green Giant vegetables, Old El Paso and Pilsbury items for you to redeem at your local grocery supermarket for any inconvenience this has caused.
Sincerely,
General Mills
Dear General Mills,
Contrary to how you assume I should be feeling after consuming your product, original Cheerios, I am not happy, because the back of the box is racially segregated. Though you have satisfied diversity in age, you are entirely ignoring diversity of culture. This is an extremely poor representation of the Canadian populace and I feel, even after more than a decade of purchasing this otherwise tasty cereal, that I can no longer continue adding it to my weekly grocery list. You might argue that the large image at the top depicts a family, and would be strange if all members were not homogeneous, but to this I would point out the many opportunitiesto present a person with Asian, Hispanic, African, or Indigeneous background, and I am flabbergasted to see how you could only come up with images of Caucasian people for all twelve individuals on the back of your box.
I would suggest, for the benefit of your sales, and your conscience, that you adjust the side all 8 year-olds stare at as they slurp down breakfast at 7am before school to represent a more realistic picture of the grade 3 classroom they'll soon be asleep in. Mexican-Canadians can be happy eating Cheerios too.
Sincerely,
An advocate of diversity, even on the back of the Cheerios box.
This letter of complaint was first posted to my facebook in hopes that others eating Cheerios around me would notice this crime against humanity and revolt in the style of the French - strike.
Dear Miss Farineau,
We have received your letter dated February 28, 2011, in which you have requested a racial diverse Cheerios box. We regret to inform you that a great amount of research has determined the packaging to be fully representative for the Canadian population. Based on Statistics Canada, visible minorities make up only 16.2% of Canada's population (2006). We apologize, as it happens that we have selected the other 83.8% of the population, representing diverse ethnic regions surrounding the Caucasus Mountains.
General Mills is a equal employer and follows the Canada's Employment Equity Act. We are not racist. Please accept these 2 free boxes of Cheerios redeemable at your local supermarket for any inconvienience this has caused.
Sincerely,
General Mills
Dear General Mills
Thank you for your extensive research into the matter, in which you no doubt employed a Caucasian to complete the task. The heavy Aryan tone to your response leads me to believe that you are effecting a Neo-Nazi regime and that your corporation is heralded by members of the Ku Klux Klan. Your flimsy attempts to mask this fact with labeling schemes such as "Multi-Grain" (read: Multi-Cultural) Cheerios are pathetic and offensive.
I refuse your offer of the two free boxes as the presence of your flaxen-haired devil children on the back will only serve to further my shame in having participated in increasing the shareholder value of your stock.
SIncerely,
Always a Champion of Justice
Dear Champion of Justice/Miss Farineau,
Thank you for your diligence in this matter. You are correct, there is a picture of multi coloured Cheerio's at the back of the box, which depict a harmonious gathering of all shades.
Other brands that depict the diversity of General Mills include the Green Giant brand of vegetables. He is obviously, wait for it, green.
We are also a proud supplier of Old El Paso, which serves your Mexican-Canadian population you speak of. We also have extended past the human realm to reach out to full-shaped dough people with our beloved Pilsbury brand.
Here are 2 free coupons for Green Giant vegetables, Old El Paso and Pilsbury items for you to redeem at your local grocery supermarket for any inconvenience this has caused.
Sincerely,
General Mills
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Bobby McFerrin is my light at the end of the tunnel
Today I was all depressed, mostly because I was thinking of orphaned African children, but also because of the popularity of Uggs, and my salary, which at this point in time, puts me somewhere between welfare and Wal-mart. I decided to bring myself out of this bottomless pit by listening to feel-good music, which in my world equates to Monty Python's "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life", which makes me feel better because I am not in the process of being crucified, and Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy", which lights up my life because I get to compare myself to black men in America with stock market troubles.
This was not the end of my therapy session however, as I soon discovered something I think which would make anybody bubble up with joy: eating salad.
If you need proof of this miracle-worker, and I'm sure you do, you have only to click here to discover the one thing better than chocolate.
Be sure to read the comments.
This was not the end of my therapy session however, as I soon discovered something I think which would make anybody bubble up with joy: eating salad.
If you need proof of this miracle-worker, and I'm sure you do, you have only to click here to discover the one thing better than chocolate.
Be sure to read the comments.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Single and loving it! (?)
During my lunchtime at work, I entertained myself reading that bible of all investigative journalism: The Calgary Sun. In the middle of this thick stack of news-worthy articles, I found myself staring at a whole page of reasons to love being single during the holidays.
Now, I'm sure you've all seen Bridget Jones' Diary, but this went above and beyond. Third down the list was the very legitimate "spoiling yourself during a season for giving". It began innocently, with not just a mere manicure but a whole day at the spa! I was feeling pretty good about myself until it dramatically switched gears. Right after a relaxing massage by hot swedish masseuse, it suggested doing all those things that apparently, couples don't have time for but wish they had, like putting up shelves, and installing a new toilet.
What?
If I get what they're saying, then I should be ecstatic with the prospect of cleaning the bathroom blinds instead of snuggling up beside Shaw's fireplace on channel 1 (or 11, depending if you want the silent fire or the realistic crackling with Christmas music) on the skin of a bear my manly man slaughtered himself.
Romantic sleigh ride through central park followed by candelight dinner and mediocre sex? Scratch that you unfortunate lovers! I'm spending a wild night in knocking back a few and playing myself in chess on the new Liatorp Ikea coffee table I've spent hours assembling. God I'm a lucky, lucky woman.
To top it off, last week a magazine entitled "2" came in the mail, a literary treasure trove of ways to become even more of a couple, and how not to get fat and ugly now that you're in one. Thanks Canada Post, you've done it again. What would three single gals do without you?
Contained in the pages of this tell-all Garden of Eden-style Cosmopolitan were useful answers to questions such as:
And of course the commonly sought:
Hello?! Your husband is gay!
The remaining pages are filled with pictures of models acting like upper East side Jewish couples and advertisements for making your teeth really, really white. I'd say bah humbug, but I can't lie, I always wish for a white Christmas.
Now, I'm sure you've all seen Bridget Jones' Diary, but this went above and beyond. Third down the list was the very legitimate "spoiling yourself during a season for giving". It began innocently, with not just a mere manicure but a whole day at the spa! I was feeling pretty good about myself until it dramatically switched gears. Right after a relaxing massage by hot swedish masseuse, it suggested doing all those things that apparently, couples don't have time for but wish they had, like putting up shelves, and installing a new toilet.
What?
If I get what they're saying, then I should be ecstatic with the prospect of cleaning the bathroom blinds instead of snuggling up beside Shaw's fireplace on channel 1 (or 11, depending if you want the silent fire or the realistic crackling with Christmas music) on the skin of a bear my manly man slaughtered himself.
Romantic sleigh ride through central park followed by candelight dinner and mediocre sex? Scratch that you unfortunate lovers! I'm spending a wild night in knocking back a few and playing myself in chess on the new Liatorp Ikea coffee table I've spent hours assembling. God I'm a lucky, lucky woman.
To top it off, last week a magazine entitled "2" came in the mail, a literary treasure trove of ways to become even more of a couple, and how not to get fat and ugly now that you're in one. Thanks Canada Post, you've done it again. What would three single gals do without you?
Contained in the pages of this tell-all Garden of Eden-style Cosmopolitan were useful answers to questions such as:
And of course the commonly sought:
Hello?! Your husband is gay!
The remaining pages are filled with pictures of models acting like upper East side Jewish couples and advertisements for making your teeth really, really white. I'd say bah humbug, but I can't lie, I always wish for a white Christmas.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
What unemployment does to my sanity
Perusing the internets in search of my dream job, or any job, because you know, I like to eat, I came across a real gem. The fact that it had nothing to do with my studies did not bother me one bit, because this job description has me written all over it.
I knew in order to grab their attention, I had to produce a cover letter worthy of an editorial piece in the Calgary Sun, and thanks to expert help from Sanbula, I think I succeeded. For your pleasure:
October 5, 2010
Re: Swing Announcer – Virgin
Dear Purveyors of Fine Radio Airwaves,
My name is Anne “Shaq” Farineau, and I had never once aspired to become a radio talk-show host until watching Frasier. His love for classical music and intellectual discussions carried over to his syllabic inflections as he soothed distraught, irate callers to the delight of television viewers everywhere. His dulcet tones were my sole inspiration for following in the footsteps of great emcees like Master T and Peter Mansbridge.
After Frasier stopped airing, I found myself spiralling into a deep depression, and began looking for other sources of entertainment that could at once present an equally profound outlook on life and curb my descent into madness. Could my father and I actually hold some similar, wholesome American (Canadian) values? Could we still be a family -- albeit a quirky, at times dysfunctional one -- that related to the audience, making them cry at appropriate intervals but mostly just adding their forced guttural chest heaves to the highly unoriginal and repetitive laugh track?
You may be wondering why you are reading this. You are no doubt leading a busy, hectic life, and have no time for such tomfoolery. Your successful candidate will be "FUN! FUN! FUN!", and not a Frasier addict, with unemployment only straining an already tenuous grip on reality. Nay, she will be a Facebook fanatic, a blogging bonanza, a Twitter tweeter! Say Yes to the Dress (plus size!) will rule her 11 o’clock hour as she stares, eyes glazed, at the meters of tulle, silk and taffeta in forty-five shades of white, ivory, or a light dusting of pink rustling about on the screen; she will try ignore the fact that she has become so familiar with this screen since she was introduced to reality TV. She thrives on the drama ushering forth between Angelina and Snookie, her heart beating faster with every punch Snooks flails at her opponent in the most recent award-winning episode of Jersey Shore. She will not write a blog that is a collection of utterly ridiculous events that somehow happen to her, or things that are so out of left-field that readers' suggestions will be to tone down the use of psychedelic drugs, but one that follows celebrities as they strut purposefully down to Zambia to pick up the latest trend: African babies (thanks Perez, World Vision will take it from here). Above all, she will come to you with a repertoire that screams telephone skills; she may even hold a technical diploma in Communication with Electronic Devices, majoring in Land-line, Cellular, and Fax Machine.
Instead, you are reading the dismal end of a university-educated girl whose sanity has been completely and utterly eliminated by the harsh realization that not only is 6’2” too tall for her dreams of a life of anorexia, but that it is also too tall for TLC. Little People Big World? People always feel sorry for midgets. They’re small; they’re cute; and they’re lovable: “Awwwww! Would you look at him smash into that hurdle?” As if they could ever endure what giants do. Big People Little World is a much darker universe. Ducking under doorways, squeezing into airplane seats, shopping at the single store in a buzzing metropolis that could come near carrying your inseam in pants – it is Scandinavian horror at its finest.
So yes, Virgin, perhaps you should consider, in your global conquest for complete media dominance, a reality show based on the trials and tribulations of the Farineau family. Please rest assured, your viewer following would be more than enough to cover the expense of a quality laugh track.
If you’ve made it this far, I offer my sincerest condolences. My thoughts are with you as you attempt to find an appropriately humorous radio emcee in a city oversaturated with arts and culture. Your find will be my entertainment on Saturdays and Sundays from noon to five p.m., and Wednesdays to Fridays from ten p.m. to two a.m., as I sit listlessly in my house wondering what happened to my bright, degreed future.
Thank you for your time; I know it was painful.
Anne “Shaq” Farineau.
P.S. I am not attaching my curriculum vitae because lets face it, what’s the point? Should you wish to reach me for some peculiar, unfathomable reason, you can find me on that god of all social mediums: Facebook.
I knew in order to grab their attention, I had to produce a cover letter worthy of an editorial piece in the Calgary Sun, and thanks to expert help from Sanbula, I think I succeeded. For your pleasure:
October 5, 2010
Re: Swing Announcer – Virgin
Dear Purveyors of Fine Radio Airwaves,
My name is Anne “Shaq” Farineau, and I had never once aspired to become a radio talk-show host until watching Frasier. His love for classical music and intellectual discussions carried over to his syllabic inflections as he soothed distraught, irate callers to the delight of television viewers everywhere. His dulcet tones were my sole inspiration for following in the footsteps of great emcees like Master T and Peter Mansbridge.
After Frasier stopped airing, I found myself spiralling into a deep depression, and began looking for other sources of entertainment that could at once present an equally profound outlook on life and curb my descent into madness. Could my father and I actually hold some similar, wholesome American (Canadian) values? Could we still be a family -- albeit a quirky, at times dysfunctional one -- that related to the audience, making them cry at appropriate intervals but mostly just adding their forced guttural chest heaves to the highly unoriginal and repetitive laugh track?
You may be wondering why you are reading this. You are no doubt leading a busy, hectic life, and have no time for such tomfoolery. Your successful candidate will be "FUN! FUN! FUN!", and not a Frasier addict, with unemployment only straining an already tenuous grip on reality. Nay, she will be a Facebook fanatic, a blogging bonanza, a Twitter tweeter! Say Yes to the Dress (plus size!) will rule her 11 o’clock hour as she stares, eyes glazed, at the meters of tulle, silk and taffeta in forty-five shades of white, ivory, or a light dusting of pink rustling about on the screen; she will try ignore the fact that she has become so familiar with this screen since she was introduced to reality TV. She thrives on the drama ushering forth between Angelina and Snookie, her heart beating faster with every punch Snooks flails at her opponent in the most recent award-winning episode of Jersey Shore. She will not write a blog that is a collection of utterly ridiculous events that somehow happen to her, or things that are so out of left-field that readers' suggestions will be to tone down the use of psychedelic drugs, but one that follows celebrities as they strut purposefully down to Zambia to pick up the latest trend: African babies (thanks Perez, World Vision will take it from here). Above all, she will come to you with a repertoire that screams telephone skills; she may even hold a technical diploma in Communication with Electronic Devices, majoring in Land-line, Cellular, and Fax Machine.
Instead, you are reading the dismal end of a university-educated girl whose sanity has been completely and utterly eliminated by the harsh realization that not only is 6’2” too tall for her dreams of a life of anorexia, but that it is also too tall for TLC. Little People Big World? People always feel sorry for midgets. They’re small; they’re cute; and they’re lovable: “Awwwww! Would you look at him smash into that hurdle?” As if they could ever endure what giants do. Big People Little World is a much darker universe. Ducking under doorways, squeezing into airplane seats, shopping at the single store in a buzzing metropolis that could come near carrying your inseam in pants – it is Scandinavian horror at its finest.
So yes, Virgin, perhaps you should consider, in your global conquest for complete media dominance, a reality show based on the trials and tribulations of the Farineau family. Please rest assured, your viewer following would be more than enough to cover the expense of a quality laugh track.
If you’ve made it this far, I offer my sincerest condolences. My thoughts are with you as you attempt to find an appropriately humorous radio emcee in a city oversaturated with arts and culture. Your find will be my entertainment on Saturdays and Sundays from noon to five p.m., and Wednesdays to Fridays from ten p.m. to two a.m., as I sit listlessly in my house wondering what happened to my bright, degreed future.
Thank you for your time; I know it was painful.
Anne “Shaq” Farineau.
P.S. I am not attaching my curriculum vitae because lets face it, what’s the point? Should you wish to reach me for some peculiar, unfathomable reason, you can find me on that god of all social mediums: Facebook.
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Maxi-Pad Answer
Cleaning out my email inbox this morning, I found this treasure glittering at the bottom:
Actual letter to Proctor & Gamble
Dear Mr. Thatcher, I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core(tm) or Dri-Weave(tm) absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favourite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16
in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't.
Well, my "time of the month" is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills."
Isn't the human body amazing?
As Brand Manager in the Feminine-hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from "Aunt Flo".
Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behaviour.
You surely realize it's a tough time for most women.
In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants...
which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."
Are you fucking kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness -is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?
Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.
For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong", or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep... Always.
Best, Wendi Aarons
Actual letter to Proctor & Gamble
Dear Mr. Thatcher, I have been a loyal user of your Always maxi pads for over 20 years and I appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core(tm) or Dri-Weave(tm) absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in tight, white shorts. But my favourite feature has to be your revolutionary Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16
in my pants.
Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from "the curse"? I'm guessing you haven't.
Well, my "time of the month" is starting right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll be transformed into what my husband likes to call "an inbred hillbilly with knife skills."
Isn't the human body amazing?
As Brand Manager in the Feminine-hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers' monthly visits from "Aunt Flo".
Therefore, you must know about the bloating, puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying jags, and out-of-control behaviour.
You surely realize it's a tough time for most women.
In fact, only last week, my friend Jennifer fought the violent urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps. Crazy! The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants...
which brings me to the reason for my letter.
Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words: "Have a Happy Period."
Are you fucking kidding me?
What I mean is, does any part of your tiny middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing happiness -is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned above sound the least bit pleasurable?
Well, did it, James? FYI, unless you're some kind of sick S&M freak girl, there will never be anything "happy" about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in a blaze of glory.
For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something that's actually pertinent, like "Put Down the Hammer" or "Vehicular Manslaughter Is Wrong", or are you just picking on us?
Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately, there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep... Always.
Best, Wendi Aarons
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
A Dramatic Reading
One of the richest treasures I have come across in my internet adventures is this DRAMATIC READING of a break-up letter. You may need a tissue or a towel handy for the crying that will most likely ensue.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Childhood memories and vacuum cleaners
So today Drew mentioned that there was a contest going on to win tickets to see Fred Penner. What a dreamboat. The only catch was, the contest involved posting your funniest childhood memories. Funny? Knowing myself so well, I knew this was going to be a tough one. There are just so many memories to choose from.
I mean, should I go with the time when I killed a baby duck egg about to hatch at the age of three? To further lighten the mood, the mother then took her aborted child into the water and gave it a solemn funeral, watched in disbelief and utter rage by much more civilized French people who had only been looking for a nice patch of grass in the park on which to rest their much less violent children. I still maintain it was an act of mercy and that mother duck was probably single, and hardly able to take care of six children all at once; look what it's done to Kate (and Jon) Plus Eight.
Or maybe I should tell them about the time my older brother kicked a soccer ball in my face, or the time when he slammed the door on my thumb so hard the nail fell off, both incidences warranting a piercing scream compelling enough for the most horrific of the I Know What You Did Last Summer series of quality films?
I should probably think about telling them about the silent wrestling/kicking matches my little brother would have when my mother was teaching piano. Sure, we hated each other with an undying passion, but silence was key. Who wants to involve a third party? Even the vacuum hose I choked him with was dealt with very little sound.
And don't ever tell me your arm is broken, because I simply won't believe you. Throughout my childhood, people, including my little brother, have broken their arms and each time I adamantly refused to see things from their shattered-bone perspectives. It wasn't because of my violent tendencies, but because I honestly couldn't see how things just couldn't bend that way anyways. A doctor I shall be not.
Then there was that beautiful summer evening that my older brother was hunted down with his friends by the local police helicopter. And that especially romantic junior high day when a boy tried to tell me he liked me, I shot him down, and he hit me with a volleyball and gave me a black eye in retaliation. And how about a boy in gr.6 who masturbated with a ruler in the middle of class. There's a real winner - I'm sure the judges would appreciate a good childhood sexual liberation story.
Or, possibly my favourite, the time when my little brother told a friend I had never met that I had Down's Syndrome and I for some reason felt the need to play along, and the friend greeted me with that signature deer-in-headlights look I have come to recognize so often. Fred Penner's wiki page also tells me that his sister actually has Down's Syndrome, so how could he not relate?
I think Drew has since regretted informing me of this contest because he knows I'm going to win. Step aside kids, this ray of sunshine is about to get two tickets to the best night of her life...
*Edit: Drew has since won the tickets and will be appearing at Fred's show tonight for free, whereas I will be staying at home in a corner contemplating razor blades and the belt on my bathrobe.
I mean, should I go with the time when I killed a baby duck egg about to hatch at the age of three? To further lighten the mood, the mother then took her aborted child into the water and gave it a solemn funeral, watched in disbelief and utter rage by much more civilized French people who had only been looking for a nice patch of grass in the park on which to rest their much less violent children. I still maintain it was an act of mercy and that mother duck was probably single, and hardly able to take care of six children all at once; look what it's done to Kate (and Jon) Plus Eight.
Or maybe I should tell them about the time my older brother kicked a soccer ball in my face, or the time when he slammed the door on my thumb so hard the nail fell off, both incidences warranting a piercing scream compelling enough for the most horrific of the I Know What You Did Last Summer series of quality films?
I should probably think about telling them about the silent wrestling/kicking matches my little brother would have when my mother was teaching piano. Sure, we hated each other with an undying passion, but silence was key. Who wants to involve a third party? Even the vacuum hose I choked him with was dealt with very little sound.
And don't ever tell me your arm is broken, because I simply won't believe you. Throughout my childhood, people, including my little brother, have broken their arms and each time I adamantly refused to see things from their shattered-bone perspectives. It wasn't because of my violent tendencies, but because I honestly couldn't see how things just couldn't bend that way anyways. A doctor I shall be not.
Then there was that beautiful summer evening that my older brother was hunted down with his friends by the local police helicopter. And that especially romantic junior high day when a boy tried to tell me he liked me, I shot him down, and he hit me with a volleyball and gave me a black eye in retaliation. And how about a boy in gr.6 who masturbated with a ruler in the middle of class. There's a real winner - I'm sure the judges would appreciate a good childhood sexual liberation story.
Or, possibly my favourite, the time when my little brother told a friend I had never met that I had Down's Syndrome and I for some reason felt the need to play along, and the friend greeted me with that signature deer-in-headlights look I have come to recognize so often. Fred Penner's wiki page also tells me that his sister actually has Down's Syndrome, so how could he not relate?
I think Drew has since regretted informing me of this contest because he knows I'm going to win. Step aside kids, this ray of sunshine is about to get two tickets to the best night of her life...
*Edit: Drew has since won the tickets and will be appearing at Fred's show tonight for free, whereas I will be staying at home in a corner contemplating razor blades and the belt on my bathrobe.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Facebook Help Part II: The Bane of All Existence
So as you faithful readers know, a little over two weeks ago Sanbula lost her profile. This was an utter disaster, so, over the course of this period of time, she sent emails asking for help. In the beginning, she was not as desperate, and her letters remained normal:
"I have been trying to access my profile page, but it keeps loading blank."
Which swiftly turned into poetry:
"Blank Profile: A Haiku"
To speak face-to-face
Is not a way I know now
I need my profile
And finally, after comparing herself to the Biblical Job, her letters became one lengthy missive, punctuated with thoughtful commas and well-used dashes:
Are you there, Facebook? It's me, Sanbula.
I hope you can hear me. It's been a really tough two weeks. I've been trying to be strong, but it's been hard. I was reading about the Rwandan Genocide the other day, and I burst into tears. Not because of the despicable extermination of a marginalized, ethnic group -- though, I suppose that's important. Whatever, I guess. It was because it reminded me of my own pains, and the adversity I have been encountering. This is MY Vietnam, Facebook.
Facebook, are you mad at me? I keep trying to talk to you, but you always seem so mechanical, almost inhuman. I thought we had something going on. I let you in on my deepest thoughts, thoughts that I would only share with three hundred of my online friends. I let you live vicariously through me as I traveled the world and showed you the pictures of palatial monuments that I go see just to appear erudite and worldly, when all I want to be doing is gargling with gin. You always looked out for me. You reminded people to send me birthday wishes. You let me learn more about people I barely knew, as in they had just eaten breakfast, and how they were out of toilet paper. How will I now learn the mundane details about people who don't care about me? The residual practicality and grip on reality I shockingly still possess tells me to stop believing in you, but the devout part of me cannot live a life of apostasy. I'm clutching onto the hope you will answer my prayers, and one day, fix my profile, so I and others can view it. To make matters worse, Jack Dorsey, better known as Lucifer, with the aid of his aberrant creation, Twitter, has been Tweeting about how I should join his network via a 140-character limit, poorly constructed message: "Lolz Facebook is for chumps join us u can learn abt the gud life. also we have celebrities. SHOW US YER TITS N FREE YERSELF FROM TYRANNY!" Normally, I would find this verbal excretion -- littered with poor syntax and appalling grammatical errors -- repulsive and combat it by pleasuring myself while looking at a dictionary. However, I'll admit it, Facebook, in my hour of need, I felt... temptation. Then I remembered the first divine imperative from The Ten Commandments of Facebook: "Thou shalt not have any social network mediums before me". I knew I had sinned for even entertaining this thought, and immediately reprimanded myself by flogging myself with a cat o' nine tails, and chanting, "Dislike! Dislike! DISLIKE!" O Facebook, it is you that I lay prostrate in front of, trembling before thy glory. Why have you forsaken me? I keep trying to reach you through my messages. I hope you hear me, Facebook. I really need you right now. I fear to see what lies in the future. Laughing at Lolcats? Longing for Farmville?!! Facebook, give me the strength to resist the banality of the cyber wasteland that is trying to lure me from believing in you.
I always enjoy our talks. Thank you for listening to me, or letting me think you are. Now that my anxieties are assuaged, I'm going to go throw cabbage at the neighborhood children from my front stoop in my caftan, and think of how the steps I can take to pursue my true calling as a cat whisperer. Peace
I for one would have rather shot myself in the foot rather than miss a moment of advertising for Pioneer Village. And to miss 24 weekly invitations to CRAZY PARTY BONANZA!! at any one of the local guido-infested clubs?? I would have lost my soul in the madness.
You are a shining beacon of light and hope for us, the masses, in this tumultuous time, for we have no willpower save for what Facebook gives us. Thank you Sanjob, for you are truly the inspiration that guides all narcissists with access to the internet. Amen.
Sanbula has now regained full access to her profile and is no longer considering becoming a suicide bomber like her brown heritage dictates she should in all stressful situations.
"I have been trying to access my profile page, but it keeps loading blank."
Which swiftly turned into poetry:
"Blank Profile: A Haiku"
To speak face-to-face
Is not a way I know now
I need my profile
And finally, after comparing herself to the Biblical Job, her letters became one lengthy missive, punctuated with thoughtful commas and well-used dashes:
Are you there, Facebook? It's me, Sanbula.
I hope you can hear me. It's been a really tough two weeks. I've been trying to be strong, but it's been hard. I was reading about the Rwandan Genocide the other day, and I burst into tears. Not because of the despicable extermination of a marginalized, ethnic group -- though, I suppose that's important. Whatever, I guess. It was because it reminded me of my own pains, and the adversity I have been encountering. This is MY Vietnam, Facebook.
Facebook, are you mad at me? I keep trying to talk to you, but you always seem so mechanical, almost inhuman. I thought we had something going on. I let you in on my deepest thoughts, thoughts that I would only share with three hundred of my online friends. I let you live vicariously through me as I traveled the world and showed you the pictures of palatial monuments that I go see just to appear erudite and worldly, when all I want to be doing is gargling with gin. You always looked out for me. You reminded people to send me birthday wishes. You let me learn more about people I barely knew, as in they had just eaten breakfast, and how they were out of toilet paper. How will I now learn the mundane details about people who don't care about me? The residual practicality and grip on reality I shockingly still possess tells me to stop believing in you, but the devout part of me cannot live a life of apostasy. I'm clutching onto the hope you will answer my prayers, and one day, fix my profile, so I and others can view it. To make matters worse, Jack Dorsey, better known as Lucifer, with the aid of his aberrant creation, Twitter, has been Tweeting about how I should join his network via a 140-character limit, poorly constructed message: "Lolz Facebook is for chumps join us u can learn abt the gud life. also we have celebrities. SHOW US YER TITS N FREE YERSELF FROM TYRANNY!" Normally, I would find this verbal excretion -- littered with poor syntax and appalling grammatical errors -- repulsive and combat it by pleasuring myself while looking at a dictionary. However, I'll admit it, Facebook, in my hour of need, I felt... temptation. Then I remembered the first divine imperative from The Ten Commandments of Facebook: "Thou shalt not have any social network mediums before me". I knew I had sinned for even entertaining this thought, and immediately reprimanded myself by flogging myself with a cat o' nine tails, and chanting, "Dislike! Dislike! DISLIKE!" O Facebook, it is you that I lay prostrate in front of, trembling before thy glory. Why have you forsaken me? I keep trying to reach you through my messages. I hope you hear me, Facebook. I really need you right now. I fear to see what lies in the future. Laughing at Lolcats? Longing for Farmville?!! Facebook, give me the strength to resist the banality of the cyber wasteland that is trying to lure me from believing in you.
I always enjoy our talks. Thank you for listening to me, or letting me think you are. Now that my anxieties are assuaged, I'm going to go throw cabbage at the neighborhood children from my front stoop in my caftan, and think of how the steps I can take to pursue my true calling as a cat whisperer. Peace
I for one would have rather shot myself in the foot rather than miss a moment of advertising for Pioneer Village. And to miss 24 weekly invitations to CRAZY PARTY BONANZA!! at any one of the local guido-infested clubs?? I would have lost my soul in the madness.
You are a shining beacon of light and hope for us, the masses, in this tumultuous time, for we have no willpower save for what Facebook gives us. Thank you Sanjob, for you are truly the inspiration that guides all narcissists with access to the internet. Amen.
Sanbula has now regained full access to her profile and is no longer considering becoming a suicide bomber like her brown heritage dictates she should in all stressful situations.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Big Life Questions
All too often I've found myself wondering: What is the meaning of life? Where do we come from? Why are we here?
These kinds of philosophical questions are natural for those born under the Sagittarius constellation. We are, after all, the philosophers of the zodiac, the wanderers, and the adventurers. The arrow the centaur draws is thought to symbolize our desire for direction, and a higher purpose.
It seems relatively simple, then, to link the crappy astrological definition I pulled from google's third search result with the Sanndine Residence, the house I am currently living in. (For those still uneducated, that would be an amalgamation of Sarah, Anne, and Nadine, put together so cleverly by that master of linguistic tricks, Jason).
One morning, I woke up, pushed open my curtains, and pulled up my blinds to a sight so bewildering in my semi-sleep state I had to walk into the kitchen and look out that window to make certain of what I was staring at. What stared back at me was this:
If you're still having trouble, as I did, here is a close-up:
What is the purpose of this? Where did these come from? What is the meaning of life?
As you can see, my philosophical nature handled this situation optimally well. Sarah, Nadine, and I thought about it a while, discussed, and posed the question to our friends, but the best we could come up with is that the missionaries downstairs were either pranked, or playing some sort of fork game, like Don't Step On The Fork, or Plant Many Forks, the latter of which can be found in the New Testament.
We then overheard Greg, Priest-in-Training, discussing with Sam, or "Dad" that we might have been the ones to do it. Really? Three university-educated girls and all we could think of was to bombard our own backyard with a hundred plastic forks? Really boys? Really? Maybe it was a higher calling. All I know is that I found this little gem,
and now it doesn't matter what direction I'm going, because I'm sitting first class on Babylon Airlines with God as my captain. How do you know there's a pilot at the party? Don't worry, He'll tell you.
These kinds of philosophical questions are natural for those born under the Sagittarius constellation. We are, after all, the philosophers of the zodiac, the wanderers, and the adventurers. The arrow the centaur draws is thought to symbolize our desire for direction, and a higher purpose.
It seems relatively simple, then, to link the crappy astrological definition I pulled from google's third search result with the Sanndine Residence, the house I am currently living in. (For those still uneducated, that would be an amalgamation of Sarah, Anne, and Nadine, put together so cleverly by that master of linguistic tricks, Jason).
One morning, I woke up, pushed open my curtains, and pulled up my blinds to a sight so bewildering in my semi-sleep state I had to walk into the kitchen and look out that window to make certain of what I was staring at. What stared back at me was this:
If you're still having trouble, as I did, here is a close-up:
What is the purpose of this? Where did these come from? What is the meaning of life?
As you can see, my philosophical nature handled this situation optimally well. Sarah, Nadine, and I thought about it a while, discussed, and posed the question to our friends, but the best we could come up with is that the missionaries downstairs were either pranked, or playing some sort of fork game, like Don't Step On The Fork, or Plant Many Forks, the latter of which can be found in the New Testament.
We then overheard Greg, Priest-in-Training, discussing with Sam, or "Dad" that we might have been the ones to do it. Really? Three university-educated girls and all we could think of was to bombard our own backyard with a hundred plastic forks? Really boys? Really? Maybe it was a higher calling. All I know is that I found this little gem,
and now it doesn't matter what direction I'm going, because I'm sitting first class on Babylon Airlines with God as my captain. How do you know there's a pilot at the party? Don't worry, He'll tell you.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
And now for the weather...
A fair amount of absurd things have happened recently, making up for that drought in April.
This week the weather went something like this:
Thursday: Calgary experiences winter, in the spring, and I experience a frisbee to the eye, giving me the opportunity to look like a pirate for the next two weeks, at least. I cannot open my eye the second day, and by day 4 it has turned a magnificent shade of magenta. Hot guy at trendy downtown restaurant stares at me during lunch hour and for 5 minutes I believe it is because we are undeniably soul mates, then realize I look like an abused housewife and he's probably wondering if he should call social services.
Saturday: High winds and a craze of moving as Sarah and I leave the Enchanted Forest in search of greener pastures and find that and more in roommate #3 Nadine's ten million plants. The Jungle seems a rather suiting name for the new house...
Monday: Heavy rain and high possibility of the fish dying due to loss of fish bowl cleaner during the move. Have a mini-panic episode that includes Sarah driving around the city to find a 24-hour walmart (they don't exist) and phonecalls to fish connoisseur friend Andrew who tells us in no uncertain terms Sangsom is pretty much fucked.
The fish lives, but Sarah will feel the shame of poor mothering for the rest of her life and will undoubtedly never let her real children feed and/or clothe themselves to make up for it.
Wednesday: Scattered showers and bible-thumpers; find out the 5 boys living downstairs in the 3-bedroom basement suite are all h-core Roman Catholic missionaries. Were afraid they were too loud during the morning "Our Father" as boys #2 and #3 got really into the chant. Also find a book entitled Fit for Eternal Life in basement windowsill and stare at it for a good 10 minutes. On that note, I sure hope my mother gets me this charming scripture bracelet for my graduation present. After all, not only do I get to feel timeless words of wisdom boring into my skin at all times, but it comes complete with silky tassel embellishment. If anything says Anne, it's a silky tassel.
Thursday: Low pressure system moving in as we are alerted by our priest-in-training from downstairs that a naked, masturbating peeping tom is on the loose in our neighbourhood. Sarah is horrified; I am humoured to the point of laughter. Nadine informs us she caught the guy staring at her at her old house; I am in hysterics.
Priest-in-training comes back to tell us that my car lights are on. Confused as to how to handle chivalrous religious zealots and decide the best course of action is a dose of home-baked cookies laced with agnosticism.
Humility rises to about 90% as between my mother and I we can't seem to figure out how to get my brother's car hood down. Realize it is much simpler than we thought and end up closing it with one hand pressing down on the hood. Don't really want to get into this further.
Friday: Temperature in the twenties yet people are still renting damn skis. Don't they know what happens to snow at temperatures past 0 degrees? Also, the damn Austrian is still here. Ian and I thought he had finally gone back to his country and we would never have to set a pair of Alpine Touring skis for him ever again, but he is now back in full-force for climbing, accompanied by his Norwegian friend who somehow lost a pair of Outdoor Centre boots, had to replace them, and is now bitter European #2 whom we have to deal with on a regular basis. Still not as bad as the Austrian.
Forecast for tomorrow: Partly cloudy with a chance of the Austrian. As always.
This week the weather went something like this:
Thursday: Calgary experiences winter, in the spring, and I experience a frisbee to the eye, giving me the opportunity to look like a pirate for the next two weeks, at least. I cannot open my eye the second day, and by day 4 it has turned a magnificent shade of magenta. Hot guy at trendy downtown restaurant stares at me during lunch hour and for 5 minutes I believe it is because we are undeniably soul mates, then realize I look like an abused housewife and he's probably wondering if he should call social services.
Saturday: High winds and a craze of moving as Sarah and I leave the Enchanted Forest in search of greener pastures and find that and more in roommate #3 Nadine's ten million plants. The Jungle seems a rather suiting name for the new house...
Monday: Heavy rain and high possibility of the fish dying due to loss of fish bowl cleaner during the move. Have a mini-panic episode that includes Sarah driving around the city to find a 24-hour walmart (they don't exist) and phonecalls to fish connoisseur friend Andrew who tells us in no uncertain terms Sangsom is pretty much fucked.
The fish lives, but Sarah will feel the shame of poor mothering for the rest of her life and will undoubtedly never let her real children feed and/or clothe themselves to make up for it.
Wednesday: Scattered showers and bible-thumpers; find out the 5 boys living downstairs in the 3-bedroom basement suite are all h-core Roman Catholic missionaries. Were afraid they were too loud during the morning "Our Father" as boys #2 and #3 got really into the chant. Also find a book entitled Fit for Eternal Life in basement windowsill and stare at it for a good 10 minutes. On that note, I sure hope my mother gets me this charming scripture bracelet for my graduation present. After all, not only do I get to feel timeless words of wisdom boring into my skin at all times, but it comes complete with silky tassel embellishment. If anything says Anne, it's a silky tassel.
Thursday: Low pressure system moving in as we are alerted by our priest-in-training from downstairs that a naked, masturbating peeping tom is on the loose in our neighbourhood. Sarah is horrified; I am humoured to the point of laughter. Nadine informs us she caught the guy staring at her at her old house; I am in hysterics.
Priest-in-training comes back to tell us that my car lights are on. Confused as to how to handle chivalrous religious zealots and decide the best course of action is a dose of home-baked cookies laced with agnosticism.
Humility rises to about 90% as between my mother and I we can't seem to figure out how to get my brother's car hood down. Realize it is much simpler than we thought and end up closing it with one hand pressing down on the hood. Don't really want to get into this further.
Friday: Temperature in the twenties yet people are still renting damn skis. Don't they know what happens to snow at temperatures past 0 degrees? Also, the damn Austrian is still here. Ian and I thought he had finally gone back to his country and we would never have to set a pair of Alpine Touring skis for him ever again, but he is now back in full-force for climbing, accompanied by his Norwegian friend who somehow lost a pair of Outdoor Centre boots, had to replace them, and is now bitter European #2 whom we have to deal with on a regular basis. Still not as bad as the Austrian.
Forecast for tomorrow: Partly cloudy with a chance of the Austrian. As always.
Monday, May 10, 2010
What, what, WHAT are you doing.
Sometimes, I wonder how I have friends.
It's not that I don't have a winning personality punctuated by a friendly demeanor and general body language that really says "lets hug", but I fear that sometimes I let out my inner Sassy Gay Friend.
What is a Sassy Gay Friend? It's the friend who's there when you're in need, but don't know it. The friend who opens your eyes to better fashion choices ("You're wearing that in public?"), the friend who knows when less is more ("It's fall! When did that happen?" "Somewhere between your ovaries and my boredom."), and the friend who generally encourages you to be the best you can be ("You big sluuuuuut, good for you!!").
Famous Sassy Gay Friends:
Anthony Marantino (of Sex and the City)
Clinton (of What Not To Wear)
Those guys in He's Just Not That Into You
and of course...
SASSY GAY FRIEND
It's not that I don't have a winning personality punctuated by a friendly demeanor and general body language that really says "lets hug", but I fear that sometimes I let out my inner Sassy Gay Friend.
What is a Sassy Gay Friend? It's the friend who's there when you're in need, but don't know it. The friend who opens your eyes to better fashion choices ("You're wearing that in public?"), the friend who knows when less is more ("It's fall! When did that happen?" "Somewhere between your ovaries and my boredom."), and the friend who generally encourages you to be the best you can be ("You big sluuuuuut, good for you!!").
Famous Sassy Gay Friends:
Anthony Marantino (of Sex and the City)
Clinton (of What Not To Wear)
Those guys in He's Just Not That Into You
and of course...
SASSY GAY FRIEND
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I don't know what I'm training for, but I hope it never happens
I honestly don't know what I did all those years without cable. No CSI, no Warrick Brown. No Olympics, no Brian Williams. No Secret Life of a Call Girl, no...well no classy entertainment. And worst of all, no commercials.
Last week I found the advertisement of a lifetime, the new Old Spice campaign with my newest celebrity crush, Isaiah Mustafa. I suggest watching the amazingly hilarious commercial, man.
My mancrush totally and completely sold me on man-scented bodywash, even though I am neither a man, nor do I have one to use this bodywash on. Doesn't matter. All I know is that he has two tickets to that thing I love.
This evening's television viewing uncovered the El Dorado and other rich and vast ancient treasures of exercise machines. 3-Minute Legs and the Shake Weight. Rather than point you to just the ads themselves, I will give you Ellen, who keenly demonstrates the results you will reap with these fun, easy, fun, fast, fun, fat-burning, inch-scouring, and yes fun machines, designed for who else? Women. Because remember, we should all smell like butterflies, and salt taffy. If the Shake Weight can't do that, I don't know what can.
**Edit: I posted the original 3-Minute Legs workout on my friend Jason's wall. He is a certified personal trainer and works in the health and wellness industry. He had the following to say:
Jason N
My favorite quotes:
"until now [squat and lunges] were too hard; too difficult"
-I shouldn't even start. It probably won't be facebook appropriate
"It's a 3 minute miracle!"
-speechless
"It holds up to 275lbs"
-I can squat that
"Ordinary lunges can hurt your knees if you lose your balance"
-You can get injured anywhere if you lose balance
"Regular squats can be BRUTAL on your back"
-Yes......that must be why proper lifting techniques require a squat
"It has a depth control cable that prevents you from going too low"
-The population in China hasn't been injured from going to the bathroom yet
Thanks for the professional opinion Jason. And viewers, stay tuned.
Last week I found the advertisement of a lifetime, the new Old Spice campaign with my newest celebrity crush, Isaiah Mustafa. I suggest watching the amazingly hilarious commercial, man.
My mancrush totally and completely sold me on man-scented bodywash, even though I am neither a man, nor do I have one to use this bodywash on. Doesn't matter. All I know is that he has two tickets to that thing I love.
This evening's television viewing uncovered the El Dorado and other rich and vast ancient treasures of exercise machines. 3-Minute Legs and the Shake Weight. Rather than point you to just the ads themselves, I will give you Ellen, who keenly demonstrates the results you will reap with these fun, easy, fun, fast, fun, fat-burning, inch-scouring, and yes fun machines, designed for who else? Women. Because remember, we should all smell like butterflies, and salt taffy. If the Shake Weight can't do that, I don't know what can.
**Edit: I posted the original 3-Minute Legs workout on my friend Jason's wall. He is a certified personal trainer and works in the health and wellness industry. He had the following to say:
Jason N
My favorite quotes:
"until now [squat and lunges] were too hard; too difficult"
-I shouldn't even start. It probably won't be facebook appropriate
"It's a 3 minute miracle!"
-speechless
"It holds up to 275lbs"
-I can squat that
"Ordinary lunges can hurt your knees if you lose your balance"
-You can get injured anywhere if you lose balance
"Regular squats can be BRUTAL on your back"
-Yes......that must be why proper lifting techniques require a squat
"It has a depth control cable that prevents you from going too low"
-The population in China hasn't been injured from going to the bathroom yet
Thanks for the professional opinion Jason. And viewers, stay tuned.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Step aside Brian Williams
I realize it's been some time since the Vancouver twentyten Winter Olympics, but as I was glued to my set for the entirety of the games many things still remain fresh in my memory. Alex Bilodeau and his historic gold medal (I'm going to thank Brian Williams for burning that phrase into my head), faulty mechanics in the opening ceremonies leading to an embarrassing no flame-show for Catriona and consequently and even more embarrassing closing ceremonies (I napped through most of them but caught Avril Lavigne and scantily-clad mounties, enough to put any Canadian to shame), and of course...the fashion.
Allow me to start with figure skating, since it's just so easy:
Sarah and I couldn't figure out what Michal Brezina was going for, and at first couldn't even decide with all that spinning and fluttering whether the band at the waist was part of the shiny pink sequined sweater vest or part of the slacks. Yes, slacks. Is this Czech for guido? In the end, we realized that what he in fact embodied was k.d.lang at the office. She'd probably tone down the slacks, probably something a little more neutral, but definitely keep the bling.
I tried to find a picture of Evan Lysacek too, but failed, so will just emphasize that the black, feathered ensemble he wore made him look like the Adams Family meets Swan Lake. Instead, I will leave you with this:
What? Looks like Krippendorf could have his PhD thesis after all with this tribe of two. OH SNAP.
I also wanted to showcase the inappropriate jeanpants the American snowboarders were wearing and the fine moustache of the French halfpipe snowboarder well-dubbed "Inspector Clouseau" (his coach sported the same facial fashion), but could only find pictures of Shaun White smiling, Shaun White grinning, Shaun White winning, Shaun White paraphernalia, and so on and so forth. Halfpipe should have just been renamed to "Come Watch Shaun White".
As for the commentating during these games, nothing could beat David Pelletier's dry wit and French Canadian boldness
("Are they channeling their inner Avatar? This is why you don't let the competition design your outfits.") , but the women's alpine skiing peeps sure came close:
"My that was quite the spill Diane."
"Sure was! Wow she's still going, looks like she might make it to the finish line on her bum!"
"Well, she'd be real competition in luge."
"And the French skiier takes off! And she...oh my. Looks like she just....tipped over. Do you think she's hurt?"
"I think it's just her pride that's hurt Dave."
Thanks Vancouver, Brian Williams, and the rest of the CTV news team. Alex Bilodeau, men's hockey, and a 1 2 finish in women's bobsleigh may have captured the hearts and imaginations of millions of viewers, but to me the 2010 Olympics will always be Avatar catastrophes and poor sport choices.
Allow me to start with figure skating, since it's just so easy:
Sarah and I couldn't figure out what Michal Brezina was going for, and at first couldn't even decide with all that spinning and fluttering whether the band at the waist was part of the shiny pink sequined sweater vest or part of the slacks. Yes, slacks. Is this Czech for guido? In the end, we realized that what he in fact embodied was k.d.lang at the office. She'd probably tone down the slacks, probably something a little more neutral, but definitely keep the bling.
I tried to find a picture of Evan Lysacek too, but failed, so will just emphasize that the black, feathered ensemble he wore made him look like the Adams Family meets Swan Lake. Instead, I will leave you with this:
What? Looks like Krippendorf could have his PhD thesis after all with this tribe of two. OH SNAP.
I also wanted to showcase the inappropriate jeanpants the American snowboarders were wearing and the fine moustache of the French halfpipe snowboarder well-dubbed "Inspector Clouseau" (his coach sported the same facial fashion), but could only find pictures of Shaun White smiling, Shaun White grinning, Shaun White winning, Shaun White paraphernalia, and so on and so forth. Halfpipe should have just been renamed to "Come Watch Shaun White".
As for the commentating during these games, nothing could beat David Pelletier's dry wit and French Canadian boldness
("Are they channeling their inner Avatar? This is why you don't let the competition design your outfits.") , but the women's alpine skiing peeps sure came close:
"My that was quite the spill Diane."
"Sure was! Wow she's still going, looks like she might make it to the finish line on her bum!"
"Well, she'd be real competition in luge."
"And the French skiier takes off! And she...oh my. Looks like she just....tipped over. Do you think she's hurt?"
"I think it's just her pride that's hurt Dave."
Thanks Vancouver, Brian Williams, and the rest of the CTV news team. Alex Bilodeau, men's hockey, and a 1 2 finish in women's bobsleigh may have captured the hearts and imaginations of millions of viewers, but to me the 2010 Olympics will always be Avatar catastrophes and poor sport choices.
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