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!
Monday, July 25, 2011
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
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