1) Sleep in
2) Don’t go to work
3) Blog
4) Play video games
5) Hang out with Deanne (from the world-famous “internet”) in DC before she flies back to London.
6) More video games
7) Repeat 1-4 tomorrow.
8) Call you all bitches.
You are all bitches.
Archive for November, 2007
Like the other folks I’ve seen who have posted about this, I saw the below beer-like item in the store and couldn’t resist purchasing it.
The can says that beer, clamato, salt, and lime is the perfect combination, but even before tasting it, I was pretty sure that was a lie.
And as you can see here, this portion of the can says that it’s got “natural flavor” and “certified color”. Wait. What? Certified color? What the hell does that mean? Certified at doing what? By whom? I’m beginning to think this is a really bad idea.
Sweet clamato-infused Jesus, there’s MORE text?! I didn’t have any idea that Bud Light had such a opinion of their customers and their customer’s level of literacy. For those of you with tiny monitors (iPhone douchebags, I’m talking to you) or with poorly-functioning old-people eyes, the text says “Enjoy the best of two worlds: a refreshing Bud Light and the unique flavor of Clamato. Drink a Red One, ready to go, or use your favorite ingredients to make it yours - wherever, whenever!” Alright, I have more than a few problems with this statement so let’s break it down:
The best of two worlds- I’m pretty sure neither Bud Light nor Clamato is the best of any worlds, and if they are the best of two worlds, I don’t want to visit either of those inbred, disease-ridden, planetary Wal-Marts.
the unique flavor of Clamato- Unique, because who else besides the original inventor would think, “You know what would make tomatoes better? Clams!”
Drink a Red One- A “Red One”?! Really? Really? This is the nickname you came up with, Bud Light? Somebody needs to be fired.
use your favorite ingredients to make it yours- “Hey honey! HONEY! We got any of that ham and broccoli casserole left? I’ma add it to my Bud Light Clamato because I’m about to make this bitch MINE!”
wherever, whenever- “Yes, interstates, road trips, daily commutes, whatever. We don’t care.”
We’re only through the label and I already hate this shit, so it had better taste like a canned orgasm.
That is not right. That is not good.
Oh, yeah, THERE’S a color found in nature. “We painted this room Sky Blue, and this one is Pine Green, and the baby’s room is Murderous Rampage with no Survivors that ended in a Bloody Bullet-Ridden Carcass, or Clamato Red, as we like to call it. It’s the color of insanity!”
“Yes, yes,” I can hear you screeching at your computer, “but how does it taste, you malignant douchebag?!” Well, I thought long and hard about it, and am prepared to offer only this: Imagine if you mixed Bloody-Mary mix and beer and drank that. You’d think, “Hey, this isn’t really that bad.” So then you proceed to have two dozen of them, and eat a wheelbarrow full of day-old clams that have been sitting in the sun. Eventually your body stages an uprising, and you pass out on a hotel bed that hasn’t has its linens changed in weeks. All through the night your body excretes from every pore the horrible sweat that can only be brewed after ingesting beer, clams, and tomato juice. That sweat soaks into the bed until it eventually forms a puddle, and for some reason that puddle and all the excess moisture in your sheets is later wrung out into an old rusty bucket.
Drinking a Bud Light Chelada is like drinking from that bucket.
Redonkulously busy today, but a quick logistical note about the blog regarding that giant green button in the upper right.
In the past people have purchased things for me during the holidays from my Amazon wishlist, and I’ve certainly appreciated it. This year we’ve replaced the link for the wishlist with a link to a charity that we think is pretty deserving. It’s called “Child’s Play” and since 2003, over 100,000 gamers worldwide have banded together through Child’s Play, a community based charity grown and nurtured from the game culture and industry. Over two million dollars in donations of toys, games, books and cash for sick kids in children’s hospitals across North America and the world have been collected since its inception. You can even specifically donate to the Johns Hopkins Children’s Hospital here in Baltimore.
So, if you were thinking about giving me something this year I’d encourage you to consider sending a book, dvd, or game to a sick kid who is stuck in the hospital getting chemo, or going through surgery during the holidays.
If this charity, or charity in general, isn’t your thing, don’t worry about it.
Everything is right with the world.
If you show up for an interview wearing a belt with a pot-leaf belt buckle, you will not get the job.
Hey, okay, first of all, don’t forget about the happy hour tonight. It’s gonna be superawesomefantastic! With a side of greatgoodjustokay! And a dash of nicealrightiguesssortoffun! And everybody gets a free blowjob from Jwer’s mom! Just like every day except you don’t have to hear her whine for bus fare home.
Anyway, I’ve been taking lots of pictures lately, and since it’s Friday and I pretend to care about the people that read this blog, I’ve combined two short posts into one medium length post! You can pay me later.
The first thing I saw the other day was this:
Mrs. ACW and I are cheap, so we buy off-brand soda from the grocery store because it’s pretty much the same as the regular stuff, but I draw the line at a product called “Mountain Showers”. Primarily because for some reason I think it shares the name with a feminine hygiene product. Second of all because I don’t want to know what kind of perverted niche sex fetish goes along with a term like “mountain showers”. It probably involves cramming your ass with gravel before having anal sex and then making dumptruck beeping back-up noises before your “shower” your partner with a “mountain” of stones. (Look for this practice in the next Republican family-values hypocrite scandal next week.)
The other thing I saw was this:
Mrs. ACW and I were buying booze, because we need it to cope with one another, and they had this up at the counter. I took one look at the over the top fear-mongering propaganda and wondered what group was behind it. Flipping it over gave me my answer right away.
If you can’t read the small print at the bottom, it says that it was paid for by Phillip Morris USA. I’m glad PM is so altruistic that they’re simply looking out for the poor, downtrodden smoker. They can’t possibly have any other motive to intentionally misrepresent the truth. They just care SO MUCH about the little guy that they really REALLY want to help. Really.
Well Phillip Morris can eat a bag of dicks, and then go take a mountain shower with… let’s say… Roscoe Bartlett.
Though I didn’t see any pigs last night, there certainly were a few roaming the office today. Mrs. ACW gave out one singular piece of candy from the 3 pound bag of Snickers, Milky Way, and Three Musketeers that she purchased, so I grabbed the rest and brought it in to work because I sure as hell don’t want that shit lying around. One hour later it’s gone. All of it. Totally gone. Not a wrapper in sight. It’s a small office, only about 10 employees in today. And these are people with children, who no doubt rummaged through their candy last night and this morning, while also eating from what they were giving out.
Then they corner me in the kitchen and say, “You’re so skinny! How can I be skinny like you?”
Don’t eat three pounds of candy, dumbshits. Also, stop eating 3000 calories in one meal.
Shockingly, last night wasn’t that bad. Not ALL bad anyway. Parking on my brother’s street was kind of difficult, which is odd, because typically there’s a huge expanse of parking that any idiot could drive a limo into. In fact, most of his neighbors are SO desperately clinging to their cushy suburban lifestyle that they will YELL at you if you don’t leave an ENTIRE car length of empty space between your car and their car. As if parking 3 feet away from their bumper is the equivalent of welding their car into a metal box and burying it 20 feet underground. So last night was kind of crazy because families from all over bussed their kids in to sweep through the densely packed townhouses on an evening quest to give their children pancreatic shock and early onset diabetes.
And though many piglets lined up at the trough last night, I didn’t see any that were particularly plump, particularly greedy, or particularly rude. Though Mokie did inform me that one little plumpkin grabbed a pudgy handful of candy after his friends had modestly selected one piece each, and even after Mokie barked out an admonishment of “Aa!” typically reserved for disciplining his dog did the little porker drop most of the handful, stuffing what remained stuck to his sweaty hand into his bag before absconding.
Aside from the typical groups of kids that I saw last night, there are three I’d like to describe to you. The first group consisted of three teenagers; two in costume, one too “cool” or too embarrassed to dress up hung out on the sidewalk, douchetooth headset firmly implanted into his ear. Admittedly, the two that had dressed up were in good costumes. The young man was dressed in a toga (and not just a bedsheet) and the young woman was dressed in lederhosen and said “trick or treat,” or some variation thereof, in German, but as someone who doesn’t speak German, I have no idea if she was lying or not. They seemed to be dating, and I thought, “You could be having sex right now, but you’re out collecting candy. How sad.” Because generally, I think if you’re old enough for sex, you’re too old for trick or treating. So I made them say “trick or treat” in unison three times at increasing volumes until they said it sufficiently loudly enough. Then I gave them each one year-old tootsie roll that Mokie had been distributing to all the kids. It’s good to be the king.
The second group was depressing at best. Two more teens with a younger sibling (child?) in tow came to the door and when I opened it I realized they were both actively smoking. Each held a lit cigarette between index and middle fingers of the same hand that clutched at a greasy yellowed pillowcase that they were using to collect candy. In fairness, they said “trick or treat” and “please” and “thank you” and “Happy Halloween” and in general were the only group that didn’t have to be prodded to do so, but if you’re old enough to smoke, you’re too old to be trick or treating. They got year-old tootsie rolls as well, and seemingly happy, moved on.
The final group featured three boys who appeared to be about 9 or 10 years old. Two of them were dressed as Spiderman, or a skeleton, or Batman, or a ninja, or something else forgettable, but the other one was dressed as Leonidas from 300. I pointed to the two uninspiring candy-hobos and said, “You say ‘trick or treat’” and then pointed to the little Leonidas and said, “You say the line from the movie.”
“Trick or treat” came the response from the unimaginative piglets. “Really?” said Leonidas.
“Yes.”
He huffed and dropped his head, and I figured I had just hurt his feelings or pushed too far into his comfort zone when he looked up again and literally bellowed, “This is SPARTAAAA!” I cracked up, everybody inside cracked up, and his parents waiting on the sidewalk cracked up. I dropped a year-old tootsie roll into the bag of each whatever they were, and told the Spartan to wait. I ran back inside and grabbed the one full-sized candy bar that we had and dropped it into his bucket.
“Thanks!”
I was hoping for more kids to mess with, but the streets were getting sparse and the groups were fewer and further between. Five minutes later we ran out of candy, shut off the lights, and concluded another Halloween.
