My mom reads my blog (that's why it's always so squeaky-clean and full of happiness and flowers). Whenever you see comments that are from "anonymous," and that end in "love you! - mom," those are from her.
I'd like to give my mom a shout-out today for not only reading and commenting on my blog, but for greatly enhancing its content. She is the astute commenter, dear readers, who pointed out that the picture I shared with you in my last post was (maybe) of Ringo Starr's violinist. This put my mind at ease for a number of reasons, mainly 1) It explained why the first three pages of Google Image search for "sexy violinist" were populated with this woman's picture (she's quasi-Beatles-related! Of course she comes first!) 2) Let's just say I have some theories about Ringo Starr, international espionage and Julia Child, which are confirmed by the presence of hot Asian violinist.
Not only has my mom (maybe) solved the mystery of the Asian violinist, but she has solved the Greatest Mystery OF ALL TIME: Who was that flamboyant fiddler of fiery (f)passions that I saw on the TeeVee?
Yes. My mom watched, and waited, and finally, one fateful (f)Tuesday evening, she saw the commercial for herself. Then, like a good mom, she texted me while I was in class:
From: Mom
Violinist is david garret! I just saw the commercial.
Me: hahahahaha
I took my mom's word for it, and did not try to actually look him up, to match glorious face to name, until this second.
He is real!
He is also German and sort of goofy and endearing (I watched A LOT of YouTube videos to get one that captured the essence of that first commercial. The things I do for you people!), so I feel a little bad about mocking his "Sexy Violins!" schtick. But not too bad. If his handlers really wanted to impress me, they would play up the "stuttering man-boy" part of his persona - that's way more impressive for a VIOLIN VIRTUOSO (TM) to be borne of.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sexual violins on a Sunday
Per my weekend routine, I was watching CBS Sunday Morning a few hours ago. It was delightful.
The End.
JK dudes! I had to write something because, during the peaceful, simple hour and a half of CBSSM, a commercial came on that nearly shattered my conception of everything CBSSM is about.
There was a dark screen, and a fierce orchestral screeching struck up! Murky, quasi-religious symbols floated in the background, and then excited, deep-voiced announcer guy came on to tell us about, "a new CD, from the most exciting violinist OF ALL TIME."
Bold claim, deep-voiced announcer guy! I mean, there are so many truly thrilling classical musicians running around, titillating America these days!
This particular violinist has a secret weapon, though: he is SEXY. He emerges from the blackness, square jaw clenched, luxurious blond locks swept back into a Fabio-esque ponytail (except, of course, for a single, come-hither tendril, falling over his intense, jewel-like eyes). His black, button-down shirt has been rent apart (no doubt by hormonally crazed female fans) to show his smooth, muscular chest. And thus, HE PLAYS. Rhythmically, forcefully, EXCITINGLY.
I was so blown away, I neglected to catch the name of this classical Casanova, so, sadly, though I wanted nothing more than to share this soul-plumbing experience with you, I cannot find it on YouTube (although I searched "sexy violinist" "most exciting violinist" and even "violin, sexy, long hair"). Nor does this man exist on Amazon, where searches for America's favorite violin CDs (and who knew there would be so many?) yielded only track upon track of Joshua Bell - a floppy-haired child! He cannot satisfy our violin needs!
Readers, please, be alert. If you hear a violin, and it touches your heart in a way no violin has before - take note! This is our man - the man who will lead the sexual violin revolution. Write down his name and then find his commercial. You will not be disappointed.
Post-script: I was looking for a picture to run with this, and, apparently, only women are allowed to be sexy violin players. DID I DREAM OF THIS MAN?
The End.
JK dudes! I had to write something because, during the peaceful, simple hour and a half of CBSSM, a commercial came on that nearly shattered my conception of everything CBSSM is about.
There was a dark screen, and a fierce orchestral screeching struck up! Murky, quasi-religious symbols floated in the background, and then excited, deep-voiced announcer guy came on to tell us about, "a new CD, from the most exciting violinist OF ALL TIME."
Bold claim, deep-voiced announcer guy! I mean, there are so many truly thrilling classical musicians running around, titillating America these days!
This particular violinist has a secret weapon, though: he is SEXY. He emerges from the blackness, square jaw clenched, luxurious blond locks swept back into a Fabio-esque ponytail (except, of course, for a single, come-hither tendril, falling over his intense, jewel-like eyes). His black, button-down shirt has been rent apart (no doubt by hormonally crazed female fans) to show his smooth, muscular chest. And thus, HE PLAYS. Rhythmically, forcefully, EXCITINGLY.
I was so blown away, I neglected to catch the name of this classical Casanova, so, sadly, though I wanted nothing more than to share this soul-plumbing experience with you, I cannot find it on YouTube (although I searched "sexy violinist" "most exciting violinist" and even "violin, sexy, long hair"). Nor does this man exist on Amazon, where searches for America's favorite violin CDs (and who knew there would be so many?) yielded only track upon track of Joshua Bell - a floppy-haired child! He cannot satisfy our violin needs!
Readers, please, be alert. If you hear a violin, and it touches your heart in a way no violin has before - take note! This is our man - the man who will lead the sexual violin revolution. Write down his name and then find his commercial. You will not be disappointed.
Post-script: I was looking for a picture to run with this, and, apparently, only women are allowed to be sexy violin players. DID I DREAM OF THIS MAN?
Friday, July 9, 2010
Because LeBron needs one more person to write about him
I don't know anything about basketball. Nor do I care anything about Cleveland, but still, something - perhaps the collective rage-gasm that is shaking all of non-Miami America, rattling their bones and forcing them to extreme quotation marks usage? - makes me want to understand this whole LeBron James thingamajig (and by that, I mean, garble out a ridiculous metaphor that I thought up in the shower).
So it's like this: LeBron might be good at basketball or whatever, but I don't think people are really all that mad about that. Other people are good at basketball too -- but those other people are not from Cleveland.
It's like if the Empire State Building suddenly said, "You know, New York has been great and all, but I think I can be on more postcards if I move to St. Louis, with the Arch. Archie and I have known each other for a while, and I think, together, we can get into more tourist photos and movie backgrounds than I can by myself here in the Big Apple."
New Yorkers would be all, "Hellllll no!" And not because the Empire State Building is the freakin' awesomest building around (we don't even have a giant gorilla hanging off the top, as so often happened in the good old days), but just because it's OURS. We built it, it got famous here; we even trained it to light up in appropriate colors for different city events. What did St. Louis ever do?
And where do they get off luring it away when they already have the Arch? Is old Empy going to light up in Cardinals colors now? CARDINALS? UGH.
St. Louis will get theirs in the end, though. In a Team Edward/Team Jacob-style schism, the city will be rent asunder by the dueling preferences of its fans:
"Put the ESB on its OWN postcard!"
"Put the Arch on top of the ESB!"
"No, put the ESB under the Arch!"
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Whatever! We're angry, midwestern townsfolk!"
Bitterness will develop between Empy and Archie, as each wonders who is truly better loved by his home city. ESB will consider returning home - only to discover that a new, combination PinkBerry/statue of Jay-Z and Mike Bloomberg shaking hands has been built in its old space. ESB will become despondent, sinking a good 10 or 20 stories into the damp mud of the Mississippi River. St. Louis will be blamed for the demise of a once-promising young building. New York will sell a whole mess of PinkBerry in commemorative Jay-Z cups. The world will turn black for three days and three nights, and then everyone will forget this ever happened.
So it's like this: LeBron might be good at basketball or whatever, but I don't think people are really all that mad about that. Other people are good at basketball too -- but those other people are not from Cleveland.
It's like if the Empire State Building suddenly said, "You know, New York has been great and all, but I think I can be on more postcards if I move to St. Louis, with the Arch. Archie and I have known each other for a while, and I think, together, we can get into more tourist photos and movie backgrounds than I can by myself here in the Big Apple."
New Yorkers would be all, "Hellllll no!" And not because the Empire State Building is the freakin' awesomest building around (we don't even have a giant gorilla hanging off the top, as so often happened in the good old days), but just because it's OURS. We built it, it got famous here; we even trained it to light up in appropriate colors for different city events. What did St. Louis ever do?
And where do they get off luring it away when they already have the Arch? Is old Empy going to light up in Cardinals colors now? CARDINALS? UGH.
St. Louis will get theirs in the end, though. In a Team Edward/Team Jacob-style schism, the city will be rent asunder by the dueling preferences of its fans:
"Put the ESB on its OWN postcard!"
"Put the Arch on top of the ESB!"
"No, put the ESB under the Arch!"
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Whatever! We're angry, midwestern townsfolk!"
Bitterness will develop between Empy and Archie, as each wonders who is truly better loved by his home city. ESB will consider returning home - only to discover that a new, combination PinkBerry/statue of Jay-Z and Mike Bloomberg shaking hands has been built in its old space. ESB will become despondent, sinking a good 10 or 20 stories into the damp mud of the Mississippi River. St. Louis will be blamed for the demise of a once-promising young building. New York will sell a whole mess of PinkBerry in commemorative Jay-Z cups. The world will turn black for three days and three nights, and then everyone will forget this ever happened.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Don't you feel clean - oui or non?
I'm writing a lot about shower products lately. Bear with me - I spend a lot of time either in the shower or thinking I should be in the shower because I smell kinda funky (thanks, Tom's of Maine deodorant stick of worthlessness!).
Getting so much face time with bath products has made me curious: why is everything written on the bottle in perfectly clear English repeated in French on the exact same bottle?
This bizarro, French copy-catification happens on soap, shampoos, rasors, lady products - pretty much everything having to do with personal hygiene. These things are not, to my knowledge, being sold to French people. Nor are they created in France, so I am confused about this extraneous and careless use of the French language. If I've learned anything from Pepe LePeu cartoons and/or the type of people who brought us "freedom fries," it's that the French are not anywhere close to experts on the subject of personal hygiene. Love, oui. Wine, bien sur. Soap - maybe once a week if vee can stop zee smooching for long enough! Honhonhon!
Obviously, given the above, extremely factual example, the idea that the French would have any say in America's cleanliness is ridiculous.
This is either some sort of nefarious plot by the French that is too complicated for me to even explain, a kind but misguided effort to encourage more American-like bathroom behaviors among our French brethren, or, even worse, a ridiculous attempt by American marketing people to fancify an American product for American consumers...by talking about it in a language none of these people knows.
My money is on choice #3. Only the type of people who appreciate "Burst"-scented things would think a French is a sexysexy surefire way to sell people on soap. It's not enough for these people that my shaving cream smells like a cabana blender or that my soap is "purifying" me instead of just cleaning me - my shower now has to be French as well. It's elegant, like when a restaurant puts "gateau" on its menu instead of "cake" or when people order "french fries" instead of "freedom taters."
Getting so much face time with bath products has made me curious: why is everything written on the bottle in perfectly clear English repeated in French on the exact same bottle?
This bizarro, French copy-catification happens on soap, shampoos, rasors, lady products - pretty much everything having to do with personal hygiene. These things are not, to my knowledge, being sold to French people. Nor are they created in France, so I am confused about this extraneous and careless use of the French language. If I've learned anything from Pepe LePeu cartoons and/or the type of people who brought us "freedom fries," it's that the French are not anywhere close to experts on the subject of personal hygiene. Love, oui. Wine, bien sur. Soap - maybe once a week if vee can stop zee smooching for long enough! Honhonhon!Obviously, given the above, extremely factual example, the idea that the French would have any say in America's cleanliness is ridiculous.
This is either some sort of nefarious plot by the French that is too complicated for me to even explain, a kind but misguided effort to encourage more American-like bathroom behaviors among our French brethren, or, even worse, a ridiculous attempt by American marketing people to fancify an American product for American consumers...by talking about it in a language none of these people knows.
My money is on choice #3. Only the type of people who appreciate "Burst"-scented things would think a French is a sexysexy surefire way to sell people on soap. It's not enough for these people that my shaving cream smells like a cabana blender or that my soap is "purifying" me instead of just cleaning me - my shower now has to be French as well. It's elegant, like when a restaurant puts "gateau" on its menu instead of "cake" or when people order "french fries" instead of "freedom taters."
Friday, July 2, 2010
Meeting My Needs
There are many things in this life that I truly, desperately need: liquid assets, a place to live, a magical portkey to the world of Harry Potter (minus that trollop Ginny Weasley). These things are serious, and I will not live happily without them.
There are other things, though, that I can admit to not needing. In fact, I would go so far as to say the world does not need them. One of these things is legs that smell like "Strawberry Tangerine Twist."
Yes, I own this. And no, thank God no, my bottle of it does not have a sparkly, lumpy popsicle-thingy (or sea creature?) on it. It has sparkly strawberries - it's new and improved.
But really, world, when and why did we decide, "You know what's too simple? Showering. There are not enough scented things and definitely not enough sparkles in America's showers. Let's jazz that situation up!"
Between the "coconut" in my shower gel, the peppermint in my shampoo and this, all my shower needs is some hard liquor to start a tiki bar with all the mixers. I guess that's where the "twist" comes in.
Please, world, if you love me at all, stop dumping hours of research and millions of dollars into shavescent technology. Let's focus on things we need - like a house for me. It won't smell like My Little Pony, but it will probably be cheaper, and it will get me out of your hair. Especially if it has a portkey.
There are other things, though, that I can admit to not needing. In fact, I would go so far as to say the world does not need them. One of these things is legs that smell like "Strawberry Tangerine Twist."
Yes, I own this. And no, thank God no, my bottle of it does not have a sparkly, lumpy popsicle-thingy (or sea creature?) on it. It has sparkly strawberries - it's new and improved.But really, world, when and why did we decide, "You know what's too simple? Showering. There are not enough scented things and definitely not enough sparkles in America's showers. Let's jazz that situation up!"
Between the "coconut" in my shower gel, the peppermint in my shampoo and this, all my shower needs is some hard liquor to start a tiki bar with all the mixers. I guess that's where the "twist" comes in.
Please, world, if you love me at all, stop dumping hours of research and millions of dollars into shavescent technology. Let's focus on things we need - like a house for me. It won't smell like My Little Pony, but it will probably be cheaper, and it will get me out of your hair. Especially if it has a portkey.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
UGH
OF COURSE GUY "I'm only on a cooking show because I'm fat and will do anything" FIERI HAWKS SOMETHING CALLED THE "DRAGON DAGGER."
Dragon dagger. Dragon. Dagger. It's like one of those words that, the more you say it, the less it makes sense, until eventually you get to the point where it's just gobbledygook - only in this case you only have to say it once.
By the way, this knife is for tomatoes.
I know tomatoes are the fiercest of the secret fruits that are often confused for vegetables, but seriously. You don't need to intimidate them by painting your knife to look like a motorcycle. Tomatoes are not that hard to cut; nor are they easily fooled.
Dragon Dagger, brought to you by the guy who thinks "Knuckle Sandwich" is an appropriate name for a brand. That same guy also thinks that knives should resemble your fanciest Matchbox racecar. Let's all take a second to hate that guy.
Dragon dagger. Dragon. Dagger. It's like one of those words that, the more you say it, the less it makes sense, until eventually you get to the point where it's just gobbledygook - only in this case you only have to say it once.
By the way, this knife is for tomatoes.I know tomatoes are the fiercest of the secret fruits that are often confused for vegetables, but seriously. You don't need to intimidate them by painting your knife to look like a motorcycle. Tomatoes are not that hard to cut; nor are they easily fooled.
Dragon Dagger, brought to you by the guy who thinks "Knuckle Sandwich" is an appropriate name for a brand. That same guy also thinks that knives should resemble your fanciest Matchbox racecar. Let's all take a second to hate that guy.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
I don't understand people
Sometimes, I question people's judgment.
And by "people" I don't just mean those that I know personally (though, when Gerard thinks eating a hotdog at 10:00 at night after having had a stomachache all day, I do question him because, really, hotdog = opposite of TUMS); I mean "all people, everywhere - particularly strangers and groups of strangers who don't really care what I think."
Just the other day, I spent many minutes of my precious, personal zone-out time on the subway wondering why anyone would choose to carry a messenger bag with the naked silhouette of a woman prominently displayed on its front. More specifically, I wondered why a person who was not 14 years old (the age where your desire to be in proximity to a naked woman and the likelihood of that actually happening are totally opposite) would even own such a thing, and why that person would carry it IN PUBLIC - in front of the children and the nuns and the actual ladies who are sometimes naked but probably don't look like that.
Hint, dude: having a naked lady on your bag does not act as some sort of homing signal for other naked ladies. It's not like a peer pressure thing, wherein I see your naked bag lady and think, "Man, that lady looks comfortable and awesome, perhaps I should get naked, too." No. No.
Poor misguided man. You are not physically repulsive (though, even without the naked lady bag, you do have questionable facial hair). Surely you can find an actual, flesh-and-blood, sometimes-naked lady to keep you company. You can't carry her naked through the streets, as you do with your current ladyfriend, but I think everyone - you, me...and no one else really matters here - will be much happier if you leave your ridiculous carryall choices at home.
And by "people" I don't just mean those that I know personally (though, when Gerard thinks eating a hotdog at 10:00 at night after having had a stomachache all day, I do question him because, really, hotdog = opposite of TUMS); I mean "all people, everywhere - particularly strangers and groups of strangers who don't really care what I think."
Just the other day, I spent many minutes of my precious, personal zone-out time on the subway wondering why anyone would choose to carry a messenger bag with the naked silhouette of a woman prominently displayed on its front. More specifically, I wondered why a person who was not 14 years old (the age where your desire to be in proximity to a naked woman and the likelihood of that actually happening are totally opposite) would even own such a thing, and why that person would carry it IN PUBLIC - in front of the children and the nuns and the actual ladies who are sometimes naked but probably don't look like that.
Hint, dude: having a naked lady on your bag does not act as some sort of homing signal for other naked ladies. It's not like a peer pressure thing, wherein I see your naked bag lady and think, "Man, that lady looks comfortable and awesome, perhaps I should get naked, too." No. No.
Poor misguided man. You are not physically repulsive (though, even without the naked lady bag, you do have questionable facial hair). Surely you can find an actual, flesh-and-blood, sometimes-naked lady to keep you company. You can't carry her naked through the streets, as you do with your current ladyfriend, but I think everyone - you, me...and no one else really matters here - will be much happier if you leave your ridiculous carryall choices at home.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
WALMART understands
Hey! Know what's really hard? Harder than putting your pants on one leg at a time? Harder than crushing a beer can on your head? Way harder than Loving America, even when the Lib'rals are in charge?
Buying stuff. That is HARD. And buying stuff for someone you know? On, like, a special day or something? Goldang that's hard!
Sometimes, even when I don't have to think about other people or what they might like, I just spend hours wandering around the WalMart NOT BUYING ANYTHING. They have so much stuff there! How is a simple guy like me supposed to decide whether I need a new rifle or a big-screen TV? And that's just for ME. For funsies, like, on a Tuesday morning when I'm calling in sick to work.
For my wife? For a reason? I don't even know when the VALENTIMES Day is. I don't know what it is, and I don't know why we have it. But I know I have to buy my wife something for it if I want her to let me watch my NASCAR in peace.
And look, I don't pretend to know much about women, either. In fact, I might know less about them than I do about SANTO VALENTINO or whoever. But I do know that they like PINK and they like BOWS and luckily for me, those seem to be what VALENCIA DAY is all about.
Now, I know WALMART has that pink and bows stuff somewhere, but if I have to walk around the whole store looking, I might just black out and end up buying an 80 gallon aquarium and a lawnmower! I can't be trusted to search the whole darn place for something a lady might like!
If only shopping at WALMART could be simplified. If only they could make a giant room full of things that are pink and covered in hearts and with big signs that say VALENTINE! HERE! Then I could just run in and grab something without having to think about it at all.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
A night of flabbergastation
A few days ago, I saw a commercial for this stuff: http://tinyurl.com/yj9yypm
Yes, it IS a paint roller for your FACE.
How bad do you have to feel about yourself to get to the point where you're just like, "F it. I'm spackling the heck out of this!" ? Is this what we've come to, ladies? Just because we cannot ever, possibly, in a million bajillion years look as flawless as Miz Beyonce does in the commercial for these things doesn't mean we have to resort to construction-site levels of facial maintenance. She has make-up ARTISTS, after all, and it's obvious that, were one to paint one's face (or newly remodeled kitchen), one would choose an artist over one's untrained self any day.
This commercial came early in the exciting whirlwind that was "Watching the Golden Globes Alone While Eating Frosting." Apparently, I do not watch enough live television because "face spackling apparati" were among the least shocking things I saw that night.
For instance, I was also inordinately confused by the McDonald's commercial wherein a man woos his hot neighbor lady by asking her if she's heard about McDonald's breakfast. First of all, ew. Second of all, are you implying something about my weight, neighbor dude? Second, no, wait, third, a conversation about fast-food breakfast is not going ANYWHERE, no matter what delicious, greasy lies the McD's ad guys are feeding you.
What were you thinking, laundry-room guy? You NEVER just go up to a cute girl and say, "Hey, have you heard about McDonald's breakfast?" Because yes - she lives in America - of course she has heard of McDonald's breakfast! And once she tells you that, where do you go? "Oh, okay, so you know about sausage biscuits?" Yes. "And coffee? They have coffee now!" Yes. I read that in the Times last year - when it was actually new. "Oh, so, you know there's.." Eggs? Hashbrowns? Everything else that's served at fast food breakfast places around this great nation, with the notable exception of Chik-fil-A Chicken Biscuit, which is a genuine loss?!?!?! Yes! Yes, I know what breakfast is you dolt, now stop staring while I fold my underpants.
Yes, it IS a paint roller for your FACE.
How bad do you have to feel about yourself to get to the point where you're just like, "F it. I'm spackling the heck out of this!" ? Is this what we've come to, ladies? Just because we cannot ever, possibly, in a million bajillion years look as flawless as Miz Beyonce does in the commercial for these things doesn't mean we have to resort to construction-site levels of facial maintenance. She has make-up ARTISTS, after all, and it's obvious that, were one to paint one's face (or newly remodeled kitchen), one would choose an artist over one's untrained self any day.
This commercial came early in the exciting whirlwind that was "Watching the Golden Globes Alone While Eating Frosting." Apparently, I do not watch enough live television because "face spackling apparati" were among the least shocking things I saw that night.
For instance, I was also inordinately confused by the McDonald's commercial wherein a man woos his hot neighbor lady by asking her if she's heard about McDonald's breakfast. First of all, ew. Second of all, are you implying something about my weight, neighbor dude? Second, no, wait, third, a conversation about fast-food breakfast is not going ANYWHERE, no matter what delicious, greasy lies the McD's ad guys are feeding you.
What were you thinking, laundry-room guy? You NEVER just go up to a cute girl and say, "Hey, have you heard about McDonald's breakfast?" Because yes - she lives in America - of course she has heard of McDonald's breakfast! And once she tells you that, where do you go? "Oh, okay, so you know about sausage biscuits?" Yes. "And coffee? They have coffee now!" Yes. I read that in the Times last year - when it was actually new. "Oh, so, you know there's.." Eggs? Hashbrowns? Everything else that's served at fast food breakfast places around this great nation, with the notable exception of Chik-fil-A Chicken Biscuit, which is a genuine loss?!?!?! Yes! Yes, I know what breakfast is you dolt, now stop staring while I fold my underpants.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)