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.
Showing posts with label laundry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label laundry. Show all posts
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Important Life Choices
The laundromat is the heart of any good community.
[sidenote: I’m trying to start posts with words other than “I.” It’s much harder than one might think.]
Being the good community member that I am [as in, member of a good community, not as in being good at it], I was at the laundromat over the weekend. Don’t worry, I was not actually doing laundry because that’s for plebeians; I was merely helping my plebeian boyfriend fold his plebeian underpants. Then, I saw some signs.
These signs were not your usual laundromat signs, instructing me to put three quarters in the machine or to not dye my clothes in their washers (who does that?). These were COMMUNITY signs -- fliers with tear-off phone numbers, entreating various laundromat patrons to put down that lint trap and pick up an oboe for your local reed instrument symphony, or to call Susan [licensed instructor!] for free French lessons on Saturdays.
Those left me nonplussed. Whose community doesn’t have a joint math gang/medieval war reenactors’ club? Yawn.
However, just when I thought folding underpants was going to turn out to be just as boring as it sounds, two very special signs caught my eye. One told me that if I called the number listed on the bottom, I could learn to speak to angels. The one right beneath it told me that if I took their number, I could learn to speak to Animals! OOOOOOO!
The signs gave the distinct impression that they were in competition for willing students. The kind of linguistical genius that can learn to speak the languages of both angels and animals at the same time comes along rarely, and never in a laundromat. These signs were out for blood. Signblood. Interested parties had to make a choice.
So I did what any underpants-folding fool would: squealed, pointed out both, and proceeded to ask the pleb what he would choose. He said animals, which immediately made me think angels were probably a better choice. Animals would just be all up in your business asking for food all day. Angels would have some real shit to talk about because they have weightier things on their minds than, “Who peed here last?”
Then again, angels might be kind of a downer. What if you tried to start a normal conversation, like, “Hey, angelguy, have you seen the latest episode of The Office?” The angel, having weightier things on its mind, would sigh, roll its angelic eyes and expound upon virtues and blahblahblah.
We don’t need those kinds of snobs mucking up our neighborhood.
[sidenote: I’m trying to start posts with words other than “I.” It’s much harder than one might think.]
Being the good community member that I am [as in, member of a good community, not as in being good at it], I was at the laundromat over the weekend. Don’t worry, I was not actually doing laundry because that’s for plebeians; I was merely helping my plebeian boyfriend fold his plebeian underpants. Then, I saw some signs.
These signs were not your usual laundromat signs, instructing me to put three quarters in the machine or to not dye my clothes in their washers (who does that?). These were COMMUNITY signs -- fliers with tear-off phone numbers, entreating various laundromat patrons to put down that lint trap and pick up an oboe for your local reed instrument symphony, or to call Susan [licensed instructor!] for free French lessons on Saturdays.
Those left me nonplussed. Whose community doesn’t have a joint math gang/medieval war reenactors’ club? Yawn.
However, just when I thought folding underpants was going to turn out to be just as boring as it sounds, two very special signs caught my eye. One told me that if I called the number listed on the bottom, I could learn to speak to angels. The one right beneath it told me that if I took their number, I could learn to speak to Animals! OOOOOOO!
The signs gave the distinct impression that they were in competition for willing students. The kind of linguistical genius that can learn to speak the languages of both angels and animals at the same time comes along rarely, and never in a laundromat. These signs were out for blood. Signblood. Interested parties had to make a choice.
So I did what any underpants-folding fool would: squealed, pointed out both, and proceeded to ask the pleb what he would choose. He said animals, which immediately made me think angels were probably a better choice. Animals would just be all up in your business asking for food all day. Angels would have some real shit to talk about because they have weightier things on their minds than, “Who peed here last?”
Then again, angels might be kind of a downer. What if you tried to start a normal conversation, like, “Hey, angelguy, have you seen the latest episode of The Office?” The angel, having weightier things on its mind, would sigh, roll its angelic eyes and expound upon virtues and blahblahblah.
We don’t need those kinds of snobs mucking up our neighborhood.
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