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May 31, 2006

News To Me: Owners of WWJD Trademark Attempt to Extend Brand with New Cross-Promotional Ads

WWJD Cross-Promotional Campaign Proposal #1
30 Second Television Spot

MUSIC: Harps softly playing Handel's "Messiah"
 
FADE  IN:  Camera shot rises out of a heavy fog and stops at a clearing where the pearly gates of heaven are directly centered.  A figure in a white robe materializes from behind the gate and walks toward the camera.
 
CUT TO: The top of the gate opens and closes.
 
CUT TO: The robed figure is facing the gates with his back to the camera. 
 
CUT TO:  Close-up of sandaled feet, each with distinct hole.  Camera pans up to the back of his head.  As the head slowly turns to face the camera, we see the young but weathered face of a bearded man in his mid-thirties. 
 
VOICE OVER: "When you're the Son of God and you've got three days to cross the infinite celestial plane in order to save mankind from their sins..."
 
CUT TO: View of earth from above.
 
CUT TO: Close-up of Jesus' eyes staring at earth with a warm yet pensive look.
 
VOICE OVER: "...you don't wait for the bus."  
 
CUT TO:  Close-up of a fisted hand with a hole.  Slowly the fist opens and a key chain with the Hummer logo drops down.  An ignition key is pinned between the forefinger and thumb.
 
CUT TO:  Jesus breaks into a smile, turns to his left and walks off.
 
SOUND EFFECT:  The beep of a Hummer security alarm being deactivated.
 
DISSOLVE TO:  Black background with white text:  WWJD
 
VOICE OVER:  "What Would Jesus Drive?"
 
MUSIC:  "Taking Care of Business" by Bachman Turner Overdrive, up then under
 
DISSOLVE TO:  Black background with white text:  HUMMER
 
VOICE OVER:  "Hummer. Definitely."

WWJD Cross-Promotional Campaign Proposal #2
60 Second Television Spot

MUSIC: "Jump Around" by House of Pain
 
FADE IN: Group of young inner city youth playing basketball on an outdoor, public court. Graffiti covers the walls and the court is in disrepair. 
 
CUT TO:  A lone white man is playing.  Bearded and in his mid-thirties, he is bringing the ball up the court in nothing but a loincloth.  He hold ups two fingers and he dribbles and scans the court.  A defender wearing a shirt steps up to meet him.
 
DEFENDER 1:  "Come on!  Let's D up against these chumps!"
 
JESUS:  "The spirit indeed is willing, but the skill is weak."
 
DEFENDER #1:  "Bring it, Tarzan.  I'm gonna take the rock and leave you standing there in your diaper."
 
JESUS:  "Forgive them, Father, for they know not how to guard me."
 
CUT TO:  Shot from behind the basket.  Jesus fakes left, cross-over dribbles and drives right.   He spins around a second defender and leaps into a third, knocking the defender to the ground as he slam dunks the basketball and hangs on the rim.
 
JESUS: (Looking down at the defender on the ground and pointing) "Verily, that is what I am saying unto thee!"
 
CUT TO:  The skins team is running back down the court as DEFENDER #3 pulls himself off the ground.
 
DEFENDER #3:  "Foul!"
 
CUT TO:  Close-up on the back of Jesus' head.  He stops and slowly turns with a look of contempt on his face.
 
JESUS:  "He that is without sin among you, cast the first foul."
 
CUT TO: Jesus sitting on a bench on the side of the court, toweling off his head.  A defender from the game walks past and hands him a Gatorade.
 
DEFENDER #1:  "Nice game, man."
 
CUT TO: Close-up of Jesus' head turned to the side, gulping downing the Gatorade.  He sets down the empty bottle and wipes his mouth with his forearm. 
 
DISSOLVE TO:  Black background with white text:  WWJD
 
NARRATOR:  "What Would Jesus Drink?"
 
CUT TO:  Jesus on the bench next to the empty Gatorade bottle. He quickly glances around and then taps the empty bottle.  It instantaneously becomes full again.
 
DISSOLVE TO:  White background with green text:  GATORADE
 
MUSIC: "Play That Funky Music" by Wild Cherry

 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:10 AM |

May 30, 2006

Daily Splatter: Scatological Explanation

Like most red-blooded Americans, I spent the holiday weekend bouncing around to the homes of various family members and friends to eat hot dogs, drinking domestic light beer and bullshit. 
 
However, at one point during the weekend, I unwittingly walked into awkward and repellent situation that had mortification written all over it.  Entering a friend's bathroom, I found myself face-to-face with what appeared to the aftermath of an explosion at a manure factory. 
 
Fortunately, I am a huge fan of David Sedaris.  Having read and re-read every book he has written, my purpose has always been entertainment, never self-help.  Just the same, my familiarity with this particular essay helped me to quickly navigate this minefield with confidence.     
 
Knowing that I could never capture this experience with the same sharp wit, insight or brevity, I will gladly defer to Sedaris.  As you enter this season of gatherings and questionably cooked meat, I offer his essay to you as a Rolaid of prevention.  
 
CLICK HERE

Enjoy!

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:54 AM | | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

May 26, 2006

GBU: Week of 5-26-06

GOOD

The Opie & Anthony Show, featuring Little Jimmy Norton.  These guys are hilarious and they deliver the goods in a way Howard Stern never has.  No one is suggesting that Stern wasn't the innovator, but that doesn't mean others can't come along and do it better.  In fact, unless you are watching a RCA black & white console television or driving a Ford Model T, I don't even want to hear it the argument.
 
Something I learned on O & A this week:
 
You can exhibit shockingly gay behavior and be immediately absolved of any guilt by simply saying "No homo."  Try it!  It's so much fun, I'm going to start hanging out in public restrooms just to create opportunities to use it.

BAD
My boss is an aimless, motivation-crushing, intellect-insulting moron.  She has been riding the short bus to work for so long that the other retards think she is an undercover marshal.  But let's get specific (by the way, several people I work with read this blog and know who I am, so I'm basically waving my hog around in the air right now.  Wheee!).
 
I've spent the last year working on a project that I believe will be a huge benefit to our organization.  Having completely mapped out every phase, I have given care to the tiniest detail.  It is in no way bragging to say that I know this project better than anybody else.
So why is it that, in the very last phase, some drool bucket thinks they can give it a cursory look and begin making sweeping recommendations? 
 
I know what the fuck I'm doing.  That's why you always ask me to do these types of projects in the first place.  That's why you have me edit other people's work.  Just strap on your helmet, grab a vinyl bench seat and stare out the window as the pretty mailboxes fly by.  The grown-ups have work to do.  
 
(My apologies to the www.peevery.com as I have clearly commandeered their style in that last paragraph.) 
UGLY
At the risk of sounding like a hack, can we all please stop giving a shit about Tom Cruise?  He is not the Secretary of Defense, the CEO of Enron or the Executive Director of the American Red Cross.  He is an actor.  He pretends.  And if everyone is honest, they will admit that he usually does a pretty good job of it.  But make no mistake, being pretty good at pretending is the total sum of his value to our society.
 
Why, why, why do people care so much about this guy?  What he believes or who he screws cannot possibly affect you in any way. Even if it did affect his ability to pretend, you still have the choice of spending your $8 somewhere else.
 
I see no reasonable explanation for this.  At best it is pointless celebrity worship, at worst it is simply taking pleasure in tearing down other people - rich, fanatical, cradle-robbing, alien-worshipping...sorry, Nerdy Squirrel has something to add...what's that?...placenta?...No!...Are you serious?...Dear, God...placenta (ugh!)-eating?...Really?
 
OK, now this crazy son-of-a-bitch is affecting me.  He must be stopped.  Someone call the Men in Black.
 
 
P.S. Since it is a long weekend, C.U. next Tuesday.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:43 AM | | Comments (3)

May 25, 2006

Daily Splatter: Instant Feedback

Dear Heidi,
 
Just wanted to send you a quick note to say thanks for calling and telling me that my posts weren't very funny this week.  You are a true friend and I appreciate the fact that you were able to be brutally honest in order that I might try to better myself.  I also appreciate your restraint in not mentioning my flaming halitosis, piss-poor judgment or small penis.  I can only hope that I have made some improvement in these areas since the very public "intervention" you performed on me last fall with all your girlfriends (it seemed a bit strange to plan such a serious event around a cocktail party with a bunch of people I've never met, but I'm sure my best interest was at heart).
 
Anyway, let me try to make up for a week of crappy posts with what is by many accounts the best blonde joke ever: 

Click here

There. I hope that helps.  Moving forward, let's make a deal.  I promise to be a better monkey if you promise to never stop paying attention to me. 
 
Desperately Seeking Substantiation,
 
Crunchy
 
P.S. I peed in your swimming pool last summer.  Twice.  Once when I was swimming in it and once when I wasn't.
 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 01:50 PM | | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Daily Splatter: Free Association Friday (offer only good Monday thru Thursday)

I've been avoiding writing anything remotely personal this week because I've been in a bad place and didn't want to sound too bitchy, neurotic or whiny (those may be the three gayest words I have ever used to describe myself).  I also have trouble focusing my thoughts when this happens.   As a result, I thought I would purge the demons through a little free association exercise (i.e., write whatever comes into my head).   My apologies in advance for what I am sure will be a gratutious amount of f-bombs and bad syntax, but remember it is for a good cause. Here goes...
 
 
Most of my family and friends know about this site, and I am constantly struggling with finding a balance between being candid and being ostracized.  I worry that I am one minor case of writer's block away from severly reducing my Christmas card take.  Maybe this would be a good time to invoke a little reverse Armstrong Williams scam to earn some extra cash. 
 
 
The fucking Kinks fucking rule!  Why the hell did I wait so long to replace my old cassettes that replaced my 8-tracks, that replaced my vinyl, that is now probably being sold on Ebay for mad dinero?  By the way, how many recurrences of an "album" do I need to buy before I actually own the rights to the music?  There must be a number, and I've got to be getting close.
 
 
My iPod took a dump this week (iPoop?  iPile?).  I love my iPod, so it felt like my dog had been hit by a car.  By all appearances the problem seems to be fixed, but consider me duly reminded of the fragility of life.  Never mind the fact that I work with dying people every day of the week.  Never mind that I am an insensitive prick.
 
 
I just ate a giant Tootsie Roll, and now I feel like puking.  Goddamn evil giant Tootsie Roll, I know you're in there conspiring with the cheeseburger and pint of Smithwicks to fuck up my evening.
 
 
I don't watch a lot of mainstream television, so I tend to be behind in trends.
Apparently Taco Bell has announced a new campaign to promote the "Fourthmeal" of the day between dinner and breakfast.  Having already cornered the drunken college kid market, I guess they thought there was an opportunity to expand their bottom line (and our increasingly fat asses).   I sincerely hope that the American public does not buy into this idea, but deep down I believe it will be welcomed with open, flabby arms.
 
 
Watched a Frontline special on the sex slave trade in Eastern Europe last night and wanted to kill myself.  It completely shattered the dwindling remnants of my faith in mankind.  It sure would be nice to see or hear some good reasons for being a white man besides being videotaped taking one in the nuts.
 
 
My knee is still fucked up after 10 weeks of physical therapy and worthless fucking opinions from doctors.  Sometimes it feels like I'm paying weathermen for their forecasts.
 
 
Speaking of the devil, the doctor and associated hospital system I've been seeing about my knee problems have something wrong with their accounts payable system.  I never receive a bill until it's been referred to a credit collection agency.  If I have a religion, it is that I pay my bills on time.  That said, it pisses me off to no end that these assholes can't even bill me properly for their useless advice.  Every time I call the billing department about it, they treat me like a fucking deadbeat and keep interrupting me with not-so-subtle attempts to get my credit card number. 
 
 
How the hell am I ever going to catch up on 25 hours of Opie & Anthony podcasts?  It is just me, or does anyone else ever buy subscriptions, books, etc., as a personal treat only to have those things begin to feel like obligations?
 

That's enough for today.  Thanks for playing along.  Now back to your regularly scheduled poppycock.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:00 AM | | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

May 24, 2006

FrivoList: Names That Result In An Awkward Rendition of "Happy Birthday To You"

Happy

Any name ending in “III”

The Artist Formerly Known As Prince

Jesus (Especially when sung on Christmas Day.  Believe what you like, but that's just weird.) 

Someone else’s “Mommy,” “Pops,” “Grampa” or “Nanna”  

Hunter

Your boss.  What I mean is, should you use Jonathon or Mr. Evans?  If you say Mr. Evans and all your co-workers say Jonathon, you’re an ass kisser.  If you say Jon and everyone else says Mr. Evans, they might suspect an affair.  Christ, you don’t think anyone suspects, do you?  Never mind.  Maybe I’ll just hide in the bathroom stall and sneak a cigarette.  I can always wish him a happy birthday tonight. 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:23 AM | | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

May 23, 2006

Daily Splatter: Superpowers My Family Would Develop If Exposed To A Radioactive Cloud

Mother 
Superhero Name: Samurai Seamstress
Superpower: Wields a wooden yardstick with deadly accuracy     
Weakness:  Must make her enemies go and get the yardstick before she can use it on them
Archenemy:  Billy's Mom.  She bought Billy an Atari for HIS birthday
 
Nephew #1 
Superhero Name: Hammer Head
Superpower: A massive stone cranium used to pummel bad guys or anyone who has a toy he wants
Weakness: Exposure to vegetables causes him to slump in his chair and pout
Archenemy: Suzie From Daycare
 
Brother-in-Law
Superhero Name:  The Fox
Superpower: Ability to regurgitate random headlines from the 24-hour television news network.  Additional power: A force field that is impenetrable to facts.
Weakness:  Corndogs.  Will chase one off a cliff if you throw it over
Archenemy: Al Frankenstein
 
Wife
Superhero Name: Catlady
Superpower: Has the ability to communicate with cats, but they pretty much just ignore her
Weakness:  Easily startled and can be distracted for hours with a feather on a piece of string. 
Archenemy: Crazy Catlady.  The evil twin of Catlady who has the same useless powers, but lives alone in a big house.  When you stop to think, it's really a very fine line.   

Nephew #2
Superhero Name: The Siren
Superpower: An indiscriminate, ear-piercing scream that debilitates anyone in the vicinity
Weakness: Very wobbly walk.  Serves at the mercy of Hammer Head

Archenemy: Sharp Corner Man 

Brother
Superhero Name: Agent  Zero
Superpower: Uses the Jedi mind-trick to convince people to buy insurance they don't need
Weakness:  Proximity to golf courses renders him useless.  We're pretty sure there is an issue with Internet porn, too.
Archenemy: The Security Exchange Commission 

Mother-In-Law
Superhero Name:  Polly Pureheart
Superpower:  Overpowers her enemies with goodness
Weakness:  Never shuts up about the whole goodness thing
Archenemy:  Negativity, Man! 
 
Grandfather
Superhero Name: The Zombie
Superpower: (I think this one is self-explanatory)
Weakness:  Painfully slow and always groaning
Archenemy: The Worm

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:38 AM | | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

May 21, 2006

The Steven Seagal Movie Game

1. Using the words below, complete the Steven Seagal three-word movie title:

DEATH    KILL    DIE    DEADLY    DEAD    KILL

a. Today You _____                         

b. Half Past _____                            

c. On _____ Ground                         

d. Hard To _____                              

e. Marked For _____                         

f.  Out for a _____                            


2. Starting with the first word, change one letter to reveal the next word and arrive at the beginning of three different Steven Seagal movie titles:
           
M A R

_ _ _             (clue: rows your boat)

_ _ _             (clue: belongs to us)  

_ _ _            Of Reach, and _ _ _ For A Kill, and _ _ _ For Justice

 

3.  Match the movie title with the girl that Steven Seagal most resembles when filmed running in it:

Under Siege     Out For Justice     Above The Law     Under Siege II

a. Pipi Longstockings

b. My little sister

c. Nick Lachey

d. My little sister who’s really let herself go and its hard to believe she could still kick the crap out of a gang of punks.


4. Determine if each of the following is a Steven Seagal movie OR sexual slang:

a. Fire Down Below

b. Five To One

c. Black Dawn

d. Screaming Eagle

e. Exit Wounds

f.  Mob Justice

g. Belly of the Beast

h. Donkey Punch

 

5.  TIE BREAKER:  How many Steven Seagal movies were released in 2005?


Answers:
1. a. Die, b. Dead, c. Deadly, d. Kill, e. Death, f. Kill
2. OAR, OUR, OUT
3. Under Siege - My little sister; Out For Justice -  Pipi;  Above The Law - Nick Lachey;  Under Siege II - My little sister who’s let herself go...
4. Movie: a,c,e, g; Sexual Slang: b,d,f, h
5. Five. That’s right, five in one year.  God has forsaken us.
 

                       

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:45 AM | | Comments (2)

May 19, 2006

GBU: Week of 5-19-06

GOOD
Nerdy Squirrel
Graduates tomorrow afternoon!  Expect my posts for the next two weeks to read like the drunken ramblings of a kept man who is afraid his lawyer wife will sue him for any number of his steadily mounting atrocities.  In other words, business as usual.
BAD
Flavored Water
I know that this stuff has been out for a while now and this is a little Johnny-come-lately.  For some reason, Aquafina's and Dasani's decided to package several of their flavored waters in the exact same bottles with the exact same labels as their "naturally-flavored" water, save for some small splashes of color on the label.  I suppose it is good marketing, but the differences are nearly impossible to detect through a fogged cooler door, especially when you're running through an airport eager to pony up $3 for a bottle because you believe it will somehow magically cleanse your body of the putrid air you will be breathing for the next two to four hours (why else would it cost $3 a bottle?).  As a result, I keep buying this shit by mistake. 
 
Isn't every thing we drink basically flavored water?  This is pure bullshit and I'm tired of having to drink raspberry Kool-Aid on airplanes because I didn't carefully inspect the label on my water bottle.  It tastes like crap and I'm pretty sure it doesn't have the same healing power as regular water.
UGLY
Midges, Midges, and More Midges
Frogs, locust, hail mixed with fire?  Please!  The Egyptians were pussies.  You want to see a real plague, live by Lake Erie any given spring.  These goddamn things are everywhere.  It's like living on the beach if the beach was made up of fuzzy, horrible little insects that you have to shake out of everything. 
 
The only saving grace is the joy I feel by sucking them up with my Shop Vac.  "Uh, oh. Here comes God, and God looks angry today!"
 
 
Next Week:
The first draft of my "All Midge Recipe Book," including midge soup, midge pie, midge jambalaya, midgesicles and many, many more.  It's midge-licious!

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:53 PM | | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

News To Me: Fair and Unbalanced

If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then the Fox Network is an apple-polishing little bitch. Taking cues from the wildly successful - if not gratuitous - NBC Dateline segment "Predator," Fox is upping the ante with its own new show dedicated to intergalactic pedophilia.  It is daringly titled "Predator, Too."

In Dateline's recurring "Predator" segment, the show's producers infiltrate Internet chat rooms posing as promiscuous teenagers (as opposed to the other kind of teenagers) and fish for U.S. Congressmen, clergy, or any other fat, balding, middle-aged white men who have the ability to burst into rivers of sweat on camera.   The producers arrange meetings with the unsuspecting sickos by promising kinky sex - everything from blow jobs, to rusty trombones, to donkey punches, to something else that I've never heard of before but sounded really funny but I forgot what it was called.  When the target predator arrives, a Dateline reporter confronts the probable-but-let's-just-go-ahead-and-publicly-convict-them-right-now pedophile, and the viewing fun begins.

Dateline has taken some criticism for its show's vigilante nature and entrapment tactics.  One producer defended the program.
 
"We are providing a public service and doing so without affecting our journalistic integrity," the producer said.  "It is no different that any other kind of objective, investigative reporting. Besides, you know these filthy perverts are guilty as hell." 

Asked about the trickery employed, the producer responded, "I don't think of it as lying. I mean, in the end, these guys are still getting fucked. Get it?"

Critics aside, the viewing audience has eaten up the show's segment, prompting the move by Fox to dedicate an entire show to the activity.  In order to differentiate its new show, Fox is focusing on an overlooked segment of the pedophile community.
 
"We wanted the pedophiles on our show to have a fighting chance," said Brian Nest, Executive Producer of "Predator, Too."  In order to accomplish this, the Fox show is targeting bloodthirsty, trophy-hunting aliens with its sting operations.
 
"Remember that show 'Cheaters' where the host would bust someone in the act of infidelity?" asked Nest.  "During one episode, the host actually got stabbed by some lunatic who was pissed off about being confronted on camera.  That's not only good television, it's also fair and balanced."  Nest hopes to reproduce that kind of atmosphere with "Predator, Too" every week.
 
Fox is betting heavily on the show.  Despite it's reality, the expenses are still extremely high.  Fox had to launch a satellite to broadcast its suggestions of illicit teenage sex into outer space as opposed to just setting up a MySpace account.  The health insurance costs have skyrocketed due to injuries.  Tubs of a special mud from South America also have to be air shipped in every week and smeared on the site crew in order to prevent infrared detection.
 
Although the new show has yet to be aired, Fox was willing to show us some clips from the upcoming episodes.
 
In one arranged meeting, a naive alien arrives without his hunting helmet. Pointing to the screen, Nest narrated.  "Look at this one.  He doesn't even have the common sense to use his standard issue, light-refracting invisibility device to hide his identity."
 
Nest laughed, "Now, watch this!" 
 
As the alien entered the house, a mud-covered reporter jumped out from behind a chair and stuck a microphone into the shocked alien's retracting jaws.   After a few stunned moments (including what the alien described as an "accidental misfiring" of his shoulder rocket which destroyed the kitchen), the alien began denying his intentions.
 
"I was just trying to collect a couple of adolescent skulls to use as bookends in my trophy case," it insisted. 
 
As the reporter persisted, the alien grew more and more alarmed.  "I never intended to have sex with them," the alien pleaded.  "For God's sake, look at my genitalia!  It's not physically possible!"
 
In another confrontation, a startled alien fell back onto a sharpened stick that pierced its midsection, causing a putrid, fluorescent green liquid to spew out onto the ottoman.  It then proceeded to tap its wristband control panel starting a devastating self-destruct sequence.
 
"We are hoping for more original responses than this one." Nest explained. "The Punji sticks in the living room were probably a mistake on our part, but every show has to work out the kinks." Looking back to the screen, he continued, "Maybe we'll use this segment for the season finale." 

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 10:05 AM | | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

May 17, 2006

Daily Splatter: Sucking in Real Time

The Washington Plaza Hotel in DC is one of the biggest piece-of-shit hotels I have ever stayed at in the U.S.  Making matters worse, I just moved over here after spending three luxurious days in the Renaissance DC, which was lovely.
 
Knowing I had to make a move (there are few bigger pains in the ass during a business trip that having to switch hotels in the same city), I called the Washington Plaza (let's call it the Asscrack Plaza) to see if I could check-in early this morning in order to avoid the headache after a long day of work.  John, the manager, told me that he had rooms available and to come on over.  I arrive not 20 minutes later and John, big dumb motherfucker that he is, says check-in is not until 3:00 PM.   I quickly reminded him of our conversation, and BDMF John says he meant that they had rooms available, but not for early check-in.  It is immediately clear to me that this is going to go nowhere, so I acquiesce, check my bags and go about the business of the day.
 
Unfortunately, there is construction going on around the Asscrack Plaza, so taxis will not come to the door.  I learn this from the doorman who, after taking my dollar, attempted to hail me a cab for about 10 minutes before returning and explaining the situation.  The only reason he is still alive is because I convinced myself that it was his first day on the job.  I walk a few blocks and catch a ride. 
 
At the end of a long day I arrive back at Asscrack Plaza Hotel and check in to my room.  No one is in the lobby but it still takes the Bell Captain a good 15 minutes to find my bag (I tip the Bell Captains when I check my bag in hopes that they will take of it, so I'm probably partially to blame here).   I check in to my freshly painted room next to the extremely loud, clunky elevators and am overwhelmed by the smell of latex (please, God, let it be the paint).  I ask to switch rooms and explain that, otherwise, they will be spending the day tomorrow cleaning my vomit off their vomit-colored carpet and vomit-colored bedspread.   They agree.  Smart choice.
 
They move me six floors directly up so that my new room is also located right next to the elevator.  I figure, fuck it, I'll sleep with a pillow over my head and, if I'm lucky, I'll suffocate.
 
Inside my room (number 717), the following items are not working:
 
Television
Telephone
Window locks (I'm on the 7th floor, so no big deal)
One lamp
Dresser drawer (missing handles)
 
In the interest of fair play, I should also list the items in my room that were in excellent working order:
 
Wastebasket
Towels
Smoke alarm (This being my hopeful attempt at the power of positive thinking)
 
At this point, I'm not thrilled but I've seen worse.  I figure I'll head down to the fitness center and try to work out the aggravations of the day.  Now, I'm no lawyer (not like Nerdy Squirrel who graduates on Saturday and will take me away from all this), but I don't think that pieces of a treadmill strewn across the floor, a single stationary bicycle and a universal machine that I can only assume was picked up off of someone's tree lawn constitutes a "fitness center."  It aggravates me to no end that hotels everywhere get away with this crap.  Anyway, I digress.
 
Needless to say, my workout is lame. Back in the room I call the front desk on my cell phone to tell them my room telephone is broken.  This may seem reasonable, but trying to explain to a hotel operator that I'm actually in a room in the hotel and my phone doesn't work so I'm calling you on my cell phone is a bit tricky.  After several minutes, we get it straightened out and she'll send someone up.   I ask her if she can connect me to room service. 
 
I know, I know.  Room service? What the hell was I thinking? But really, how bad can you screw up a hamburger?  Turns out, I may never know.  It's been over an hour and 15 minutes and, so far, no burger for me.  I could call them, but no one has fixed my phone yet and I don't want to go through the cell phone explanation again.  I could kill time watching television, but...well...you get the picture.
 
Otherwise, my day sucked.  How about you?

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 05:53 PM | | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

May 16, 2006

FrivoList: Symptoms of Alcoholism That Might Characterize Me If I Weren't Actually Sober

Taken directly from a handout distributed at an annual, mandatory alcohol awareness seminar for lawyers
 
Feelings of Guilt
Um, yes. At the moment, it’s mostly because I’m doing this instead of something more productive.   
 
Grandiose and Aggressive Behavior
Simply having a blog duly qualifies me for the "Grandiose" part.  My content takes care of the other.
 
Loss of Ordinary Will Power
In the land of 70% obesity, I’m not sure what constitutes "Ordinary Will Power”.   But since I can't seem to bring myself to turn off the free HBO we've been getting for two months now, I'll have to say, "Yes."
 
Indefinable Fears
Definitely.  Mine are these things that are like giant spiders but with snake tongues and big, thick bear arms.  I guess you had to be there, but I assure you that they defy definition. They totally freak me out, goddamn giant snakebearspider things.
 
Work and Money Troubles
Me + Everyone I know
 
Unable To Discuss Problems
Me + Every man I know
 
Physical Deterioration
Me + Everyone I know over 30
 
Unreasonable Resentments
I’m on the fence with this one, mostly because I think all my resentments are, in fact, quite reasonable.  However, others might disagree, stupid, rotten assholes that they are.  So I guess that means I'm in.  

My Favorite Symptom of Alcoholism  

Taken from the same handout
 
Drinking with Inferiors
I want to say something judgmental and admonishing about the use of the word “Inferiors” such as, “Who are you to consider someone else as inferior, you stinking drunk?!”   But to be perfectly honest, the statement “Drinking with Inferiors” immediately conjures several images in my head.  I would never say it myself, but I know exactly what is meant.
 

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May 15, 2006

Daily Splatter: Lord of the Open Flies

My pants wouldn't be unzipped all the time if I still had a job.  Let me explain.
 
Several years ago I accepted a position within a national non-profit organization that required me to work from my home.  Armed with a telephone, computer, comfy chair and some inspirational knick-knacks, I set up a virtual office in a spare bedroom and began my new career.  
 
Most of the time, working from home goes quite nicely.  I actually take a certain masculine pride in the fact that I can roll out of bed, pull on whatever clothes I find on the floor (this gets interesting when my wife starts leaving her clothes lying around) and consider myself ready to face the new day.  I grab some coffee, pad on up to my office make a polite amount of idle, water-cooler chit-chat with Max, my cat. 
 
Lately, though, I have been noticing problems.  With increasing frequency, typical social situations - the kind in which I have effectively functioned for years - end up becoming the kind of embarrassing episodes that I had previously considered myself incapable of producing.  
 
Turns out, there is a problem with isolation.  Acceptable behaviors tend to deteriorate when there is no social construct to encourage and/or enforce them.  Being a fan of "Lord of the Flies," I understood this idea on a macro level, but never really considered the individual implications.  
 
Further complicating matters is the fact that certain routines can become so ingrained in our daily lives that they require no conscious effort whatsoever.  They are sustained through force of habit. 
 
For example, if I were required to get up in the morning, shower, shave, and dress for some type of meaningful employment, then - well, I'd be regularly showered, shaved, and dressed.  More importantly, I'd be going through the process.  I would have developed what coaches and athletes call muscle-memory.  If something was forgotten, say a splash of cologne or zipping up my pants, my mind would feel uneasy until I remembered.  Such is the nature of repeated behavior or habit.
 
Unfortunately, my social construct (i.e., a workplace where I have to interact with other people) doesn't exist anymore.  Sweatpants don't have zippers, Max doesn't care how bad I smell, and as long as the neighbors aren't calling the police, I can yell "Fuck!" as loud and often as I want.  Old habits, contrary to popular belief, aren't so hard to break. 
 
This is fine as long as I remain on my little island on the second floor of my house.  But say I need to run out to the store during my lunch break for beef jerky, Rieslings and dental floss.  (Floss is one of those things I always buy.  Not because I'm obsessed with oral hygiene, but because it's cheap and makes your trip to the store seem purposeful, instead of entirely snack-related.) Weaving through the narrow aisles, I notice someone back away from me.  There's a problem.  It's 11:30 on a weekday. I'm smelly, unshaven, wearing a Sigma Gamma Sorority sweatshirt covered in cat hair and carrying a family-size package of dried meat.  I suddenly realize that I'm the local version Ted Kazinski except that, from what I understand, he didn't have a problem keeping his fly zipped up. 
 
Still, this was only part of the problem.  During the afternoon on a weekday I wasn't likely to run into anyone important at the local Discount Drug Mart.   In fact, one could argue that I fit a certain profile of the type of person you would expect (but probably prefer not) to bump into in such a place at such a time.   The other part of the problem was evenings and weekends.
 
Before I continue, I have to tell you that I recently purchased some new boxer shorts.  The tags in the back of these particular boxers were noticeable uncomfortable.  Being the problem-solver that I am, I carefully removed the tags and any vestige that might cause irritation.  Since then, when getting dressed in the haphazard way in which I have grown accustomed and with no tag to guide my path, I occasionally put these shorts on backwards.  This has always been good for a laugh when I later recognize the mistake, especially during the subsequent, embellished re-telling to Max. 
 
Anyway, a few weeks ago I went to a baseball game with my brother.  We rarely get together, so this was kind of a treat for me.  I showered, shaved and got what is to me all dressed up in nice, clean clothes (basically jeans and a baseball jersey).
 
We're having a good old time at the game, drinking beer and bullshitting.  After a few innings, I felt the effects of the beer and headed to the men's room.  It's between innings so a long line already forming, but I've beat most of the crowd.  My time comes and I get up to one in a line of urinals.
 
I unzip and reach in to find the opening that was designed for this specific purpose.  I'm searching...searching...searching... the aggressiveness of my hunt rising with each passing second.  At the same moment, I am keenly aware of a growing multitude forming behind me and what must appear to them as increasingly irregular if not disturbing activity on my part.
 
The relative silence breaks.
 
"Dammit, where is it?" I hear.  To my horror, it is my own voice. 
 
I felt like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story" and this was my "Oh, Fudge" moment.  There was no taking it back.
 
Instincts immediately kicked in.  Rather than flee, my reaction was to fight.  Without any thought to context or appropriateness, I began to try to explain my comment to the twenty or so men who may or may not have heard me. 
 
"I can't find it."  I said, nervously chuckling and swiveling my head.
 
The counter punches were swift and unflinching.
 
"Tough break, pal,"
 
"Curse of the Irish."
 
"Imagine how difficult it is for her."
 
I try to cough out a laugh, but my mouth has gone dry. 
 
"No, no.  I can't find the hole."  I'm not helping myself.  Again, I'm struck multiple times.
 
"If you do, you've gone too far."
 
"Maybe a stall would be more appropriate."
 
"I'm just going to pee in the sink." I'm not sure this one was specifically directed to me.
 
No, no, I think. This is all a misunderstanding and I'm certain I can explain my innocence if they give me the chance. But my mind is spinning too fast.
 
"I mean, the..." I try frantically to gesticulate the hole that is supposed to be in my boxers with my free hand.   I look like a deaf pervert signing dirty talk.
 
 "I mean..." I'm yelling at this point.  "The...the...pee hole!" 
 
The alternative expressions of bemusement and horror on the faces around me begin to change to something resembling pity.  I think I hear a collective sigh of "Oh" drift up from behind me.  By the sheer grace of God, I have stumbled into a way out of this mess which I gladly accept.
 
I'll trade pervert for retard any day of the week.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 07:48 AM | | Comments (4)

May 12, 2006

GBU: Week of 5-12-06

GOOD 

Traffic Laws
One good reason why we have traffic laws is so that you and I do not need to negotiate the right of way through a series of hand gestures and head nods.  If you want to be a traffic cop, then take the goddamn civil service test.  Once you have a badge and a whistle, then I'll be more inclined to interpret your flailing sign language and follow your directions.  Until then, just obey the fucking law.   

BAD

Hospital Waivers
In order to get care, my hospital requires that I sign a form that basically says the following:
"First, in case we are incompetent and do not properly bill your insurance company for the services we provide, you will pay us out of your pocket.  Second, you will also pay us for any services we decide to provide to you (or say we provided to you) whether or not you or your insurance company agrees.  Third, you will pay us whatever price we decide to charge you.  We will not tell you what these services cost, so don't even try to find out.  Just shut up, do what you're told and pay your bill.  Finally, we will be selling your personal information to the highest bidder unless you send a signed letter and a DNA sample to a P.O. Box address which no one actually knows and wouldn't tell you if they did."
 
At least have the decency to hand me a sample tube of lubrication along with the clipboard.

UGLY

Does anything come with a higher cringe factor than a man or woman over the age of 50 who tries to sound hip?  As an aging fart with Peter Pan Syndrome, I fully understand the need to cling to youth (or youthful appearances).  But I'd rather stuff my exposed head inside a beehive than hear my father say something like "You Go, Girl!"  It is not funny or cute.  It is the exact opposite.  
 
In a surgically enhanced, gadget-infested, celebrity-worshiping world, a little grace is a rare and beautiful thing.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 09:20 AM | | Comments (2)

May 10, 2006

News To Me: Letter To President Bush from Kim Jong Il

The following letter was received yesterday at the White House from Kim Jong Il, leader of North Korea only days after a letter was received from Mahmood Ahmadinejad.  The original letter was written in Korean has been was translated here.

Mr. George Bush
President of the United States of America,
 
For some time now I have been wondering why you have been avoiding me.  Despite my best efforts to get your attention, you have continued to ignore me as if I don't exist.  Well, now I know why, you ASS!!!  I bet you thought you were really clever, you and your Iranian slut!
 
By now everyone has probably seen a copy of the letter from Mahmood to you. DON"T EVEN TRY TO DENY IT!  Here I was telling people that we had something serious going on between us, and you're go off chasing someone else.  Thanks for making me feel about feet two feet, six and a half inches tall!
 
Have you forgotten about the weekend we spent together in Japan?  I risked getting expelled in order to sneak away from the Summit to see you.  But did you care?  No!  All you wanted to do was get your hands on my secret parts.  Mr. Grabby, always interested in "your needs" and caring nothing for mine.  Always trying to get me to be in your perverted menage a trois of evil.  I should've have known you never be able to keep that TINY DICK OF YOURS in your pants.
 
Maybe if I had shown you everything like you wanted then you would still be interested in me.  But I'm not a whore like Moody.  I'm not going to flash my goods to anyone with a camera.  I won't do anything for attention.  I guess this is my reward for being modest. Thanks for the lesson.  NOT!!!
 
The most disappointing part of this is the fact that I had to hear about the whole affair from Wen Jiabao who heard it from Vladmir Putin who saw you with Moody behind the bleachers after the U.N. meeting.  Too bad you're not man enough to tell me yourself (maybe it's because you have a TINY DICK!). 
 
By the way, if you like facial hair so much, why don't you just admit you're gay?!  Maybe you can shave each other (and I don't mean the way we did that one night in Seoul, you pig!).  GREAT, NOW I'M CRYING!!!
 
You don't deserve my tears.  You're the one who made the biggest mistake of your life, even if you're too stupid to recognize it!  Yes, people think you're stupid and say so behind you're back all the time. Guess what? I won't be there to defend you anymore. 
 
You deserve each other (and I mean that in a bad way)! You have someone you can dirty talk to and Moody can act like the slutty bad girl that you apparently think you want.  By the way, she doesn't even know what BAD is and neither do you.  But I'll show you.  Just wait. 
 
Does Moody even know about your dirty talk thing?  If not, don't worry. I'll make sure EVERBODY knows about your filthy mouth as well as your TINY DICK!
 
No Longer Yours,
 
Kim
 
P.S. I want my Cure CD back!  Bring it with you when you come to get your stupid "Official Bush Inspector" hat before someone in my family sees it.
 
P.P.S. Please, please, please call me back.  I'll be waiting...

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May 09, 2006

FrivoList: Urban Legends That I Hope To Begin Spreading This Summer

People born by Cesarean section compose 76% of all shoplifters
 
Breathing the fumes from toasting Pop Tarts causes brain damage (fruit flavors only)
 
Michael J. Fox is faking it
 
You can get mad cow disease by wearing leather pants without underwear.
 
Monty Python's "Lumberjack Song" was actually based on a lost Psalm.
 
Wilford Brimley ended his career doing soft-core porn in Japan
 
The second plague of Egypt (frogs) resulted in the first documented public outbreak of genital warts

"Girls Gone Wild" is a financing front for Al Qaeda (They also produce all of Osama's videos)

Mouth breathing reduces your risk of throat cancer

Posted from Des Moines, IA.  Please send arsenic.

Posted by Crunchy Blue Commando at 08:43 AM | | Comments (2)

May 08, 2006

Daily Splatter: Ice Cream For Help

It's become clear that I've been working too hard lately. 
 
Maybe I should've recognized the anger seething through my posts last week as the first clue, but I don't read this piece of crap, either.  Maybe my random outbursts and general dickheadedness around the house should have tipped me off, but (sigh) apparently that type of behavior is not as unusual as I would like to think.  Maybe the fact that I was constantly tired yet unable to get a good night's sleep (see GBU posted on 5-5-06) should've flipped on a bulb.
 
Nope. 
 
I finally figured it out on Sunday when Nerdy Squirrel and I went to get an ice cream cone.  Here's what ran through my mind upon being handed my single-dip cone (mint chocolate chip):
 
An immediate rush of both anxiety and pressure filled my mind.  First, I wondered if my ice cream steward adequately pressed the ice cream deep enough into the cone to prevent toppling (and tears), so I immediately gave an additional tongue press.  Second, I felt an urgent need to quickly eat all the loosely attached ice cream that is built up around the top of the sugar cone as a result of the compression process - I'd call it the foreskin, but that is just way too gay given all the licking going on - so it wouldn't fall off (again, tears).  In case I was unsuccessful in either action, I snatched enough napkins to soak up a small pond and stuffed them into my front pocket ("Expecting a big mess, or are you just happy to see me?").
 
Next, I rapidly began working on the dip to reduce and ultimately eliminate the overhang of ice cream above cone.  Dripping is unacceptable.   It is my firm belief that allowing an ice cream cone to drip on your hand constitutes a complete and utter failure as an adult.  This is something that only little kids do, like getting the hiccups or laying on the floor in public places.
 
Once I successfully achieved ice cream/cone parity, I then began to closely monitor the bottom of the sugar cone for any leaks.  Again, dripping ice cream is unacceptable in any form (and not so sexy).  Only when I had eaten the ice cream flush to the cone was I able to feel relaxed about my frozen treat and begin to enjoy it, but the damage was done.
 
I need a fucking vacation.  In the meantime, I'll be taking my ice cream in a cup.

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May 06, 2006

GBU: Week of 5-5-06

GOOD
How about we all get off our culturally oversensitive high horses and agree that hygiene is a good idea, be it a western one or otherwise.  I'm talking to you, Mr. Cab Driver, and you, Mr. Ethnic Restaurant Owner.  Can't we all just get a long, hot shower?
 
BAD
It's been nearly 15 years since my last exam in graduate school.  So why am I still having the same hack anxiety dream about showing up for a final exam after missing class all semester?  All neuroses aside, I'm mostly disappointed by my sheer lack of subconscious creativity.  What's next, erotic dreams about trains and tunnels? 
 
UGLY
This week a Vice President (let's call him Sphincter Boy) of the national non-profit organization I work for tried to burn me down for not supporting his self-serving and totally fucked solution to a problem with one of our local chapters.  Aping the ever-popular scorched-earth political tactic, this piece of shit publicly attacked my intention, credibility and competence in an executive staff meeting.  Having had run-ins with Sphincter Boy before, I had armed myself with all the necessary facts and documents to justify my position.  Fortunately, in this case, intelligent problem-solving (me) won out over disjointed hearsay (Sphincter Boy) and I was vindicated and given the full support of the execs.  But still...
 
I am consumed with rage and want to lay waste to this motherfucker.  I want to see his crimson, liquefied body sprayed onto the fresh driven snow as I stuff his flailing limbs into a wood chipper.  I want to bury him up to his head, cover his face with honey and kick the shit out of a nearby fire ant hill.  I want to tie him to a chair a go "Reservoir Dogs" on his ass.  I want to cover him with whipped cream and...wait...no, that's someone else. 
 
The bad part off all this is that I'm not sure what is uglier - Sphincter Boy's greed-driven deceit or my subsequent reaction.  Even worse is losing the illusion that I was a better man than this.

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May 04, 2006

News To Me: Bell Movement

Apparently Taco Bell executives are running from the border. A recently leaked internal memo shows that the corporate brass at ethnic fast-food restaurant chain Taco Bell(tm) are growing increasingly nervous over the inflammatory immigration debate that has been raging across the nation. 
 
The memo shows the company considering drastic changes in order to avoid any negative fallout from the issue.  In one such instance, the company is contemplating the elimination of the Spanish words and Spanish-sounding gibberish used to describe its menu items. 
 
While top executives refused to comment on the memo, one source within the company, who asked to remain anonymous due to fear of retaliation and a severe case of flatulence, was able to provide some insight.
 
He explained that the company was taking the anti-immigration movement quite seriously, but believed the company could successfully navigate any landmines.
 
"We're no strangers to inflammation," the source disclosed. "Our experience has shown us that it is more effective to try to reduce this type of public swelling with a soothing response rather than to irritate it with excessive finger pointing." 
 
While it is uncertain whether or not Taco Bell will adopt the changes recommended in this memo, its top executives remain silent but deadly serious about the threat.
 
On another note, one peculiar characteristic of the Taco Bell office headquarters was a total lack of visible clocks.  According to our source, this is because the company wants to promote initiative and a "get it done" mentality and to discourage clock-watching.  While this seems to pose certain practical difficulties, apparently Taco Bell employees are relatively unfazed.
 
Asked, for example, when he knew it was time to eat lunch, the source replied, "Simple. When my ass stops burning."

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May 03, 2006

Daily Splatter: BOHICA

 

I don't want to turn this into a bitch-about-travel website (especially when there are so many other wonderful things to bitch about), but since that particular activity eats up 50% of my week, sometimes it's a little hard to resist.  Still, it must be tedious for people who aren't subjected to business travel, like constantly being shown someone else's baby pictures (Here's one of me trying to hail a taxi.  I have my mother’s eyes.)
 
These are the unsympathetic thoughts that I imagine enter people's minds when I broach this topic:
 
Aw, poor little travel monkey with all his tiny bottles of scotch and shampoo. 
 
Isn't this site supposed to be mildly interesting?
 
Housewives are desperate
Farms cows say, "Moo"
I never get to go anywhere
So fuck you, Crunchy Blue
 
What's that smell?
 
This is not the kind of poo throwing site I was searching for. Rats. Well, up you go for now, Mr. Trousers.
 
The thing is, at this point I'm accustomed to all the crappy service and overall disappointment that comes with biz travel.   I typically don't get worked up over delayed flights, rental car companies with nothing left but minivans, hotel rooms that smell like ashtrays and $20 breakfasts.  It's all par for the course.
 
However, when some unexpected setback invades my psyche like an unlubricated nightstick, I totally rage out.  I'm talking Van Halen who-the-fuck-put-brown-M&M's-in this-bowl, luxury-suite-trashing frenzy.  It’s moments like this that make me seriously consider the possibility of demonic possession.   
 
Last week I was on the road and, as usual, I was traveling light.  (When you spend a lot of time dragging luggage through airports and parking lots, you learn to leave behind what you don't absolutely need, like in 'Nam).  I'm getting dressed the next morning and realize that the dry cleaner somehow shrunk my suit pants.   I've got a meeting in thirty minutes and am a bowtie and a bicycle away from being Pee Wee Herman.  Suddenly my outfit options are 1) the Jerry Seinfeld (dress shirt, tie and day-old jeans), or 2) the Katrina-wary businessman.  This is when the Tourette's usually kicks in.
 
I have neither the money nor the will to pay for hotel room damage.  So I do what I can - move the bed, grab the iron from the closet and smash it against the floor until it comes apart in my hand, move the bed back over the battered spot. 
 
I realize that this "mishap" was not the direct fault of the hotel and I shouldn't take it out on them. But, more than likely, they recently screwed some other poor, unfortunate grunt, so the hell with them. 
 
Hopefully, 800 miles away, a brother-in-arms is outside a dry cleaner stuffing a busted ink pen deep in the pocket of an old pair of pants that don't quite fit anymore.

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May 02, 2006

Daily Splatter: A Little Bit of Sloth Is All I Need

Today was Nerdy Squirrel's last day of law school classes...FOREVER.  I think the occassion deserves its own post.  Too bad no one reads this piece of shit (sorry, honey).

It won't be long now until I can be the kind of asshole I've always dreamed of being.  Imagine being able to begin every argument and dispute with "Yeah, well my wife's a lawyer and I'll sue your dumb ass!"

I can't wait until I run into those damn Girlscouts again.  

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May 01, 2006

FrivoList: Year 2020 - Ex-President George W. Bush's Excuses For Not Getting Off The Couch

It's 300 degrees outside today and he doesn't know where his ozone protection suit is
 
Still recovering from recent choking episode involving a Soylent Green pretzel
 
Doesn't need another mother.  He has a cryogenically frozen one already, thank you very much
 
Was going to work on the yard, but the lawnmower ran out of switch grass
 
Doesn't want to get caught in another inane conversation with the damn, dirty apes that just moved in next door
 
Intergalactic bill collectors are still hounding him about national debt payments for Jabba the Hut
 
Watching the Jessica Simpson murder trial on Court TV
 
Doesn't want to run into any of those genetically engineered platypus people that he knew would be a problem some day but no one listened to him and just made fun instead
 
9/11 changed everything


 

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