The thing about it that struck me funny was that on the back they listed all the "multi-surfaces" you can use it on, complete with pictures. They also had a list of specific things you probably should avoid using it on, like your ass, your baby, or your baby's ass, for instance. Oddly enough,there are no pictures of those things. This is what the back looks like:
The usage directions are pretty detailed, but there were a few things I found confusing.
Seriously, is there a male anywhere who doesn't want a higher shine on his wood? I think not. And why they want you to go around the house and unplug everything before you open the envelope is beyond me, but that's what I did because that ominous note scared me a little.
Did you notice the "DO NOT USE" text in bright green? Personally, I don't think that's big enough. And what if a potential consumer can't read? They would have no choice but to go by pictures. That being said, here's what I think the back of it should look like:
Actually, just the thought of someone using lemon Pledge wipes to treat their hemorrhoids made me laugh and gave me an idea. I decided to drop an e-mail to their customer support folks, just to get their opinion on that. Here's what I wrote:
Hi there -
I was hoping you could answer a question for me. I recently purchased some of your Pledge Multi-surface pre-moistened wipes, and I've used them on myself quite a few times in a rather "sensitive" area, since I was out of the pre-moistened wipes that I usually purchase (Tucks). I was wondering if that could be harmful in any way.
It wasn't until recently that I noticed the line on the back that says "do not use for personal hygiene or as a baby wipe." When I saw that, I immediately discontinued my use, even though they seemed to work even better than Tucks Medicated pads, and I really liked the clean, lemony-fresh scent they left behind.
I didn't notice any irritation or redness -- in fact, just the opposite. They must have some anti-chafing properties as well, because I've never felt so "friction-free" back there. Anyway, I'd like to continue using them in this fashion if you can tell me that it's perfectly safe to do so.
Thank you very much,
The next day, I got this reply:
Thank you for your email regarding PLEDGE® Wipes. I'm sorry you thought these products were for personal hygiene. They are really not recommended nor designed for such use.
In answer to your question, since the most common PLEDGE® Wipes products are PLEDGE® Wipes in Lemon and with Orange Oil, I can tell you the ingredients of these particular products are not considered skin irritants. However, if skin contact occurs we recommend washing the area with soap and water.
If you have additional questions related to the safety of this products or another PLEDGE® Wipe product, please call our SCJ Medical Information line at 866-231-5406. They will be happy to address any other concerns you may have.
If we can help in the future, please do not hesitate to contact us again.
Consumer Relationship Center
SC Johnson, A Family Company
Toll Free Number: 1-800-558-5252
Reference Number: 012913843A
That medical info line is looking pretty tempting. Once I think I can keep a straight face while I'm asking questions, I'm totally on it. So if you walk by my desk and you overhear me asking someone on the phone if it's ok if I brush my teeth with Pledge, don't be alarmed.
It's just me gathering much-needed information for you, my faithful readers. When your butthole is lemony-fresh and streak-free, you'll thank me.
Oh yes, you will.
Normally, you would think that the reasons for getting out of the retail music business would have a lot to do with the cost of maintaining a storefront when the warehouse-based internet music stores like Sweetwater are deep-discounting the same gear you're selling for 30% less. You have to get tired of cheap-ass musicians coming in and taking up your valuable time to try something out, and then going home and ordering it from the 'net. You also might think that dealing with musicians would be pretty sketchy business in general, since they're not known for their stellar credit.
Those are all very good reasons for deciding to pack it in. His reason is none of those, however. Actually, it is one I didn't expect.
The postcard said he was getting out because he felt that "God is calling me to start something new."
I'm betting that conversation went something like this:
"Dave's Guitar Shop, this is Dave. Can I help you?"
"Hey, man! This is God. You get those new HHX Sabians in yet? My old Paiste cymbals have been really sucking it lately."
"God! Holy shit! I haven't talked to you since you drunk-dialed me from Vancouver on your last tour. How's it hangin' bro? Yeah, we just got a shipment, but I haven't unboxed it yet. They should be here. Can I get your number and I'll give you call when I know for sure?"
"Well, it's unlisted and I don't usually give it out. I had it in the book for a while, but people kept calling me up and asking for this and asking for that...it was a major pain in the ass so I quit that shit and got a new unlisted one. Anyway, I hope you don't mind, but I'd prefer to just call back."
"No worries. I'll probably know later tonight. We have to do inventory. Not to use your name in vain or anything, but Goddammit, I hate doing inventory."
"Yeah, I hear that one a lot. Hey, wait a sec! I just remembered something. I'm all-knowing! Let me check....hot damn! Yeah, they came in. They're in the second box closest to the loading dock door. Think you could pull them for me?"
"Sure. You coming in to pick them up? Hey, any chance you can send down a quick inventory? It would save me a shitload of time."
"Sorry, man. I only help those who help themselves, remember? Get off your lazy ass! Ha. Actually I was thinking that maybe you could deliver them unto me. It'll give us a chance to catch up. I've been meaning to talk to you about this idea I had, and I guess this is as good a time as any. "
"What now? Not Amway again, I hope. I already told you, I'm not buying any of that shit off you."
"No, nothing like that. OK, are you ready for this? I'm putting the band back together. AND I was hoping maybe you could come on the road with us. Hear me out on this. I know how much you miss playing, and well, frankly -- Luke's been a bit of a dick lately, and he's been missing rehearsals. We've been doing some bar gigs to try out some new material, and he can't even play his own solos for My sake. Plus, It doesn't look very professional when he's all raptured up on whatever the hell he's on. I think I'm gonna have to cut him loose. The rest of the guys agree that he needs to be replaced, and your name was the first one that came up."
"Really? Me? Dude, I don't know what to say. I mean, I'm honored and everything, but...I'm not really into that Christian Rock stuff. No offense, but it's always about You. Which is cool if someone else is doing it, but when you guys do it, it comes off like you're a bunch of pompous pricks."
"DO NOT MAKE ME SMITE THEE!!"
"OK, OK! I'm in! E-mail me the mapquest directions, and I'll grab my guitar and be there in the morning. Chill out. Jesus! It was nothing personal. Hey, speaking of that crazy son of yours, is he still doing sound?"
"Shit -- I'm sorry, man. That was totally un-fucking-called for. It's been a rough night. Yeah, Jesus is still doing sound, you know, still diggin' it. Between you and me, though, the last rehearsal didn't go well at all, and we're looking for you to be the glue. And I know you've probably heard that I've been going through some shit with Mary...anyway, all stories for another time. I'll see you in the morning. It'll be fun."
"Done deal. Want me to bring anything?"
"Nah, just the cymbals. I'll fax over the song list -- and oh, a word of advice -- Avoid I-90 like, well, like the plague. Trust me. You won't be sorry."
"Thanks. OK, I gotta go get some postcards printed. I'll see you around ten or so. Later, G."
"Later, D-man. Keep it real. And hey, there's a box under your desk. I admit I'm no graphic designer, but check out the postcards and let me know what you think."
Oct 16, 11:55 PM (ET)
FORT BRAGG, N.C. (AP) - Kiss rocker Gene Simmons appeared at a North Carolina Army base Monday to promote a new line of cosmetic fragrances. Those buying Kiss Him cologne or Kiss Her perfume for $39 got an autograph or photo taken with Simmons, the flamboyant Kiss bass player famous for wearing black and white makeup and sticking out his long tongue.
The line of people waiting to meet Simmons snaked out the door at the Fort Bragg post exchange where the fragrances are sold. Kiss, one of the top heavy metal acts of the 1970s, also has a coffee shop in Myrtle Beach, S.C., that opened this year. Simmons and other members of the band launched the fragrance products Oct. 1.
Um, perfume and coffee shops? My first thought was that they are not branching out in the direction I'd expect, but then I realized the Kiss Army looks like this now:
So coffee shops, at least, make perfect sense.
I wonder if the perfume smells like old-man sweat and groupie dentures.
The meeting in question was our weekly status meeting, which is usually scheduled for an hour and falls right between breakfast and lunch. In other words, it falls in prime bathroom time. You've just downed a 36 oz. cup of coffee and quite possibly a Mountain Dew, and even though you went to the can before the meeting, you know that by the end of the meeting you're going to be doing the pee-pee dance in your cube, just counting the seconds until the meeting ends. Incidentally, the reason that I can do the pee-pee dance with wanton abandon is because I am not on site, and therefore I dial into the meeting via audio conference from my desk.
Which brings me to the next point. A point that I was, until yesterday's meeting, entirely sure everyone on god's green earth knew. It turns out that this particular person is unaware, and this blog entry will be my attempt to educate him in the serious and seriously annoying error of his ways.
As a general rule, the last thing that shows up on the meeting agenda is something called, for lack of a better term, "Rounds." The purpose of "Rounds" is to give the people at the meeting one last chance to bring up a topic or ask a last-minute question that wasn't covered elsewhere in the meeting.
The thing about "Rounds" that everyone except this person seems to instinctively know is that there is only one possible and accepted response that should be made when your manager is going around the table asking everyone by name if they have anything to add. That response is "Nothing here," or "No, I'm all set" or even something as simple and to the point as "No." All variations on a theme, and all variations expressly designed to avoid the facilitation of further discussion, because as everyone else seems to understand, the object of the meeting is to get the fucking thing over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
If you have a follow-up question, bring it up later in an e-mail, or a phone call, or god forbid, during another face-to-face meeting. Whatever you do, do not string them all at the end of "Rounds."
When you do this, it makes two things happen. One, it causes the meeting you're in to overlap the next one you're supposed to be attending -- with no time in between to do anything other than drop your pants right where you are and piss in an empty Mountain Dew bottle. Two, it makes the other people at the meeting want to hang you with CAT-5 cable until you are dead.
As I was standing there doing the pee-pee dance and gauging the volume and straw-hole size of a Veryfine juicebox, he asked not ONE, not TWO, but THREE different follow-up questions. When our manager asked him if there was anything else, and he mercifully said "No," I actually muttered "GOOD!" into the phone, not realizing I had done so.
I can't be held responsible for wanting him to die, because at that point, I was blinded by the pee-pain. When I heard the laughter on the other end of the line, I realized I didn't have my phone muted like I had originally thought.
So take my advice, people. And you, my anonymous coworker -- pay close attention.
"Rounds" = "Nothing Here."
Remember that. It will serve you, your co-workers, and my bladder well.
"A stigmatism?" I replied.
"No AN astigmatism," he said.
"Is that fancy doctor talk for can't see shit?" I asked.
Turns out it's fancy doctor talk for why my left eyeball was no longer exactly left-eyeball-shaped. For some reason, it decided that being round was no longer hip and cool, and went all oblong up in that bitch.
Right after that, I was snowboarding and there was a yard sale whereupon I went one way and my board went the other. For those of you who snowboard, you know how difficult actually getting that to happen really is. Since your feet are basically fastened to the board, the only way you can do it is by ripping your foot completely out of the boot. The unfortunate result of this ass over Gortex maneuver was that the ligaments in my left ankle were pulled like taffy. Six weeks wearing a brace followed by some PT and I was almost-but-not-quite-right. I still limp when I first jump out of bed in the morning.
Next, the rotator cuff of my left shoulder decided that it has had quite enough bench pressing thank you very much, and it went on strike in the middle of a work out. I'm not exactly sure how this happened, since my shoulders pretty much work as a pair, and hence should have roughly the same warranty. It's not like my left shoulder is out partying all night without the right one, although I can't confirm that since I'm busy sleeping.
Most recently, my left elbow has been hurting like hell. And I know what you're thinking and that's not the problem, so shut it. I think I originally effed it up moving 5 cords of wood from one spot to another. I accomplished this firewood move by throwing it, a single log at a time, which in retrospect was probably not the most efficient method. I had a few cortisone shots, but it hasn't really helped, other than to tweak my fear of needles.
On the bright side, I can still hear pretty good out of my left ear, and my left hand can still remember how to type. Perhaps I'm done with the left-leaning deterioration for a while -- although I have a sneaking suspicion that my left testicle is hanging a little lower than my right.
I'll have to keep an eye on it --you know, just to make sure it doesn't roll out of my pant leg at an inopportune time.
It's shower gel.
Looks pretty ordinary, doesn't it?
In reality, however, it's not ordinary in the slightest. Here's the actual product description (and I am not making this up):
The olive branch has been a symbol of peace for millennia; our gel has 3% organic olive oil from two sources: an olive grove formerly owned by the Sicilian Mafia and now run as a co-operative by former homeless drug addicts and a Palestinian-Israeli joint venture run by women on land in occupied territories which was being wasted as a result of the conflict.
I'm sure that my laughing out loud wasn't quite the reaction their marketing department was shooting for, but I couldn't help it. It totally sounds like the set up for a joke.
Also, I want to know how a bunch of homeless crack heads and women in Burquas beat up the Mafia. And not just any Mafia, either. The Sicilian Mafia. It seems impossible to me, unless the Israeli part of the "joint venture" consisted entirely of Special Forces teams acting on Mossad intel.
Here's the link, in case you want to pay too much for something and feel 3% good about yourself. I've added it to my amazon wish list, so when I get it, I'll let you know how it smells.
I hope it doesn't smell like homeless guy, because I've already got that scent covered.
Here's one I see all the time, for a dating service called True:
I'm torn on this particular one, because while it's not likely that a cowgirl slut with fake tits would be anything other than naughty, it's certainly within the realm of possibility.
That being said, I think I'm gonna have to play the odds and go with a big Naughty on this one.
On this last trip, we encountered a new low.
In addition to the (sadly expected) assorted plastic cups and bags, my wife found a used condom, just lying there, dejected and deflated, about 15 feet from the fire pit.
For the life of me, I can't understand it. I can't understand why I have to bury piles of human shit and pick up garbage because the people who were there before us are too stupid or lazy to dig a hole or bring a garbage bag. Seriously, how hard is it to bury a condom?
Why don't these people just stay the hell home and drink? Their double-wide or dorm room or whatever has to be more comfortable than sleeping out in the woods in a tent. Why go through the hassle of driving two and a half hours and then canoeing an additional hour in order to act like complete morons in the middle of nowhere?
If anyone reading this right now doesn't understand the concept of "if you carry it in, carry it out," this post is for you. As such, I have a few tips for you, especially if you happen to be one of the people below. Feel free to take them or leave them, but I'd actually just prefer that you die.
Loud Guy across the lake with the Bronx accent who uses the F-word in every single sentence: Just because it's quiet doesn't mean you have to scream at the top of your lungs every five minutes, is all I'm saying. You're there. We get it. You exist. However, let me tell you this -- You are the reason involuntary sterilization exists. I am sorry to say that in this case, the concept has miserably failed the rest of humanity by letting your baboon/hyena parents bring you and your mutant litter-mates to term.
Parents who refuse to let your new baby impact your outdoorsy lifestyle: Face it. Your life has changed. Just because you have an SUV instead of a minivan because you refuse to admit your life is no longer your own, it doesn't mean you don't have a kid. And once you have a kid, you have certain societal responsibilities, like not inflicting your kid on other people, either knowingly or unknowingly. So listen carefully: If you must go camping with your 2 year old, please refrain from leaving full pampers in the fire pit when you go back home. I realize you don't want to burn or bury them, (or god forbid carry them out) but neither do I. In fact, given a choice, I would burn and bury you and your child instead.
Kayakers who have inane conversations with each other while 500 yards apart: Here's a tip for you -- there is no invisible forcefield that keeps you from paddling next to each other and conversing in a normal tone of voice. Don't talk loudly about how you don't see any wildlife. The reason you are not seeing any wildlife is because you don't shut your fucking pie hole for 30 seconds at a stretch. And other people on the lake don't really give a shit if you think that the only way to get a good watertight seal on a flat roof is to put down rubber sheeting first.
People who try to burn things that any brain-damaged drooling idiot would realize will not burn, or should not BE burned: This list includes 14" diameter, 6-foot long logs that were actually intended to be used to sit around the fire. Also on the list - freshly cut pine trees that you just chopped down. Also please add picnic tables, cans, bottles and out-house doors as well. It takes the rangers quite a bit of time to bring materials by boat to a remote campsite and set up a picnic table. Don't burn it.
Chainsaw/generator/outboard motor guy: Just go the fuck home. Now. Someone needs to knock out your single remaining tooth and then pack it into your esophagus with their car. This is not a drive-n-camp at Lake George. This is a remote lake in the middle of nowhere, and some people come here to get away from noise. You are the only tool on the entire lake with an outboard motor and a chainsaw, and that should tell you something.
I apologize for the rant, but dammit that felt good. Call me a sanctimonious tree hugger, I don't care. I'm really not though. I just have common sense and a little bit of courtesy for my fellow campers.
Anyway, after I buried the condom (that sounds dirty, doesn't it?) we did nothing but read, eat, sleep and relax for two days. It was glorious.
It seems an individual with a "violent personality" (to quote the pilot) was about to open a giant can of whoop-ass on his girlfriend while sitting right in seats 19B and C. I guess he got a little cranky and threatened the stewardess when she told him to keep it down and watch his language. Apparently, he didn't think she'd really call the cops.
Bzzzzt! Wrong answer, Eminem. You don't fuck around on planes, at least not any more.
So someone is sleeping in Cleveland tonight while their girlfriend flies the friendly skies with lots of extra leg room.
I'm home now, and it feels pretty damn good. God, I hate to travel.
I'm sitting here in a hotel room in Cleveland listening to the ocean and seagulls, and now my shirt for tomorrow smells like pee.
"Why does your shirt smell like pee, Johnny?" you may ask.
"Because I just ironed it," I would reply, "and I am fairly sure someone recently pissed in the iron."
I deduce this because the steam emanating from it smells like the bathroom at work, had the bathroom at work been heated to two hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Gotta love these high-class hotels. So if I smell like pee tomorrow, it's not my fault.
Oh yeah -- if you're wondering about the ocean and seagulls, there's some sort of cheesy sound generator that takes the place of the regular old am/fm clock radio. I think it was upgraded along with the flat-screen TV that you can't change the aspect ratio on, so everyone looks short and fat. I gotta tell you though -- It proved to me that Evangeline Lilly would still be hot even if she was 4 feet tall and weighed 170lbs. Anyway, this thing is set to "ocean." Unfortunately, the only way you wouldn't notice the loop point on this piece of shit is if you have short-term memory damage and your melon violently resets itself every 15 seconds.
On the way out here this morning it was so foggy we had to sit on the runway for about 20 minutes waiting for the fog to lift. It was a pain in the ass, but I had the emergency exit seat with nobody sitting next to me, so I got to spread out a bit. The flight itself was fine, but the landing was a little interesting. For some reason, we hit pavement and we were coasting along nicely when the pilot slammed on his brakes and banked hard left. It was the airplane equivalent of driving down the highway in the fast lane and then noticing you were about to miss your exit and instead of just continuing to the next one, you cut across three lanes of traffic and hit the cloverleaf at 85mph. Not sure what that was about, but my nap was over.
I usually take the subway into the office, so I paid my buck seventy-five and sat down on a train that apparently belonged to Mr. T. As we were about to pull out of the station, a large bling-wearing black dude wearing an RTA coat yelled "DOORS CLOSIN!" and the train started moving. A few seconds later, he yelled at some poor white woman who had her bag about 3 inches into the aisle. "MA'AM! MOVE YOUR BAG to either the LUGGAGE RACK or the SEAT NEXT TO YOU. RTA REGULATIONS STATE THAT THE AISLE MUST BE FREE OF OBSTRUCTIONS AT ALL TIMES!" She jumped like she had been tasered in the ass and grabbed her bag off the floor.
At the next stop, a woman with a stroller got on and the stroller was in the aisle. Mr. T immediately sensed a disturbance in the subway force, and popped back out of his hidey hole.
"BREAK DOWN THE STROLLER AND GET IT OUT OF THE AISLE," he yelled in his bestest and loudest authoritative voice. "HOLD THE BABY ON YOUR LAP. THIS IS FOR OUR SAFETY AND THE SAFETY OF YOUR BABY."
I was a split-second away from doing what he said, and it wasn't even my stroller.
This woman, however, was clearly taking no shit from him. She yelled back, "IT'S BROKEN, IT DON'T BREAK DOWN, AND I AIN'T WAKIN' UP MY BABY." Case closed. He wasn't about to get in a fist fight with a 240 lb. angry black woman with cankles the size of my thighs, so he let it go. RTA regulations be damned.
When I de-trained, I stopped at Caribou Coffee (the resident Starbucks clone) to get a quick cup of joe before heading to the office. The guy in front of me illustrated exactly why this place was not, and never would be, any competition for Starbucks.
He walked up to the girl behind the counter and order something called a "Pumpkin Steamer." Maybe it's just me, but if I were in charge of the marketing department at Caribou Coffee I would know better than to open a store in Cleveland and put anything at all on the menu that involved the word "steamer."
And on a final note -- If you think blogging is a waste of time, it's nothing compared to this.
I had to read the article if only to find out if they meant "shots" like bang-bang-bang-you-have-bullet-holes-in-you-now-and-you're-bleeding to-death in-your-Escalade, or "shots" like calling Fiddy a dick in rhyme or something. In this case, it was the latter. But The Game got kicked out of G-Unit, so it stands to reason. G-unit, for god's sake. You can't get kicked out of that and go on to live a life not full of bitterness and anger.
OK, I really have no idea what a "G-unit" is, because I am not a fan of rap, as I'm sure you've heard me say before. But after accidentally reading an article about something called Chingy the other day, (only to find out what, exactly, a "Chingy" was) I have discovered something:
Rappers have officially run out of good names.
I say this with certainty --however, keep in mind that I have absolutely no idea what makes a good or bad rap name, so I could be wrong. But probably not.
I decided I'd do a little research, based upon my limited exposure to the world of famous people who shoot each other for fun, and it seems that certain prefixes have been co-opted by the rapping set.
Lil', for instance. You've got your Lil' Al, Lil' Blacky, Lil' Bobb'e Bling, Lil' Boosie, Lil' C Style, Lil' Cease, Lil' Eazy E, Lil' Fate, Lil' Flip, Lil' Fly, Lil' jon, Lil' Keke, Lil' Kim, Lil' Larry, Lil' Moe, Lil' Rob**, Lil' Romeo, Lil' Ron, Lil' Scrappy, Lil' Sicko, Lil' Troy, Lil' Uno, and Lil' Wayne.
And conversely, to keep the Lil's in line, you have your Bigs. Big Gibb, Biggy Smalls, Big Hutch, Big L, Big Lurch, Big Moe, Big Prodeje, Big City, Big Daddy Kane, Big Gee, Big Gipp, Big Punisher, Big Riqq, Big Scoot, Big Shasta, Big Sty, Big Syke, Big T, Big Tuck, Big Tymers, and Big Yoni.
I wonder if Big Moe could make Lil' Moe do his evil bidding. I think he could.
There are also a buttload of DJs. DJ Cherry Martinez, DJ Clue, DJ Crazy Toones, DJ Cut Chemist, DJ Demp, DJ Dove, DJ EFN, DJ Envy, DJ Green Lantern*, DJ Jams Jay, DJ Kay Slay, DJ Khaled, DJ Maxximus. DJ Paul, DJ Quik, DJ Scratch, DJ Shadow, DJ Spinna, DJ Storm, DJ Strong, DJ Whoo kid, and DJ Yella.
We also have lots of Youngs. Almost no Olds at all, because I don't think gangsta rappers live very long as a general rule. A few Cools. A smattering of J's. Not as many MCs as I expected.
So obviously, individuality is a big part of picking your rap name.
Once I got to this final list, I knew that all the good ones must have been taken:
Hall of Justus
I am pretty sure Equipto and Intellekt have their headquarters in the Hall of Justus, but I could be wrong. And Dolla Willa sounds like something that fought Mothra over Tokyo. Also, I am especially impressed with Hi-C, who apparently picked his rap name while eating a hearty breakfast. I have a feeling it was a toss up between that or Frostid Flaykz.
Oh yeah, and don't forget Z-Ro, who seems to have a problem with low self-esteem, and Droop-E, who I can only hope is shooting for that "bad really means good" thing -- otherwise it's an unfortunate choice, and it's probably not going to get him laid much.
So to sum up, I can't tell you the difference between hip-hop, rap, east-coast, west-coast or gansta, but I do know this:
I'm just a middle-class white boy and I don't understand your complicated rapper ways.
By the way -- I'd appreciate it if alla y'all don't kill me.
*DC comics should sue the bling off this guy.
**Lil' Rob? I expected Lil' Curly, or maybe Lil' Shemp