Better add a little baking soda.

So it's lunchtime on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and as I eat my burger, I'm thumbing through the Reader's Digest magazine that comes to my house every month (courtesy of my wife's grandparents). A naked woman catches my eye.

Technically, all the naughty bits are covered up with a hand-lettered sign, and it's really only the bottom half of a naked woman, but she has long legs and a nice shape, which is why I noticed the ad to begin with. The sign she's holding in front of her mid-section says "Is there a worse feeling than not feeling like yourself?"

I am intrigued, because I can instantly think of roughly two thousand three hundred things that would feel worse than not feeling like myself. A compound fracture of the tibia, being set on fire, a pitching machine firing baseballs at my exposed ass....I mean, really, I could go on forever. "Not feeling like myself" doesn't even make the top 1500.

So I start reading the fine print. ( I really have to stop reading the fine print. It's fine for a reason, and that reason is because I am not supposed to read it.) Anyway, against my better judgment, I read it. I figure it has to do with tampons, or itching, or chafing, or something I really don't need or want to know about, but it's like a car accident, you can't not look. Besides, I'm all about learning something new, so I continue.

Turns out, it has to do with the relative pH levels of the vagina. Goddammit, the things I learn while I'm eating boggle my mind.

For starters, I didn't know you had to check the pH levels in one of those things. I had no idea that it was such a precision-tuned, high-maintenance apparatus.

I mean, a hot tub or a swimming pool, yeah -- I can see checking the pH levels there. If the pH is off in a hot tub, for instance, the steam from the water will burn your eyes and make you cough. That's bad, and it's a clear sign that you need to add some baking soda. That being said, I've never dated anyone who had a crotch that burned my eyes and made me cough, and I am extremely thankful for that.

Again, I can't leave well enough alone, so off I go, looking for a picture, and some more details. I hit up Amazon.com, because they generally have the best pictures to steal. So here's the stuff, in all its balanced glory:



Amazon.com doesn't let me down, and the product description is chock full of information. In addition to eliminating odor for up to three days, this stuff apparently contains what they refer to as "a patented bio-adhesive polymer."

Now, I can easily get behind the odor thing, since nobody wants a stanky crotch, but if I were a woman, that second one would concern me a little. There is no way I would buy something that makes it sound like I could quite possibly be pumping myself full of Liquid Nails construction adhesive.

Also in the fine print: "Keep out of eyes and ears." I have to say, that warning seemed a little odd to me, because that's not really the first place I would target with the old applicator if my vagina was burning holes in my underwear. Probably not even the 4th or 5th place, truth be told.

The other odd thing: Amazon will only ship this product to addresses in the U.S. I guess complete pandemonium would break out if just anyone in the world was allowed to have a fresh-smelling vagina.

I don't know. I'm no crotch mechanic, although if you read my blog regularly you'd think I was training for a new career or something. It's nothing like that, really.

Someone just needs to teach me to skip the fine print and leave well enough alone. Then I'll be fine.

The kind of crap that occurs to me when I should be paying attention.

The other day I bought a bottle of Propel Fitness Water, because I had a conference call and I'm trying to cut down on the Mountain Dew. I had seen the commercials on TV where the little athlete pops up out of the water drop, and I had been wanting to try the stuff to see if it tasted any better than Gatorade.

I was a little disappointed, because (1) it tasted like crap, (2) it doesn't have any caffeine in it, (3) it made me have to pee really bad, and (4) the lemon flavor apparently does not have a little guy.

Not one.

How do I know this? Well, about halfway through the meeting, I reached for the volume on the phone and tipped the damn bottle over by mistake. I jumped up, instantly bracing myself for a deluge of a thousand tiny athletes, but absolutely nothing happened.

No army of teeny karate guys. No mini-marathon. No desk-sized skatepunk bong party.

Nothing.

Either they aren't really in there, or they don't like to come out and were somehow latched onto the bottom of the bottle like little leeches. I suppose it's also possible that they could have escaped at the bottling plant. I'm not really sure.

I still feel like I got screwed. Not that I really wanted them all running around my cube, but even so, I'm going to buy another flavor tomorrow just to make sure I didn't get a bad bottle.

How awesome would that be anyway? You could bring a bottle to every meeting in case things got dull. When and if they did, you could sneak a few drops on the desk and have the equivalent of a table-top cock fight, only with little mini-ninjas. Place your bets, watch a miniature fight to the death, and clean up with a few paper towels. It would be the perfect way to liven things up. Of course, I'm assuming that they pop out all pre-programmed to do your bidding. If they popped out pissed at you instead, there could be tiny ninja trouble for everyone involved.

Or, if you're not into blood sports, you could go with the tropical citrus flavor. Five or six drops of that one gets you a handful of track and field guys. You could race them from one end of the conference table to the other a few times, then when they got too tired out to keep things interesting, you could just sweep them into the empty pizza box and get on with the meeting.

You might have to stick a few books on top at first, but I'm sure they'd quiet down eventually.

Give me the bird.

I need help from someone old. Someone with grey hair and little half glasses. Maybe even a bushy mustache and a sweater vest, and quite possibly pants pulled up to their armpits.

I need someone who does nothing all day but feed the birds and sit at the window with a pair of binoculars. I need someone who owns Audubon books and listens to recordings of bird calls for fun.

Because somewhere in all those books and recordings, there is a bird that sounds like this.

I know when this bird is identified, I'm going to find out that it likes pine trees, and upstate NY, and pissing people off. I know this because this effer lives right outside my bedroom window and has taken it upon himself to become my own personal rooster. Whatever it is, it sets its alarm clock for 3:30 am sharp.

Every. Single. Day.

It is driving me insane. That recording doesn't do it justice. It is like someone jabbing you in the back of the neck with a lit cigarette every 4 seconds while you're trying to sleep.

It is loud.

Loud enough to hear over window fans. Loud enough to hear through pillows, and ear plugs.

So, I need help from an old person. I need them to tell me what kind of bird it is, what it looks like, what it eats, how much it shits.

I want to know everything there is to know about this creature, so that I can kill it. A lot.

I will then nail the bullet-ridden skin of this screaming ex-bird on my garage door as a warning to the others.

Justice will be served. On the grill if it's big enough.

Things for sale at northerntool.com that sound like kinky sex toys, but aren't.

Ball Mount with Cushioned 2/6 in. Drop
15in. Soft-Face Hammer
Grip Hollow Shaft Nut Driver
Jumbo Rod Bender
SHURflo On-Demand Diaphragm Pump
Female Screw TP Plug
Nipple Connection for Female Strainer End to Female Hose End
Nitro Plugs
Dust Plug for Female Coupler
Deluxe Body Harness
Cordless Concrete Vibrator
Rubber Snubbers
The Bone Rough Rider

Those crazy party frogs

I worked from home for a half day today, then took some time off this afternoon to go to the dentist. As a result, I had a few hours to kill while I was waiting for leave for my appointment. While I was eating lunch, I flipped on the TV.

It's amazing the things you can learn if you watch TV while you eat. If you watch the Discovery Channel and happen to get lucky, you can eat at the exact same time as the cheetah, which has a certain primal appeal. Nothing like eating a nice hunk of grilled bison while the same exact animal is getting ripped apart and eaten raw right in front of your eyes.

No such luck today.

Today, I learned about Frogs, and how they throw up. Oddly enough, this is one thing about frogs that I have never deeply pondered. You would think that 'How Frogs Puke' would have been right up there on my list, but no.

Apparently, most frogs can intentionally vomit up their entire stomachs, and then use their front legs to shove the offending matter out. Then they simply re-swallow their stomachs and continue on their merry way. No muss, no fuss.

The first thing I thought of was how awesome that would be. You have to admit that after a night of heavy drinking and way too many jalepeno poppers, it would be great if you could just huck up your entire stomach, turn it inside out and dump the contents into the toilet like that bowl of 2 week-old stew from the fridge, and then just swallow it down again. No more running to the bathroom in the middle of the night. No more sticking your finger down your throat and praying to throw up. Think of the time and agony you would save yourself.

If you were a real party animal, you could accomplish this stomach manuever right in the bathroom stall at the club. You wouldn't even have to worry about having puke breath. Just dump your guts and head back to the party. Gives the term 'sucking in your stomach' a whole new meaning.

On the other hand, even though the frog didn't bat an eye, it just can't be very pleasant. Plus, if humans could do it, it would probably look pretty disgusting.

Imagine walking into the men's room, and seeing some guy standing in front of the sink with his stomach hanging out of his mouth. I'm sure that if it was crowded in there when he did it, it would cause a chain reaction, and pretty soon there'd be six guys standing there resting their inside out stomachs on their chests.

Truth be told, I think it would be the sounds they would make swallowing them again that would really get to me.

Now I'm going to have nightmares tonight. Damn you, Discovery Channel.

Next time I'm just going to watch The Food Network.....although with my luck, Rachael Ray would probably huck up her stomach.

This really (un)chafes my ass.

I was watching TV this morning, and there was some show on about the history of NASCAR. The only things I know about NASCAR I learned from flipping by it on my way to something else. I know these things:

1) It is some sort of car racing. The cars all look alike except for the decals, and they go around and around and around in a big oval, trying not to crash.

2) The people watching are all waiting for a crash.

3) In order to actually attend a race, you need five essential things: A mullet, a mustache, a baseball cap, a beer gut, and a pair of Oakleys. (OK, so maybe that's an unfair stereotype. In reality, I think those things are only requirements down south.)

Anyway, the story was about "up-and-coming" drivers, and one of the drivers they were showcasing was a female. Now, as I've said, I know nothing about NASCAR, so I have no idea what her name was. Apparently, she was having a hard time getting a sponsor, but finally, after months and years of hard work, she landed one. Her sponsor was Boudreaux's, and they make this:



I almost pissed myself when I saw her proudly walking around in her BUTT PASTE racing jacket. Here's a picture, since some people* didn't believe me:



Her car was also smeared with BUTT PASTE. I don't know what kind of money they were paying her, but it definitely wasn't enough. If I can find this stuff locally, I am totally buying some, just so I can put the jar on my desk.

Goddammit, that has to be the best product name ever.

If only other products were named and advertised the same way. Speaking of other products, I think this one is new, since I've been seeing the commercial every 20 minutes this past week, and also, because the package says NEW!



It seems that Monistat is branching out a bit. The yeast infection market must be in a slump, which is probably a good thing for the dating public, even though it might signal problems for the Monistat home office.

I saw a commercial for this stuff for the first time a few weeks ago. First off, wtf is "powder gel?" Is it powder or is it gel? It can't be a powder that turns into a gel, because that would just be a mess, so I'm assuming it's a gel that turns into a powder. In that case, shouldn't it be described as a gel-powder? And once you started sweating, wouldn't it turn back into a gel? So needless to say, I have questions.

Secondly, in the commercial they have some hot model putting this stuff on her thighs. I don't know much, but I do know this -- she needs to be at least another 75 pounds heavier than she was to make it even remotely believable. This woman's thighs have never touched each other by mistake in her entire life.

Not to mention the fact that she's rubbing this stuff on her legs like it's being instantly absorbed by her capillaries and rushed directly to the pleasure center of her brain.

All I'm saying is, how about a little "BUTT PASTE" truth in advertising here?

Let's think this through: The target market for this stuff is clearly overweight people who sweat a lot and have a chafing problem. Fair enough. Thighs, underarms, boobs, nuts, asscrack -- the chafing possibilities are staggering. The reality of chafing is not pretty.

Not that I mind seeing an attractive woman sensuously rubbing this stuff on her legs like it's water from the fountain of youth, but it really doesn't demonstrate the product's anti-chafing capabilities.

I say drop the niceties and tell it like it is. Get someone on TV who actually has, or could have, a chafing issue, and let them tell me how much this stuff rocks.

I want to see Louie Anderson on there telling me about how this stuff makes his man-boobs virtually frictionless.

I want Kirsty Alley to look me in the eye and tell me that her asscheeks are no longer raw and burning. I want to hear the cool, smooth glide of her newly gel-powdered ass going "swish, swish, swish," like the snowpants I had when I was a kid.

I was a marketing major in college, and the one thing they always harped on was that combining a celebrity endorsement with a product demo is a killer one-two punch. So how about it Monistat? If you can't get Louie or Kirsty, hit me with the "before and after" shots of Rosanne Barr's inner thighs. She'd probably do it for a box of Krispy Kremes.

Do that, and the day I start chafing, I will be at the store buying your product.


*Ammo Gal, you should never doubt me.

I joined this.

Please consider it.

http://www.soldiersangels.org/heroes/index.php

On almost rear-ending Bigfoot

I was making good time on the way home from work today, trying to outrun a bigass storm cloud because I had the damn boot on, and it's a major pain in the ass to put the top up when you have to take that off first. I got about half way home when gigantic rain drops the size of quarters started bouncing off the top of my head.

I pulled into a rest stop and parked next to a white pickup truck and jumped out of the car. I thought the truck was empty, but when I walked by it, some sort of demonspawn wolf-dog with a head the size of a wrecking ball almost broke his neck (and the passenger side window of the truck) trying to get a fresh, juicy piece of prime JV. Needless to say, I almost shit myself right there in the parking lot.

I did manage to get the top up in record time, however. You move pretty fast after you almost puke up your heart.

Of course, it stopped raining about 5 minutes later, but at least I managed to be outside for the worst of it. Once I hit my exit, I figured it would be smooth sailing, but instead I got stuck behind some behemoth 4x4 that looked like it came straight from a monster truck competition. The guy kept riding his brakes for no reason at all, and it was beginning to piss me off. I am pretty sure that if he locked them up, I could have taken the miata right up the middle between the back tires and popped out in front like some sort of shiny blue japanese torpedo, but I didn't want to test that theory. I continued to follow him for a good 5 miles, and right around mile two, I notice something else weird.

Not only is he riding his brakes, he is driving around the manhole covers.

Every. Single. One.

If there's was a crack in the road, or even the slightest, tiniest indication that there might be a small pothole or asphalt irregularity, he swerves around it. To the point where he is practically in the oncoming lane about 60% of the time.

I don't understand. This truck could have driven over a convoy of volkswagen beetles at 70 miles per hour and the driver would not have spilled a single drop of his Coors Light. The shock absorbers (and there were two of them on each rear wheel) were as big around as my legs, and the tires had tread so deep that I am pretty sure I actually saw a woodchuck wedged in there struggling to get out.

I have no explanation for it. My theories are as follows: (1) Maybe he just likes to slolom. (2) Maybe he's a big pussy. (3) Maybe he has really bad hemmorhoids, or (4) He's drunk, and his other car is a Geo Metro. I don't know. What I do know is that it was annoying as hell.

Eventually he turned into a side street and I was able to make it the rest of the way home without having to worry about some freako nutjob in front of me suddenly locking up his brakes because there's a pebble in the road.

I will be wondering about this one for a bit, because if it had been me, I would have been aiming for the damn potholes and manhole covers and volkswagens just to put a little spice in the ride. That's what trucks like that are for, fer chrissake.

I have no clue. People are strange.

Oh, and go here and vote for me over on the right. I'm trying to win a bitchin' keychain. No really. It says "Life's a bitch and so am I." Clever, huh? Truth be told, I don't really want the keychain. It's that damned silver ring. It....it calls to me. I can't take my eyes off of it.

UPDATE: The keychain contest is over. If i won, I'll let you all know.

Market Fresh Fo Shizzle

I went and saw the new Batman movie with Yort on Thursday. I had a few minor fanboy quibbles, but overall, a not-too-bad attempt to stay true to the comic book character, and it was pretty entertaining.

After the movie we headed over to the food court for a quick bite to eat, and ended up in line at Arby's. The black dude working the counter had all kinds of "prison style" tats, or maybe he actually got them in prison, I'm not really sure. Anyway, I noticed that among the mishmash, he had a tattoo on his neck. It was carved in at an angle, so it took me a bit to figure out what it actually said. I was finally able to get a good look at it, and it said, "Death before Disshonor."

Since I'm a middle-aged white guy* and I no longer have my finger on the pulse of the east coast rap culture, I was not aware that the saying had been co-opted by gangsta rappers.

Actually, I always thought it was a Hell's Angel's credo, all mispellings aside, but I guess I was wrong. I did some quick research, and "Malo mori quam foedari" dates back to at least 1086, so I guess rappers are as entitled to it as anyone else.

As I was standing there in front of the register, I noticed a small pile of CD inserts on the counter. I picked one up, and started reading the song list.

This thing read like a felony rap sheet. I think in the first 3 song titles alone, there were enough violent crimes listed to put someone in maximum security lockup for at least 7-10.

The dude behind the counter sees me looking at the CD insert and says, "You into underground hip hop?"

This question caught me entirely by surprise, because (a) I'm so white I'm practically flourescent, and (b) I am pretty sure that 98% of my actual genetic makeup consists of rap anti-matter.

In short, I am the exact opposite of someone who might be into underground hip hop.

For some unknown reason, out of my mouth comes, "I like all kinds of music." Now that's a true enough statement as far as it goes, since I don't consider rap or hip-hop (yes, there's a difference) actually music. It's more like performance art.

This statement hit his "on" button, and he started the sales pitch. Seems he had a whole pile of CDs behind the counter that he was selling for 5 bucks. Now, I'm not that familiar with the Official Arby's employee handbook, but I'm pretty sure selling hardcore rap CDs behind the counter is probably not listed under "Allowed Activities."

He complained about the lack of venues in the area for underground hip hop, and I agreed wholeheartedly. He said they were raising money to "pay off the clubs" so that they'd be able to perform. I asked him if he was in the band, and apparently, he just does their production, which I think means he's just handles the PA. I asked him if they recorded it locally, and he said they did it in his home studio.

By that time our food was ready, so I told him I'd think about it, and then we went and sat down, where we shook our heads and laughed hysterically at some of the song titles. I wish I kept the insert.

I actually came very close to going back and buying the CD after we finished eating, if only to see what it was all about. I suspect it was just some derivative crap, based on the song titles alone.

I don't hate all rap, just most of it. Some stuff I can actually listen to: Eminem, DMX, LL Cool J, Ice Cube, that sort of stuff. I don't even mind some rap elements in my rock if it's done well. The Red Hot Chili Peppers come to mind.

I was also tempted to buy one just so I could send it to my co-worker Special Dark, in order to get his professional opinion. I consider him my official liason with the black community. I ask him questions about why things are the way they are, and usually his answers are very enlightening, and sometimes unintentionally hilarious.

I remember one time, he gave me a lift somewhere in his car. I got in, and even though it was a few years old, it looked brand new. I complimented him, and he said, "Yeah. Black people keep their cars clean."

Another time, I was walking down the street with him, and I noticed that every black dude we passed acknowledged him in some way, or he acknowledged them. I asked him what was up with that, and he said, "Black people all know each other."

I think he was only half kidding.

Anyway, it would have been worth five bucks just to have the CD titles and pictures for my blog.

Maybe I'll go back and get one on Monday, if my tattooed friend still has a job.



*Damn, really? What constitutes middle-aged these days? Isn't thirty the new twenty? If so, then by the transitive property, 40 must be the new 30, in which case I'm not old yet.

Roll with it, baby.

I was driving, and the weather was glorious. I had the top down, Three Days Grace on the stereo and the sun on my face. Suddenly, I noticed a group of girls trying desperately to get my attention. They were all wearing skimpy outfits, bouncing up and down, waving and calling to me, beckoning me toward them. They wanted something only I could give. Did they want my body? Did they want my years of experience? Did they want to offer me a starring role in the latest Girls Gone Wild?

Hardly.

They just wanted my money.

It wasn't a dream -- it was the Senior Class of 2005 high school charity car wash fund raiser, and I was stuck front and center, idling at a red light they were currently working. They were trying to direct traffic over to the parking lot where, for the measly sum of five US dollars, you could have your car washed and dried by teenage girls in bikini tops and daisy dukes.

Now, I find this idea as appealing as most guys would (forgetting for the moment that I was probably as old as some of their fathers), but I was not what you would call the ideal candidate for a car wash. One, I was in a convertible with the top down, and two, my car was spotlessly clean. I'm pretty sure they were just happy to be flaunting it on a hot summer day, and it really didn't matter to whom they were directing their wanton advances. School's out baby.

So I smiled, gave a half-hearted wave, and the light turned green and I went on my way, which was really not so much "cruising around town" as it was "cruising to the local convenience store" for some Restaurant Style Tostitos and spicy salsa dip that I had forgotten to pick up earlier. This was my second trip, because I would forget my ass if it wasn't connected to the rest of me, or so my grandmother used to tell me.

I did notice one thing, however. While I might not have been the ideal candidate to get a car wash, these girls were not the ideal candidates to actually give one. To put it bluntly, they all could have skipped a meal or fifteen and maybe hit the treadmill a few times a week instead of watching all that reality TV and chatting on their cellphones.

I am not sure what is up with 19 year old girls these days, or teens in general, but I do know that the fashions of the day do not smile kindly on particular body types. I also know that this fact rarely stops them from proudly donning said fashions, excess baggage be damned.

In more than a few cases at this particular car wash, there was some very serious and potentially deadly over-stressed denim in evidence. Just one bad stretch to reach the center of a windshield and there would likely be horrible consequences for all involved.

Ten pounds of meat packed in a five pound bag, is all I'm saying.

Now, I have nothing against the womanly form in all its glorious permutations, but an unwritten car wash law was being blatantly broken, and that law dictates that most of these girls should not have been working the front lines. You don't put your less talented team members on first string, is the point I'm trying to make. Does the food on the McDonalds commercials look anything at all like the food you actually get? No, it doesn't. And nobody really expects it to, because they realize it's all about the marketing.

When I went to school, we knew marketing. We knew how to do these things right. You'd put the hotties up by the road in order to lure in the men, and then you'd have the so-so chicks and the guys and gals from the AV club and the debate team doing the washing. It's a simple and amazingly effective concept, really.

Besides, it was all for a good cause, so who was going to bitch? Not the guy in the car who was getting the 5 buck wash and dry, that's for sure, so what the hell? We worked the system.

Maybe that isn't politically correct these days, but unless you wanted a enormous fat roll squeaking across your driver's side window, you probably would have been better off skipping this one. (Unless, of course, fat rolls do it for you -- in that case, by all means, go for it.)

I thought about tossing them 5 bucks for the valiant effort, but I had somebody right on my ass.

Maybe next time.

Someone please kill it now.

Holy Effin' Shit.

OK, first of all, this thing is no joke. It IS NOT some special effect from the 'Resident Evil' movie set.

It is actually alive.

I cannot even imagine waking up with this abomination sitting on my chest licking my face. And there is just no way a critter that looks like this could smell like anything other than rotting flesh.

It looks like something that would result from an extremely unfortunate transporter accident.

Scotty: "We got a piece of him Cap'n!"
Captain Kirk: "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! HOLY SHIT! SEND IT BACK! SEND IT BACK!"

Here's the full story. Thanks to my buddy Yort for the heads up.

SANTA BARBARA, Calif. -- The owners of the other contestants in this year's World's Ugliest Dog Contest may have thought their pooches had a chance -- until they saw Sam.

The 14-year-old pedigreed Chinese crested recently won the Sonoma-Marin Fair contest for the third consecutive time, and it's no surprise.

The tiny dog has no hair, if you don't count the yellowish-white tuft erupting from his head. His wrinkled brown skin is covered with splotches, a line of warts marches down his snout, his blind eyes are an alien, milky white and a fleshy flap of skin hangs from his withered neck. And then there's the Austin Powers teeth that jut at odd angles from his mouth.

He's so ugly even the judges recoiled when he was placed on the judging table, said his proud owner, Susie Lockheed, of Santa Barbara.

"People are always horrified when I kiss him. He may turn into a prince yet. He's definitely a toad," she said. "I always thought he'd be great on greeting cards or on a commercial for Rogaine."

Sam, who's pushing 15, has something of a cult following after winning the contest -- and fans' hearts -- for three years running. Last year, huge crowds gathered around Sam and Lockheed at a local parade and Lockheed said she received letters and calls about her pup for weeks.

"So many people have told me they've got his picture on their refrigerator. He certainly has a little cult following," she said. "I did years of professional musical theater and never achieved the fame Sam has."

Sam will appear in this weekend's Fourth of July parade in Santa Barbara, but the recent events may be the cap on a long, ugly career. Lockheed says Sam's now suffering from congestive heart failure, lung and kidney problems and has definitely slowed down in his twilight years.

Still, he enjoys regular gourmet meals of sirloin steak, cheese balls, roasted chicken and flan (so he'll swallow his multiple pills). He also passes occasional weekends at the Gaviota ranch of Lockheed's boyfriend, where the World's Ugliest Dog rides in the back of an ATV with his few remaining hairs wafting in the wind.