Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Male Marketing
The past couple days I've witnessed several Under Armour logos plastered on the back of guys cars. I also witnessed several of these guys getting in or out of their cars and feel fairly comfortable pegging them as straight guys. I don't get the appeal of bumper stickers to begin with. I especially don't get the appeal of slapping your brand of athletic undergarment on the back of your car. I've never seen a bumper sticker for "Bike Jockstraps, they keep my balls in check!"
Under Armour is sort of unique in the field. First the spelling. Like the British colour or theatre, spelling armor with an "ou" just makes its classy. Because when I think of clothes designed to wick away sweat, I think class. Second the design. Tight yet manly. Anyone willing to publicly advertise their allegiance to this brand seems more likely to do it in the gay gear-fetish community than on the back of a car. Third, the concept of armor, sorry armour. Comparing to sport to warfare is commonplace. Suggested slogan - Fight jock itch and sweaty balls the way the Crusaders fought the Turks!
Under Armour is sort of unique in the field. First the spelling. Like the British colour or theatre, spelling armor with an "ou" just makes its classy. Because when I think of clothes designed to wick away sweat, I think class. Second the design. Tight yet manly. Anyone willing to publicly advertise their allegiance to this brand seems more likely to do it in the gay gear-fetish community than on the back of a car. Third, the concept of armor, sorry armour. Comparing to sport to warfare is commonplace. Suggested slogan - Fight jock itch and sweaty balls the way the Crusaders fought the Turks!
Duck Rape
Recently a friend (who shall remain nameless for the sake of dignity) confided to me that she was home watching an episode of Blind Date (don't scoff, you've watched it too). The date featured a lovely picnic and stroll by an idyllic lake with ducks swimming on its glass like surface. At this point, the guy sees it completely appropriate to mention that the only animals that engage in rape are humans, ducks, and dolphins. Whoa! Date Over! I'll admit that I am a repository of random facts, most completely inappropriate outside of a German sheisse fest. However, I try to restrain these "Can you here the lambs screaming Clarice" factoids to well lighted areas where multiple people are gathered as to not completely freak them out.Despite the social ineptitude of this man, who I suspect will be alone forever, I had to know. I turned to my trusty friend, the Internet. I recommend not typing the phrase "Duck Rape" into Google. Duck rape is a fact of duck life, though scientists refer to it as "rape flight."
For the intensely curious and those not putt off by the phrases "maze-like vagina" and "corkscrew shaped penis", click this link. Oh yeah, there's also pictures of duck genitals, which are both revolting and fascinating and will leave you wondering how the hell ducks are not extinct. And just try to ignore the fact that there are pins tacking the duck wang to the picture's background (take that, rapist!).
I should note that not all ducks are rapists, mostly drakes and mallards who make up part of the 3% of the bird population who have penises. Most birds, male and female, have similar genitals consisting of a small opening which they rub together in what is called a "cloacal kiss." Well isn't that just sweet. Some how this reminds me of South Park's Mr. Garrison's concept of "scissoring."
About the dolphins....I just didn't have the heart to look it up. Nature is disgusting.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Textual Analysis Corner
So does any one else happen to think that this song is a bout a woman who gets raped and has her first orgasm during the rape, but feels guilty about it, so she goes into the world of illicit sex work to explore her sexuality and help track down the rapist --- or is it just me?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Scenes From a Work Day
The office copy machine is located perilously close to my cube. I say perilously close because the machine is close enough that I can eavesdrop with hardly any effort.
The bathrooms are close too. Actually, they're closer than the copy machines, but most people don't talk going in and out of the bathroom. The men keep their heads down for fear that eye contact may insinuate a session of homosexual, lavatory, afternoon delight. The women smile and great each other, but the slight squint in their eyes screams "Bitch, I'll cut you if you take the good stall." There is little conversation, so little distraction. All I hear are the daily flushings, as if my cube is perched on a fluorescently lit meadow of industrial carpet next to a babbling brook.
Most copier talk consists of daily pleasantries -- talk of weather, the weekend, and the nearness of 5 o'clock. I don't pay any mind to this useless type of conversation. It blends in with the clacking of keystrokes. More frequently than not, the copier is broken. And I delight in it. Hearing the struggle between man and machine as the office worker cries "Oh, its broken AGAIN!." The grunting of someone trying to remove a paper jam. There is one worker bee who is so irritated by the copy machine - functioning or not - that she curses and behaves as if the machine has a personal vendetta against her. While these are her worst days, these are my best. I chortle quietly in my cube listening to her rant and rave. Giving thanks that the quality of my day does not rest on the performance of the copy machine. I know, its wrong, but it makes me glow like the brightest coal in the fires of hell.
The copy machine provides more than just mere schadenfreude, it also provides incredulity. Today I heard the following conversation:
Copy Monkey 1: Oh it must be nice having the kids out of school
Copy Monkey 2: I dread going home. Something's always broke and its always either "not me" or "ida know" who's done it. Nobody takes personal responsibility.
Copy Monkey 1: We'll, that's kids for you
Let's ignore the 1950's tone of this conversation. Let's ignore the fact that miss "nobody takes personal responsibility" is probably the one who leaves the paper jams in the copier. Focus on the fact that this woman just quoted Bill Keane's "The Family Circle". Who does that? The apple cheeked, earnest humor of this comic has long since past its prime. I would be less surprised to get stabbed at work than to hear someone quoting "The Family Circus." If the only reading material I could find in a post-apocalyptic world was a compilation of "The Family Circus" my first reaction would be "Oh good, I have toilet paper." I just couldn't believe that someone actually quoted this comic. I jumped out of my chair to see who it was so that I could make a mental note to no longer say hello to this person in the hall.
The bathrooms are close too. Actually, they're closer than the copy machines, but most people don't talk going in and out of the bathroom. The men keep their heads down for fear that eye contact may insinuate a session of homosexual, lavatory, afternoon delight. The women smile and great each other, but the slight squint in their eyes screams "Bitch, I'll cut you if you take the good stall." There is little conversation, so little distraction. All I hear are the daily flushings, as if my cube is perched on a fluorescently lit meadow of industrial carpet next to a babbling brook.
Most copier talk consists of daily pleasantries -- talk of weather, the weekend, and the nearness of 5 o'clock. I don't pay any mind to this useless type of conversation. It blends in with the clacking of keystrokes. More frequently than not, the copier is broken. And I delight in it. Hearing the struggle between man and machine as the office worker cries "Oh, its broken AGAIN!." The grunting of someone trying to remove a paper jam. There is one worker bee who is so irritated by the copy machine - functioning or not - that she curses and behaves as if the machine has a personal vendetta against her. While these are her worst days, these are my best. I chortle quietly in my cube listening to her rant and rave. Giving thanks that the quality of my day does not rest on the performance of the copy machine. I know, its wrong, but it makes me glow like the brightest coal in the fires of hell.
The copy machine provides more than just mere schadenfreude, it also provides incredulity. Today I heard the following conversation:
Copy Monkey 1: Oh it must be nice having the kids out of school
Copy Monkey 2: I dread going home. Something's always broke and its always either "not me" or "ida know" who's done it. Nobody takes personal responsibility.
Copy Monkey 1: We'll, that's kids for you
Let's ignore the 1950's tone of this conversation. Let's ignore the fact that miss "nobody takes personal responsibility" is probably the one who leaves the paper jams in the copier. Focus on the fact that this woman just quoted Bill Keane's "The Family Circle". Who does that? The apple cheeked, earnest humor of this comic has long since past its prime. I would be less surprised to get stabbed at work than to hear someone quoting "The Family Circus." If the only reading material I could find in a post-apocalyptic world was a compilation of "The Family Circus" my first reaction would be "Oh good, I have toilet paper." I just couldn't believe that someone actually quoted this comic. I jumped out of my chair to see who it was so that I could make a mental note to no longer say hello to this person in the hall.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
This So Makes Me Want to Go To Work Tommorrow
U of M has a position for a kitchen cleaner that pays the same as what I make!
Also, there is a position for a lockeroom attendant. The pay is slightly less than what I make, but the perks......priceless.
Also, there is a position for a lockeroom attendant. The pay is slightly less than what I make, but the perks......priceless.
Wistful
Remember when Fabio got hit in the face by a bird while riding that roller coaster? good times...good times.
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