I bought some blueberry meuslix at Trader Joe’s this weekend. Don’t even worry about it. Some of us think the morning is the best time of day to TREAT YOURSELF. Whatever. It was probably a mistake. I think I even knew that at the time. For one, it was too expensive. I’m not sure what the economics behind meuslix are that make it so much more expensive than regular cereal, but my guess is the spelling. X’s are expensive. In any case, it came in a bag, and even before I opened that bag this morning, I could already tell what was going to happen and then it did:
All over the floor, as well, btw. So not only is there a mess now, that was foreseen in the prophecy, the prophecy being just looking at the fucking cheap, shitty bag the cereal came in, but now also HOW TO STORE what’s left, because contrary to popular belief I do not eat a pound of cereal every morning. And what I realized was that because the bag was so obviously poorly designed, and not really intended as any kind of storage vessel beyond the shelf of the store, what’s actually happening here is an unspoken expectation on the part of Trader Joe’s and the Trader Joe’s customer that when you get the blueberry meuslix home, you’re supposed to carefully cut the bag open with a pair of Daniel Boulod kitchen scissors, and after pouring your child a bowl before he’s escorted over to the Lycee Francais de New York for a day of bi-lingual education, you’re supposed to then pour the rest of the bag into some kind of reusable jar that you have for just such an occasion, like:
Because, duh, that’s where cereal goes.
The whole thing just made kind of angry, because I recognize that certain aspects of my life as I get closer and closer to genuine old age have now become what you might describe as “yuppie-ish,” but I’m still not such an asshole that I can’t deal with the garish, unbearable sight of a sturdy American cereal box that doesn’t fall the fuck apart in my hands when I’m trying to get to the fourth hour of Today before Kathie Lee and Hoda have finished talking about all the hot topics.
Then again, I’m the asshole who bought blueberry meuslix. So fuck me.
This makes me so mad for some reason:
Her life will suck without me? Like suck bad? No, suck a lollipop? Her life will suck a lollipop without me? Ouch. Ouch my brain. It’s like the worst mixed metaphor because it’s not even a metaphor. It’s just lazy. “This word means two things.” That was the meeting they had about this. “What’s a word that means two things, but one of those things could involve candy.” (Extended edition.) And then the double-worst part also is how SHE DIDN’T EVEN THINK OF THIS HERSELF. A team of clowns was needed to push this through. The president of the record company was like “Are we sure that teenagers respond well to double-entendres,” and the marketing VP was like “oh my God, you’re so right. I just noticed that there were two meanings here. Haha.” Kelly Clarkson meanwhile was like “my sweatpants are warm,” and they handed her 250,000 dollars and told her to wait outside in the car.
Look, I’ve said my share of things. We all have. I’ve made jokes about blowjobs. I’ve dropped the n-bomb. The internet is nothing if not a dumping ground for the latent adolescent impulses of people who aren’t smart enough to have real ideas. But lately I’ve been getting extraordinarily fatigued by the tendency of virtually every “humorous” male blogger (with many exceptions, duh) to refer constantly to his desire to fuck all the pretty women and how hard his boner is over everything and the general attitude of frat boy sexuality as “comedic” trope. Can we please all give it a fucking rest already?
BREAKING NEWS, HUH.
I know that it’s boring and peevish to get worked up about the lazy stylistic choices of people who are just trying to eke out a couple of laughs by the end of the day, and you’ll notice that I’m choosing not to name any names or link any links, but seriously, you guys, get all of your shit together. It’s the 2009ies. In the words of Tom Scharpling, “we have a grown up president now, it’s time to grow up.” If this shit was ever cute, it is not cute anymore. The relentless and exhausting “voice” of the contemporary on-line-diarysphere is categorically misogynistic, homophobic, and racist, none of which stances I necessarily have a problem with if it was actually funny and/or had a wittily subversive commentary to make about misogyny, homophobia, or racism, but in general it absolutely is not and does not. If you were only to pay cursory attention you’d think the entire internet was written by a slightly meaner-spirited Seth MacFarlane. It’s just so much shit fuel poured on the fart fire. And also it is boring. We need a new general style guide for internet writing. I don’t know what that style guide will actually provide in the way of structural suggestions or tonal requirements, but I think the title will be “Actually Be Good At Writing, You Fucking Idiots.”
Oh look at me, Professor Blog giving a lecture on Pots Names For Kettles. Obviously, I should not have come back. My bads.
You want to get Condoleeza Rice smiling? Talk to her about nuclear warfare. There she goes.
Sachar thought she had me:
But luckily I was fast enough to stop it.
Nice try, Sachar.
For whatever reason, I was googling around googletown, and I looked up this website. Lame. Did you know that next year they’re pre-empting the Academy Awards for a program called the Lamies and I’m winning Lifetime Achievement? Anyway, whatever, you don’t judge me, I judge you. More importantly, I judge google’s pigeonholing categorization of this website.
Excuse me? What was that?
There is plenty of stuff for an entire family over here. Your entire family could laugh for a year on the jokes this site provides (no, and also fart, and also kill me). I do like the idea of a machine at google HQ reading my online-diary carefully and deciding that it’s simply not appropriate for younger readers. But I don’t appreciate it, google. This is not adult humor. If it was adult humor it would be much more successful. I would own two pairs of pants. What am I even talking about anymore. Oh, I saw this on the internet and it was weird. BLOGGG.
I got a Facebook friend request the other day, but it seemed a little too good to be true.
I am hot that why she add me. Sure. That why all the girls are add me. But I don’t know, it just seemed like we wouldn’t really have anything in common. SEEMED. PAST TENSE. Because one look at her profile and I knew we would have a true love connection.
It’s not often that you find a girl who love exercise you, has her own home based business baby, all music she like, whose favorite TV show is Tila Tequila, and who has read The Art of the Wars. If any of my friends are reading this, don’t expect to see too much of me for awhile. I’m going to be hanging out with Nancy (Nancy?) and her friends. They are cool. COOLER THAN YOU:
You have no idea how many jello shots that guy can put away. I do. It’s 23. We’re total buds. Let’s just say this, I wouldn’t kick him out of a Hot Tub Elimination Ceremony [LINK] (nullus). I think you’re going to really hit it off the with the dude on the right.
OK, this is lame.
But it has been so silent around here that I felt I must BLOG.
As you all know and don’t seem to care, I am now writing full time over at http://www.videogum.com. I would kindly ask that you add it to your e-bookmarks and send it to your mom. She will love it. Actually forget you, just send your mom.
Eventually, it is my hope to either figure out how to manage my time in such a way as to keep this website alive IN CONCORDANCE with a full-time online diarying career, or get hit by a boat at a air and water show. If the latter happens, the prophecy will be proven true. So far I’ve not been good at either writing here, or getting killed by an amazing boat, but both have been added to my goals notebook.
WORKER #3116′S GOALS NOTEBOOK
Lame. I am so dumb. UNSUBSCRIBE.
So, I signed up for 50 Cent’s tumblr today, obviously. You can’t get into some of the important areas (forum) without being registered. DONE. But I ran into some trouble on the registration page.
Sure. But REQUIRED FIELD? I’m pretty sure this is only so that 50 Cent can decide if he wants to fuck you or not, and I’m sure that 50 Cent does not want to fuck me (although i cannot say the same of all the [link]bloggers[link].) Gross, 50 Cent.
OK, yes. This explains the required nature of the relationship status field.
Not fair. There’s no check box for “Triple Threat.” Also, what if I’m both a professional, AND just chillin. It’s called work-life balance. Look it up.