Calm down, this isn't an intense lesson in theology. This isn't a study of philosophical paradoxes. It isn't a denouncement of organized religion. Although, perhaps some day, I'll delve into that. Or maybe I already have. Check the archives.
I'm sitting here, at 8:19 pm, in familiar attire. In fact, on just about every weeknight, you'll find me in a similar manner: Wearing a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. Oh yeah, I'm talking about the holy trinity of clothing comfort. These articles of clothing are the undisputed champions of my wardrobe, although I will occasionally don a robe as it strikes my fancy.
It's not that I wear these clothes all day. I go out into the world in more respectable attire. Jeans, sneakers, polos, occasionally a button-down if I'm feeling crazy. But let's be honest: I really want to be in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and slippers. There are no exceptions. It's just that I'm a giant pussy and I conform to the all-important societal norm. I wear my jeans...and then I put sweatpants on when I get home. Sneakers are unceremoniously kicked off in favor of their more slippery counterpart. Any and all cumbersome apparel is promptly discarded as I prepare for something I like to call "lounge time." The hours for lounge time are currently 12pm to Close (i.e. sleep), although starting work next week will certainly alter this routine.
But why? Why don't I optimize my satisfaction in life and slum it up 24/7? Why don't I dress like your dad on Christmas morning every day for the rest of my life? Well, for one, slippers couldn't withstand the beating that everyday wearing requires, but more importantly, because I unfortunately care too much. I'd like to think that I didn't, but alas, I do.
Ever heard of Hedonism? According to Wikipedia, our dear friend and comrade, "Hedonism is a school of philosophy which argues that pleasure has an ultimate importance and is the most important pursuit of humanity."
If only. If only I was quite brazen enough not to give a single solitary F-word what people thought about me to the point where I could dress like I was retrieving a newspaper from the front stoop day in and day out.
It was at this point in my soul-searching that I made my ultimate revelation: that there is no God. Hence the title. Why are the best things in life the most socially undesirable? The best foods are burgers, pizza and wings. This is, like all my other opinions, indisputable. But wouldn't you know, they're fucking terrible for you and they'll give you a coronary. Why can't salad taste like wings? Why? I would be the healthiest person you ever met. I would. Why are the most comfortable clothes also the ones that'll make people give you the stink-eye? Hell, I know I don't look that bad right now; I own a mirror. But if I went out like this, well, you know the drill. My greatest gift in life would be the ability not to care; then I could live out the rest of my life in Hedonistic fashion, the only tradeoff being that I'd look like the Comic Book Guy and I'd likely smell like a week-old dumpster.
But really, aren't our inhibitions just an extension of Hedonism? If we're fat and raggedy, we won't have friends, and we won't get laid. That's quite a blow to the pleasure-seeking lifestyle, isn't it? So perhaps we're all Hedonistic in our own little way, striving to keep that delicate balance between the Freudian id and societal expectations. Like hitting a ball in tennis, we're constantly aiming for that sweet spot. I'm just as much a victim of the system as anyone. So until the day that societal tastes change to the point where people Colin Mochrie to Colin Farrell, I suppose I'll just have to deal with the fact that there is a 1.0 Pearson R correlation between "Things I'd like to do" and "Things that would make me look shitty."
Up yours, society. Pass the salad.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Rime of the Ancient Refrigerator
Having been in a Short Story class (which I ironically chose over a Poetry class) this past week and change, I've been feeling literary, and that of course led me back here. Lacking both the energy or the space to craft a 15 page short story, I thought I would write a short poem, about something close to my heart: The Refrigerator Debacle in which I've found myself entangled this path month. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry. It'll all make sense soon enough. Here it is,
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT REFRIGERATOR
One day, about a month ago,
I tried to rid my fridge of frost,
but when I used that screwdriver,
I did not know what it would cost:
My very mind would soon be lost.
With my sharp tool I poked a hole
into the freezer's metal base.
Then from the ice a Freon leak
Shot noisily towards my face
and started stinking up the place.
The Internet gave me bad news:
My fridge was broken, useless, shot.
I knew I could not tell the truth,
I must instead create a plot,
Or else this fridge would cost a lot.
"I used a hair dryer to defrost
The ceiling of that freezer.
But then an ice chunk dropped so hard,
The floor was gouged like Caesar."
Yeah, that oughtta please her.
The office sent for maintenance,
To come install a new machine,
But when I tried to tell my tale,
They looked as if I'd said the Queen
was secretly a wolverine.
They sent the bill for a new fridge,
I can't believe they had the gall.
The old one was so Goddamned old
It could have been in Annie Hall
or greeting shoppers at the mall.
'Cause why should I be forced to buy
these greedy bastards a new fridge?
I'll pay the price for the old one,
It wouldn't even cost a smidge,
Because it's older than Brad Lidge.
The dumb bitch at the office sucks,
She won't back down a single cent.
It's either this or small claims court,
So now at last I must relent,
And pay these assholes half my rent.
So if your freezer needs a clean
Don't you forget I had to pay
Five hundred bucks that fateful morn
I thought I'd try to chip away
Some space to fit an ice cube tray.
So now I sit here with my check
which I must place into the mail,
and though it had no happy end,
I hope all you I did regale,
With my refrigerator tale.
Ryan Prescott, 2009.
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT REFRIGERATOR
One day, about a month ago,
I tried to rid my fridge of frost,
but when I used that screwdriver,
I did not know what it would cost:
My very mind would soon be lost.
With my sharp tool I poked a hole
into the freezer's metal base.
Then from the ice a Freon leak
Shot noisily towards my face
and started stinking up the place.
The Internet gave me bad news:
My fridge was broken, useless, shot.
I knew I could not tell the truth,
I must instead create a plot,
Or else this fridge would cost a lot.
"I used a hair dryer to defrost
The ceiling of that freezer.
But then an ice chunk dropped so hard,
The floor was gouged like Caesar."
Yeah, that oughtta please her.
The office sent for maintenance,
To come install a new machine,
But when I tried to tell my tale,
They looked as if I'd said the Queen
was secretly a wolverine.
They sent the bill for a new fridge,
I can't believe they had the gall.
The old one was so Goddamned old
It could have been in Annie Hall
or greeting shoppers at the mall.
'Cause why should I be forced to buy
these greedy bastards a new fridge?
I'll pay the price for the old one,
It wouldn't even cost a smidge,
Because it's older than Brad Lidge.
The dumb bitch at the office sucks,
She won't back down a single cent.
It's either this or small claims court,
So now at last I must relent,
And pay these assholes half my rent.
So if your freezer needs a clean
Don't you forget I had to pay
Five hundred bucks that fateful morn
I thought I'd try to chip away
Some space to fit an ice cube tray.
So now I sit here with my check
which I must place into the mail,
and though it had no happy end,
I hope all you I did regale,
With my refrigerator tale.
Ryan Prescott, 2009.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Useless Job #3
Hey everybody, it's my fiftieth post!
*Puts on a party hat, blows into a noisemaker, and in a sad, lonely display, contemplatively enjoys a slice of cake.*
To celebrate this reaching of the half-century mark, I shall do what you've all been dying for ever since my uncomfortably sincere Graduation entry: return to form. The Douche shall once again be Douchey. Graduation is an important and thought-provoking time, but I think we're all better served when I stick to hating things that are stupid; don't you? Exactly. So, in the words of my grandmother, let's get it crackalackin'.
USELESS JOB #3: STORE GREETER
I'm a social person. I like talking to people. I enjoy interaction. But one thing I don't like is interacting with people who are paid to interact with me (well, apart from hookers). That's why I hate dealing with Greeters. You know these people: they're the people in Walmart and Costco (I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of any right now) who stand 10 feet behind the door and say "hi" to you as you walk in. You avert your eyes and say "hi," or simply nod, and don't even break stride as you continue into the store. Your only thought is, "man, what a shitty job. I wonder what kind of life choices led that individual to becoming a professional Greeter."
The point, I presume, is to make these enormous meccas of retail seem more warm and inviting. I have so many problems with this baffling logic I don't even know where to begin. Do these companies really think that by having a 90-year-old man standing around in a vest, customers will think that they're in a mom-and-pop shop? With a chipper old man sweeping the old floorboards and his wife elbow-deep in dough baking apple pie? I think the minute you build a 3 mile parking lot and electronic sensor-operated doors that fling open as you approach the building, you've lost that quaint appeal you so badly desire. Sorry, but them's the breaks.
You know what's warm and inviting about small businesses? The fact that employees actually know you (e.g. Mo-Mo at Colony, Mama Emilia and her disappointingly Americanized son at Emilia's, the mafia-looking guy at the barbershop I go to) and a lot of time, you're being greeted by the owners themselves. No one going to Walmart has the illusion that the "SuperStore" is anything like the above mentioned establishments. Or that the CEO is going to swing by and give them a pat on the back just for coming to Walmart. They understand that they're dealing with a corporate giant and you're just adding to the bottom line.
You see, when the moms and pops of the world greet you, it's still for business reasons. They want you to feel good about being in their store so that you'll spend more money, come back more often, and all that other good stuff. But the difference is, that's something they're doing of their own volition. They don't HAVE to be congenial, they choose to be because it's probably a good idea. A greeter that doesn't greet you is no longer a greeter. He/She is, as of that moment, an ex-greeter. It's their job, it's totally disingenuous, and utterly transparent. I really dislike being pandered to, and I think the Greeter is a really feeble attempt to improve these corporations' public images. Sorry Walmart, but as long as you treat your employees like crap and crush union activity like Hitler's Blitzkrieg, your reputation's staying in the shitter.
You can see I've essentially left behind all the other companies with Greeters besides Walmart, but let's take Walmart as an example and extrapolate the lessons we learn from Walmart to all the other businesses, k?
Here's my question: Does Walmart really need a greeter? What the hell is the point? No one is going to Walmart for the greeter. Everyone ignores the greeter. No one is going to Walmart for the warm atmosphere. It's a cold, enormous warehouse full of shit. People are going to Walmart because their prices are unfathomably low, and that's the bottom line. We don't feel good about ripping the heart out of the American small business. We don't feel good about supporting a company with some super shady business practices; but we do it anyway. Hell, we already know Walmart is pretty fucked up, and that hasn't stopped us from going. Why not fire all the greeters all across the country and keep the revenue? With all the shit they've been accused of doing, some guy standing in the doorway saying "hi" to you is clearly not enough to change their image in the minds of the individual customer or the American people as a whole. We don't like what they do, but we still go, and that would remain true with or without the greeter. But hey, they're the richest company in the world; I guess they know what they're doing.
I'll close by saying this: Having greeters with Down Syndrome is possibly the single most underhanded move one of these companies can make. I spoke before about hating being pandered to, and this is about as blatant as it gets. They might as well put these people in T-shirts that say "See? We really do care!" There are people with Down Syndrome working in every dining hall on campus; they're capable of more than being sleazily used for political reasons like they are in these stores. Thank you, and that is all.
*Puts on a party hat, blows into a noisemaker, and in a sad, lonely display, contemplatively enjoys a slice of cake.*
To celebrate this reaching of the half-century mark, I shall do what you've all been dying for ever since my uncomfortably sincere Graduation entry: return to form. The Douche shall once again be Douchey. Graduation is an important and thought-provoking time, but I think we're all better served when I stick to hating things that are stupid; don't you? Exactly. So, in the words of my grandmother, let's get it crackalackin'.
USELESS JOB #3: STORE GREETER
I'm a social person. I like talking to people. I enjoy interaction. But one thing I don't like is interacting with people who are paid to interact with me (well, apart from hookers). That's why I hate dealing with Greeters. You know these people: they're the people in Walmart and Costco (I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of any right now) who stand 10 feet behind the door and say "hi" to you as you walk in. You avert your eyes and say "hi," or simply nod, and don't even break stride as you continue into the store. Your only thought is, "man, what a shitty job. I wonder what kind of life choices led that individual to becoming a professional Greeter."
The point, I presume, is to make these enormous meccas of retail seem more warm and inviting. I have so many problems with this baffling logic I don't even know where to begin. Do these companies really think that by having a 90-year-old man standing around in a vest, customers will think that they're in a mom-and-pop shop? With a chipper old man sweeping the old floorboards and his wife elbow-deep in dough baking apple pie? I think the minute you build a 3 mile parking lot and electronic sensor-operated doors that fling open as you approach the building, you've lost that quaint appeal you so badly desire. Sorry, but them's the breaks.
You know what's warm and inviting about small businesses? The fact that employees actually know you (e.g. Mo-Mo at Colony, Mama Emilia and her disappointingly Americanized son at Emilia's, the mafia-looking guy at the barbershop I go to) and a lot of time, you're being greeted by the owners themselves. No one going to Walmart has the illusion that the "SuperStore" is anything like the above mentioned establishments. Or that the CEO is going to swing by and give them a pat on the back just for coming to Walmart. They understand that they're dealing with a corporate giant and you're just adding to the bottom line.
You see, when the moms and pops of the world greet you, it's still for business reasons. They want you to feel good about being in their store so that you'll spend more money, come back more often, and all that other good stuff. But the difference is, that's something they're doing of their own volition. They don't HAVE to be congenial, they choose to be because it's probably a good idea. A greeter that doesn't greet you is no longer a greeter. He/She is, as of that moment, an ex-greeter. It's their job, it's totally disingenuous, and utterly transparent. I really dislike being pandered to, and I think the Greeter is a really feeble attempt to improve these corporations' public images. Sorry Walmart, but as long as you treat your employees like crap and crush union activity like Hitler's Blitzkrieg, your reputation's staying in the shitter.
You can see I've essentially left behind all the other companies with Greeters besides Walmart, but let's take Walmart as an example and extrapolate the lessons we learn from Walmart to all the other businesses, k?
Here's my question: Does Walmart really need a greeter? What the hell is the point? No one is going to Walmart for the greeter. Everyone ignores the greeter. No one is going to Walmart for the warm atmosphere. It's a cold, enormous warehouse full of shit. People are going to Walmart because their prices are unfathomably low, and that's the bottom line. We don't feel good about ripping the heart out of the American small business. We don't feel good about supporting a company with some super shady business practices; but we do it anyway. Hell, we already know Walmart is pretty fucked up, and that hasn't stopped us from going. Why not fire all the greeters all across the country and keep the revenue? With all the shit they've been accused of doing, some guy standing in the doorway saying "hi" to you is clearly not enough to change their image in the minds of the individual customer or the American people as a whole. We don't like what they do, but we still go, and that would remain true with or without the greeter. But hey, they're the richest company in the world; I guess they know what they're doing.
I'll close by saying this: Having greeters with Down Syndrome is possibly the single most underhanded move one of these companies can make. I spoke before about hating being pandered to, and this is about as blatant as it gets. They might as well put these people in T-shirts that say "See? We really do care!" There are people with Down Syndrome working in every dining hall on campus; they're capable of more than being sleazily used for political reasons like they are in these stores. Thank you, and that is all.
Friday, May 8, 2009
As we go on, we remember, all the times we, had together.
Familiar title, isn't it? Yep, it's "Graduation Song" by Vitamin C. No, I didn't have to look that up. Marvel in my endless supply of useless knowledge. Marvel hard. Indeed, I graduate from college on Sunday, and upon walking across that stage, it's the end of an era for me. "End of an era" moments need to be chronicled. They just do. Yeah, I have to take a 3 week summer class starting Monday, so I'm technically not done, but I feel done. I'm surrounded by people who are done. My family is taking me out to brunch on Sunday. That's right, I said it: Brunch. You can tell things are getting serious now.
For as long as I can remember, every year has worked the same. You start school in August or September, and you end school in May or June, depending on whether we're talking about high school or college. You enjoy a summer off, save up some cash for the next year, and start all over. BAM! Cycle over. It's work time. It's career o'clock. Never again will I be able to start my day at 11 am or wear sweatpants all day. Never again will I be able to take days off just because I feel like it. Because now, someone will be depending on me. That sounds a little scary, doesn't it?
It's a pretty big turning point, and that's why I feel the need to be somewhat solemn today in writing this. I still feel like a kid; I laugh at the same jokes I did five years ago, I eat at all the same restaurants, and I still get drunk and act silly, but now I'm stepping into grown-up land. How different will things be? How different will I have to be? Why do I have to move back in with my mom? Is there no God?
College is a means to an end. Now that I'm at the end, I long for the means. I will not quote that bullshit "I love College" song because it sucks, and it's a sad pile of self-glorification that comes off as a skinny Jewish kid making a song full of raging party experiences so that he looks cooler than he really is. But what's not to like about a bustling metropolis full of your peers, every one of them looking to get A. educated, and B. drunk, not necessarily in that order? But hey; it's my nostalgic nature. I felt the same way leaving high school.
So here I am, my 17 years of education at its end (not counting Pre-school, although I did learn some good fingerpainting fundamentals there). I don't often get down with my touchy-feely side, so go ahead, call me a pussy. But I'm sure you're feeling the same way. Cheers, UConn, it's been real. Oh, and fellow grads, stay in touch. It's called networking now.
And in regards to the title: come on, man. You didn't think I was that lame, did you? It's a joke! Lighten up!
For as long as I can remember, every year has worked the same. You start school in August or September, and you end school in May or June, depending on whether we're talking about high school or college. You enjoy a summer off, save up some cash for the next year, and start all over. BAM! Cycle over. It's work time. It's career o'clock. Never again will I be able to start my day at 11 am or wear sweatpants all day. Never again will I be able to take days off just because I feel like it. Because now, someone will be depending on me. That sounds a little scary, doesn't it?
It's a pretty big turning point, and that's why I feel the need to be somewhat solemn today in writing this. I still feel like a kid; I laugh at the same jokes I did five years ago, I eat at all the same restaurants, and I still get drunk and act silly, but now I'm stepping into grown-up land. How different will things be? How different will I have to be? Why do I have to move back in with my mom? Is there no God?
College is a means to an end. Now that I'm at the end, I long for the means. I will not quote that bullshit "I love College" song because it sucks, and it's a sad pile of self-glorification that comes off as a skinny Jewish kid making a song full of raging party experiences so that he looks cooler than he really is. But what's not to like about a bustling metropolis full of your peers, every one of them looking to get A. educated, and B. drunk, not necessarily in that order? But hey; it's my nostalgic nature. I felt the same way leaving high school.
So here I am, my 17 years of education at its end (not counting Pre-school, although I did learn some good fingerpainting fundamentals there). I don't often get down with my touchy-feely side, so go ahead, call me a pussy. But I'm sure you're feeling the same way. Cheers, UConn, it's been real. Oh, and fellow grads, stay in touch. It's called networking now.
And in regards to the title: come on, man. You didn't think I was that lame, did you? It's a joke! Lighten up!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
News/updates/ramblings/sex offenders
You may be wondering what happened with the Challenger. It didn't happen. I was planning to go with a group of people, you see, and about an hour before the show was to go on, the people informed me that they had better things to do. I think doing an eating challenge with a group of friends cheering you on would be a lot of fun, but there's no real point doing it if there's no one there to see it. Thus, I cancelled. Names will not be named, and if you're one of the people and don't like that I'm anonymously referencing you, well I guess we're even.
According to my AdSense page, I've gone over a thousand hits (1,011 to be exact) since I put the ads on this son of a bitch. February 22nd to May 5th, not too bad. Let's do some math. March and April have 61 days combined. Add the last 6 in February and the first 5 in May, that's 72! 1,011 hits divided by 72 is....more than 14 hits per day (see, isn't math fun!?). Not bad, but we can do better. Yes, we can! Yes, we can! (That's what Obama says.) According to the AdSense page, "ad clicks must come from genuine user interest," thus I'm not allowed to encourage you to click them. So I'm NOT telling you to go ahead and just click the hell out of these things. I'm NOT telling you that whenever you need to make a Google search, why not head on over to Denim Douche and use my search, at the top or bottom of the page. Not telling you to do that.
Also, you may have noticed that my ads will often involve seemingly random topics triggered by words that I use in my posts. Repeated self-referencing has lead to a run of Douche related products, and even a slightly hilarious website called "Nomorefishysmell.com." Now, they're all related to recycling. Hmm. I think it's time to perform an experiment, if you'll allow me. I'm just going to fire out a whole list of random words to see if it affects the ads. Ready? *Deep breath...*
football cheese soda walnuts hairspray sea lions queens polio applesauce beetles cats desks lights killer whales samuel l jackson sigourney weaver tom hanks muppets the office zebras guitars buffalo wings drums pencils glue toilet paper shoes.
We'll see what happens, I guess. Maybe I'll get in trouble from AdSense.
One more thing, you've just got to do this;
National Sex Offender Registry
The national sex offender registry; the place where you can enter your street and your hometown and become frighteningly aware of just how many sex offenders there are around you. Sleep with one eye open, fish!
The best part is, the sex offenders look exactly like you'd expect them to. Be sure to use this for profiling purposes.
According to my AdSense page, I've gone over a thousand hits (1,011 to be exact) since I put the ads on this son of a bitch. February 22nd to May 5th, not too bad. Let's do some math. March and April have 61 days combined. Add the last 6 in February and the first 5 in May, that's 72! 1,011 hits divided by 72 is....more than 14 hits per day (see, isn't math fun!?). Not bad, but we can do better. Yes, we can! Yes, we can! (That's what Obama says.) According to the AdSense page, "ad clicks must come from genuine user interest," thus I'm not allowed to encourage you to click them. So I'm NOT telling you to go ahead and just click the hell out of these things. I'm NOT telling you that whenever you need to make a Google search, why not head on over to Denim Douche and use my search, at the top or bottom of the page. Not telling you to do that.
Also, you may have noticed that my ads will often involve seemingly random topics triggered by words that I use in my posts. Repeated self-referencing has lead to a run of Douche related products, and even a slightly hilarious website called "Nomorefishysmell.com." Now, they're all related to recycling. Hmm. I think it's time to perform an experiment, if you'll allow me. I'm just going to fire out a whole list of random words to see if it affects the ads. Ready? *Deep breath...*
football cheese soda walnuts hairspray sea lions queens polio applesauce beetles cats desks lights killer whales samuel l jackson sigourney weaver tom hanks muppets the office zebras guitars buffalo wings drums pencils glue toilet paper shoes.
We'll see what happens, I guess. Maybe I'll get in trouble from AdSense.
One more thing, you've just got to do this;
National Sex Offender Registry
The national sex offender registry; the place where you can enter your street and your hometown and become frighteningly aware of just how many sex offenders there are around you. Sleep with one eye open, fish!
The best part is, the sex offenders look exactly like you'd expect them to. Be sure to use this for profiling purposes.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The Challenger: Tomorrow!
Ladies and Gentlemen, children of all ages (and Dave): I have an announcement for you! That's right, the long-awaited Challenger date has been decided upon, and it's tomorrow. Come down to Wooster St. Pizza around 7 pm or so and watch me and my roommate contemplate our lives whilst attempting to down a 22-inch topping-loaded monster of a pizza.
You have to pay for Cirque de Soleil. You have to pay for Siegfried and Roy. This, however, is a free show. That hasn't stopped me from hitting you up for donations, of course. Let me once again reiterate why I ask of you...so very little.
If we win, which I believe there's a good chance we will, the pizza is free. There will be much rejoicing. We will don swimming goggles and douse ourselves in champagne, and then possibly lighter fluid and turn ourselves into fiery Buddhist monks.
If we don't win, in the unlikely event I pull a hamstring or some other unfortunate roadblock occurs (I doubt it'll be fullness...we have a whole hour), the pizza is about 36 dollars plus tax and tip.
Now, while I'd like to guarantee victory, I ain't Broadway Joe Namath, and the Challenger ain't the Johnny Unitas Baltimore Colts. I'm confident, but I'm not psychotic. A lot of people get overconfident and blow their children's college funds in Las Vegas. And that's not what we want, is it? The point of asking for donations is that I need to be prepared to lose before I can win. I want to focus on beating that pizza like Rihanna and not what the hell I'm going to do if I can't. Like John, Paul, George, and Ringo, I'm hoping to get by with a little help from my friends, and beat that pizza with Maxwell's Silver Hammer. Yellow Submarine.
Mull it over. And be at Wooster St. Pizza, tomorrow (that's Friday), 7ish. It's what Jesus would have done.
You have to pay for Cirque de Soleil. You have to pay for Siegfried and Roy. This, however, is a free show. That hasn't stopped me from hitting you up for donations, of course. Let me once again reiterate why I ask of you...so very little.
If we win, which I believe there's a good chance we will, the pizza is free. There will be much rejoicing. We will don swimming goggles and douse ourselves in champagne, and then possibly lighter fluid and turn ourselves into fiery Buddhist monks.
If we don't win, in the unlikely event I pull a hamstring or some other unfortunate roadblock occurs (I doubt it'll be fullness...we have a whole hour), the pizza is about 36 dollars plus tax and tip.
Now, while I'd like to guarantee victory, I ain't Broadway Joe Namath, and the Challenger ain't the Johnny Unitas Baltimore Colts. I'm confident, but I'm not psychotic. A lot of people get overconfident and blow their children's college funds in Las Vegas. And that's not what we want, is it? The point of asking for donations is that I need to be prepared to lose before I can win. I want to focus on beating that pizza like Rihanna and not what the hell I'm going to do if I can't. Like John, Paul, George, and Ringo, I'm hoping to get by with a little help from my friends, and beat that pizza with Maxwell's Silver Hammer. Yellow Submarine.
Mull it over. And be at Wooster St. Pizza, tomorrow (that's Friday), 7ish. It's what Jesus would have done.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Death to Tomra!
Before we get started on today's blog extraodinaire (well, to be honest, it'll really be no different than any other entry, but since all my entries are extraordinary, that makes them all extraordinaires, right?) I need to take a moment to pose a question to my loyal readers. Does anybody out there know what the fuck the deal is with those "enter the word you see above" boxes? Every time I spam all of your facebooks with my status indicating I've written a new Douche, they make me copy down two words. Yeah, that's right, two. As if one indecipherable, partially occluded, curvy word weren't enough. I've never gotten this; If they want you to copy down a word, why can't it just be a word in a normal font, not sideways and quadruple italicized? Why do I even need to copy down a word in the first place? I'm sure there must be some sort of security explanation behind it, but fuck, why two? It's like, before you post your status, write the words "DUCK MARMALADE" in the box. Uh, okay, sure. Just for fun, when I change my status to alert all of you of what random words I have to write, I'll copy them at the bottom of the post. Isn't that fun?
So you may be asking yourself, who/what the fuck is Tomra? Tomra is the only company I'm aware of that makes the bottle and can recycling machines at the grocery stores. I'm sure there are more, but this is Denim Douche, and I don't do research. Yeah, I recycle my bottles and cans, because I love the environment. Whoops, I meant because I get five cents apiece for everything I stick into one of these fantastic machines! But they're not fantastic, are they? I see you shaking your head, "no." And you're right. They suck.
Have you ever seen anything in the world more reliably unreliable than the recycling machines? Honestly, you walk into that bottle room knowing full well that half of the machines will be broken or full, and that's a conservative estimate. There's always someone in front of you with a goddamn mountain of cans moving as slowly as possible. Meanwhile, the machines are beeping away screaming "change me" like a crying baby, and no one's coming.
Oh, but in the rare occasion that someone does come, have you ever seen anybody more pissy about performing their job than this person? They come trudging in like they're inches away from pulling out an Uzi and wiping out the Deli section, sigh loudly, change the bins, and then walk around the corner of the building where I assume they finish the contents of their flask. These people look so goddamn miserable about performing this menial task, it's unbelievable. My theory is that the machines that are labeled as broken really aren't, it's just that the employees put the signs up because changing the bins more often would drive them to suicide.
If you do get a machine, good for you. Now you just have to soak your arms up to the elbow with stale beer and soda, a good portion of which still have some sludge at the bottom waiting to drip on your shoes. At this point you wonder which one of your dickhead fuckass friends is incapable of taking that last sip to ensure the dryness of the can. Oh, and the machines don't accept water bottles, Gatorade, Powerade, Snapple, Iced Tea, Red Bull, and God only knows what else. If you're returning some fancies you got for a nice change of pace from the grind of Keystone and Busch, there's about a 50% chance the machines won't take that either, despite CT being listed in plain English on the side of the bottle as accepting that brand. Christ.
But I endure this buffet of fecal matter for that all important 5 cents per unit. It really gives me this nice sense that I'm saving money, when really, the store already took out the bottle deposit when you bought that shit anyway. All you're getting back is the money you already unnecessarily spent. Might as well put a gun to my head and tell me to recycle. And what about this; 2-liter bottles of soda, gargantuan as they are, are worth the same as soda cans. What? Considering they have something like 10x the surface area, shouldn't they be worth more? If I can fit 10 cans or 1 bottle into a garbage bag, aren't I going for the cans every time? Fuck this system. God Damn you Tomra, with your virtual monopoly over recycling equipment! Someone slay this giant of the returnables industry before it's too late.
The words I had to enter in the box:
"astoria m"
Yeah, exactly.
So you may be asking yourself, who/what the fuck is Tomra? Tomra is the only company I'm aware of that makes the bottle and can recycling machines at the grocery stores. I'm sure there are more, but this is Denim Douche, and I don't do research. Yeah, I recycle my bottles and cans, because I love the environment. Whoops, I meant because I get five cents apiece for everything I stick into one of these fantastic machines! But they're not fantastic, are they? I see you shaking your head, "no." And you're right. They suck.
Have you ever seen anything in the world more reliably unreliable than the recycling machines? Honestly, you walk into that bottle room knowing full well that half of the machines will be broken or full, and that's a conservative estimate. There's always someone in front of you with a goddamn mountain of cans moving as slowly as possible. Meanwhile, the machines are beeping away screaming "change me" like a crying baby, and no one's coming.
Oh, but in the rare occasion that someone does come, have you ever seen anybody more pissy about performing their job than this person? They come trudging in like they're inches away from pulling out an Uzi and wiping out the Deli section, sigh loudly, change the bins, and then walk around the corner of the building where I assume they finish the contents of their flask. These people look so goddamn miserable about performing this menial task, it's unbelievable. My theory is that the machines that are labeled as broken really aren't, it's just that the employees put the signs up because changing the bins more often would drive them to suicide.
If you do get a machine, good for you. Now you just have to soak your arms up to the elbow with stale beer and soda, a good portion of which still have some sludge at the bottom waiting to drip on your shoes. At this point you wonder which one of your dickhead fuckass friends is incapable of taking that last sip to ensure the dryness of the can. Oh, and the machines don't accept water bottles, Gatorade, Powerade, Snapple, Iced Tea, Red Bull, and God only knows what else. If you're returning some fancies you got for a nice change of pace from the grind of Keystone and Busch, there's about a 50% chance the machines won't take that either, despite CT being listed in plain English on the side of the bottle as accepting that brand. Christ.
But I endure this buffet of fecal matter for that all important 5 cents per unit. It really gives me this nice sense that I'm saving money, when really, the store already took out the bottle deposit when you bought that shit anyway. All you're getting back is the money you already unnecessarily spent. Might as well put a gun to my head and tell me to recycle. And what about this; 2-liter bottles of soda, gargantuan as they are, are worth the same as soda cans. What? Considering they have something like 10x the surface area, shouldn't they be worth more? If I can fit 10 cans or 1 bottle into a garbage bag, aren't I going for the cans every time? Fuck this system. God Damn you Tomra, with your virtual monopoly over recycling equipment! Someone slay this giant of the returnables industry before it's too late.
The words I had to enter in the box:
"astoria m"
Yeah, exactly.
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