Listen to the auctioneer

Lately I've been spending a lot of time (and money) at Ebay. A few minutes ago, I was looking at some crummy old razors and saw an auction with an odd sentence in the item description: "Please dont bid if you feel too high." Huh? I'd always suspected that quite a few people bidding on Ebay crap were stoned. And maybe some of the sellers are completely baked as well.

More!

A little while ago I once more saw the ad I mentioned below and this time I actually clicked on it. It ended up being for some kind of chocolate weight loss stuff. They claim it's "The French Secret to Weight Loss". Hmmm...I'd always thought the French secret to weight loss was that they understoood the concept of portion control, but I digress. Anyway, this stuff reminds me of that strange appetite suppressant candy called Ayds that an aunt always seemed to have around the house when I was little.

The only reason I'm even bothering to post any of this is because the stock photo of the woman on the scale. Don't her knees in that position sort of look like bare, misshapen breasts? But since they had that vile chocolate-smeared woman in their banner ad, I don't think they would've noticed anything odd about this photo either.

But why would you want it to?

I keep seeing a strange banner ad at the top of the page when I'm poking around the MSN shaving forum (stop laughing!) that features a woman with chocolate smeared across her mouth and face. I think the ad's for some diet pill or potion. (I didn't bother to click on it.)

The slogan "Can your diet do this?" is featured prominantly, but my eyes keep straying to the woman. Who but very small children and the feeble-minded eat chocolate and get it smeared all over their faces? Is there some other hidden meaning at play? I don't see them wanting to appeal to fans of German shit porn. But what else? The ad is vaguely repellant to me rather than inviting.

Are they really saying, "Our diet pill/formula/program is so lousy it'll drive you to a deranged binge"? If they wanted to show a sort of chocolate ecstasy, then why not just cover the woman in in it? If only anthropologists read my blog; I can't understand anything without the aid of anthropologists.

Vegan porn

My sister sent me another email featuring another stupid photo of unknown origin. Naturally, I see such emails as a way to weasel out of coming up with original blog content.

Is this what vegetables do when we're not looking? Filth! I'll never eat vegetables again.

Enough already!

Back in June, I think, I posted a link to an asinine photo my sister sent me in an email. Now, for the past two months or so, I get multiple hits a day from all over the world because this photo pops up on Google Image Search when people look for cactus pictures.

So, I present to you, the reason for most of my recent traffic:

City of the Dead

Once in a while I'll search for blogs written by other people in my town. Why I do this I don't know, since I have little or no interest in meeting any of these people. Anyway, I did some searching this afternoon. Most of the blogs I found today written by denizens of my doomed hometown were about Jebus and other subjects I'm not interested in. But I did find an interesting paragraph about my fair city in a blog written by a guy from another part of the state:

For those who've never been there, Danville IS the definition of a dead city. I'm sure it may have been a bustling metropolis in its day, but there's nothing there anymore except abandoned factories and burned-out warehouses. Oh, and a mall that's 4x the size of the one in Harrisonburg. Why does an abandoned city have a Giant Mall Of Doom? I have no clue, but I was quite thankful for it.

OK, there's not that many burned out warehouses here, but we do have our fair share of abandoned factories and textile mills.

My all time favorite thing about Danville I've found in a blog was something along the lines of "If Virginia needed an enema, then there's no better place to insert it than Danville." Yes, this town has a unique effect on its visitors.

Oh, and I found out there's also a dominatrix living here.

Der Utensils

A guy I have odd conversations with at work told me today that some relative or family friend had gotten Hitler's silverware in WWII. Apparently they took der Fuehrer's challet in some battle or other.

Hitler's silverware? The mind reels.

I can clearly see this family preparing for a fancy dinner:

"Get the good silverware out."

"The good silverware? Are you crazy? No, this is a very special occasion! Get the Hitler silverware out."

But just how important an occasion would it have to be to use the Hitler silverware?

File under, "icky"

Earlier today I was poking around Ebay because, let's face it, I have no life, when I stumbled across some British guy selling "amateur" photos of his girlfriend. I don't know what's more appalling, the fact that he's selling said photos on Ebay or that he's selling them for such a pitifully low price. You'd think he'd think more of his "girlfriend" than to sell five sets of 85 pictures each for a lousy $3.18. It's hard work crawling around on the floor with your ass stuck up in the air, so I can't imagine what kind of cut she's getting of the meager proceeds.

Naturally, I had to see what else this guy was selling. Big surprise! What I found was a whole page of the same kind of stuff. Lots of photo sets of his "girlfriends", but some sets were of his ex-girlfriends, and more confusingly, his wife. So he has a wife, around twenty girlfriends, and two or three ex-girlfriends. Even I don't have a fantasy life this rich, but I guarantee you if I tried to make money off it I'd have a higher asking price.

Jebus

I was just interrupted by two middle aged women (one had bright orange hair) who showed up at the front door that wanted to discuss bible verses. There was also something about the bird flu. Or something, I don't know. Anyway, I don't really understand these people who go around doing this sort of thing. I especially don't understand the ones who do it on Sunday mornings when the people who would want to listen to this stuff are already in church.

Clothes make the man

How many times have men heard women complain about how badly men dress? Women wonder why men wear the same thing over and over again, or they wonder why men are in such bland fashion ruts. Well, I've figured it out. Yesterday I went to a big chain clothing store that shall remain nameless to buy a couple pairs of jeans. I'd gotten a new pair of said jeans for Christmas that came from this same store and I wanted to get a couple more pairs. I figured I'd simply be able to walk into this store, find the jeans, get my size, pay for them, and then leave. Naturally, I was living in a sad fantasy world of my own making.

When I walked in, all I saw were women's clothes. The men's section must be in the back or upstairs, I thought. So I walked around. And around. Then I went upstairs. Somehow I found myself in the middle of a huge lingerie section. Now as much as I appreciate lingerie, I have little to no interest being caught in public ogling bras and panties. It reminded me of that scene in an episode of Father Ted where Ted, Dougal, and several other priests are hopelessly lost in the middle of Ireland's largest lingerie section, except I wasn't a priest, and the experience at the time was about as amusing as getting repeatedly kicked in the nuts.

After a bit of walking, I found myself in a huge children's section. I don't mean it was a section for huge children, I mean the section itself was huge. Anyway, I had about as much interest in being caught in the children's underwear section as I did the women's underwear section.

I walked around and around, upstairs and down, but found no men's clothing. Perhaps they have a few shirts and pairs of jeans piled in a broom closet somewhere, but I saw nothing, nor did anyone offer to help me.

So, women of America (and possibly the world), when complaining about the frayed plaid shirts and bland pants men wear, I ask that you take into consideration the fact that men can't find clothes because there aren't any. It's a miracle we have any clothes at all and aren't walking around naked or wearing burlap bags.

So I'm giving up on buying clothes and will be wearing what clothes I have until they fall apart. After that, who knows.

Crappy New Year!

The novelty of staying up past midnight to ring in the new year has long since worn off with me. Last night I went to bed at 10:30 or so and slept right through the festivities. Of course there were no festivities at my place; I was referring to TV festivities. The people on TV are the ones always having a great time it seems, except the people on the news; bad things are always happening to them.

Pointless trivia: I've never been to a New Year's party. The closest I ever came was the time I was working second shift and we were punching out to go home at midnight one New Year's Eve. Yep, I live an excitement-filled life.

I seem to recall one New Year's Eve years ago spent watching porn with the sound turned off and my police scanner on in the background so I could hear the locals getting arrested for partying too much. Such wholesome fun I have.

Popups

I was informed several days ago that my blog now had popups. That was news to me; I hadn't seen any damn popups. Anyway, after some digging around and fiddling with Firefox settings, I actually did manage to see one of these popups. So they did exist, buy why, and how? Had to be one of the free services offered to websites that I took advantage of, like those site stats thingies. One of them has popups on their website now, so I deleted that one. Bastards! But I don't know if that helped or not.

I need a nap.

Mr. Happypants answers your questions!

One Mr. Xoloitzquintle (not his real name) has selected me (or someone else named Scott) to answer the questions below. Oh, these accursed memes!

Seven things I plan to do before I kick the can:
1. Go to North Korea.
2. Find humans I can stand to be around and who can stand to be around me.
3. Pet an alligator.
4. Travel to the other side of the North American continent
5. Ride in a airliner. (No, I've never done it.)
6. Write a damn novel.
7. Build a death-ray and conquor the Earth.


Seven things I can do:
1. Sleep
2. Eat
3. Complain
4. Loaf
5. Alienate
6. Scratch
7. Annoy cats

Seven things I can't do:
1. Act like a normal human being.
2. Play the guitar (at least competantly).
3. Eat anything without getting gas. (Yes, ladies, I'm single.)
4. Build a robot.
5. Send morse code.
6. Write music.
7. Levitate.

Seven things that attract me to another person:
1. A sense of humor.
2. Not being a moron.
3. Patience.
4. A sense of direction.
5. Full set of teeth.
6. Not smelly.
7. Knowing that green means go when you're at a stoplight.

Seven things I say most often:
1. I wish I was dead.
2. Sweet mother of god!
3. Uhh...
4. I don't know.
5. Get me out of here.
6. Please kill me.
7. Green means go! Green means go!

I'm supposed to send this damnable thing to seven other unfortunates, but all the other bloggers I read have already been tagged. So instead, I'll post another picture of my sister's frickin' cat. Here he is trying to look adorable:

Leftovers

My sister's started a real blog. Odd for someone who for years has professed to hate blogs. She describes it as, "Vintage needlework mocked mercilessly. Also a place to inflict my own vintage needlework projects on the unsuspecting public."

She should start a blog about her mentally disturbed cat:

I spy

Today at work I found yet another reason to hate my job. The powers that be decided that instead of giving raises they'd install surveilance cameras on the ceiling. Why they felt the need to put these cameras up, I'll never know. Do they want to spy on us to see if we're actually working or do they want to see if we're stealing the shitty merchandise? Anyway, the boss was in the office I work in today and was going on and on about one of the cameras and how well it worked. The camera is really far away from the office, and while playing around with it, he discovered he could zoom in and see through the window of the office, getting so close he could look over one of my shoulders and see clearly what program I was using on my computer. That's exactly what a paranoid freak like me needs to hear. People like me go around wishing and hoping no one's looking at us anyway, so we don't need confirmation that there's hidden cameras hundreds of feet away spying on us through the goddamn windows. I'll never be able to relax at work ever again.

Stinky

If you're curious (and, god, I hope you're not), here's the shaving forum thread I started about my stinky shaving brush. It's interesting because it clearly illustrates the depths of madness into which we shaving guys have descended.

Pura Setola Sterilizzata

Since I haven't been posting much here lately, my new stupid obsession has gone undocumented. I've been buying old razors on Ebay and actually shaving with them. I've been getting old double-edged Gillettes from the 40's-60's mainly. Shaving is fun now for some reason. I read online shaving forums. I even read a shaving blog. Yes, it's gotten that bad.

I've also been using a shaving brush like guys do in old movies. These things are typically made of either badger hair or boar hair. Since I'm a cheap bastard, I use a boar hair brush. The one I have came from a drugstore and sheds a bit, so I decided to go upmarket a little and get an Italian one that cost more than twice what the old one did. It came in the mail Monday. Everything was fine until the brush got wet, then I noticed an aroma. How can I describe it? Let's see... How about pig shit? The box said it had been sterilized, but I saw nothing about it being deoderized.

I'd heard of these stinky brushes before, so I knew it was something that would go away over time. How bad could it be? Well, it was pretty bad. Everytime the brush was near my face it seemed to smell worse. And what was really bad was that the shaving soap on my face seemed to have made some sort of molecular bond with the porcine fecal aroma and now it too stank to high heaven.

I finished my shave and rinsed my face, but I could still smell it. I had the reek on my hands and my face. I smelled like Italian pig shit. (Yes, ladies, I'm single.) It wasn't an overpowering stench, but it was there. It was noticeable by me, so I'm pretty sure it would've been noticed by another normally functioning human being. Thankfully there weren't any of those around, so I got to stink in peace.

What to do? I just rinsed more and slatered on this vile, scented aftershave moisturizer that has such a strong scent it makes my eyes water. So now I just smelled like those guys that leave a trail of cologne when they walk by.

The smell on my hands died down after awhile, but the brush just stank on and on. When I'd walk into the bathroom I could smell it. I tried shampoo on it. Twice. I even tried conditioner, but it still stank a bit. Then I remembered a homemade concoction to use on dogs that have been sprayed by a skunk. It contained 3% hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and a little liquid dishwashing detergent. Oddly, that did the trick and now my brush stinks no more. So I can go back to my weirdly anachronistic grooming hobby.

Protection

This morning I was in one of those stores where everything's a dollar or less. I love these stores not just for the bargains but for the oddball products I find in them. They seem to be stocked with whatever random crap the owners can find dirt cheap.

Today I wandered around this particular store (I've been in there three times and still haven't bought anything yet because the selection of items is so crappy) looking for something, anything to buy. I think I keep coming back simply because this particular store is so awful that I feel guilty about not buying anything.

As I walked past the counter, I saw various items hanging up on the wall behind the cashier. I guessed these were the items most likely to be stolen, but since everything was a buck or less it doesn't really seem to make any sense to put them on the wall behind the counter where you have to ask the cashier to get them for you.

I looked over what was hanging there. Several small boxes caught my eye. They were brightly colored and had pictures of women on them: condoms! Dollar condoms. Good Lord. What kind of a cheap dumbass buys condoms at a dollar store? I don't know about you, but when it comes to preventing the conception of another human being, I think I'd want to spend a bit more than a dollar.

Seafood

Those of you who have read this blog for awhile know that I'm not one given to outbursts of hyperbole, but I think it's safe to say that the above image is the greatest picture in the history of photography.

I have no idea of where this photo was taken or under what circumstances. It turned up without explanation in a thread on Monkeyfilter a month or two back. Or at least I think it was Monkeyfilter. It may have been Metafilter. I searched online for further information, but all I could find was an appearance on a German messageboard. Anyway, whatever's going on, I find it a singularly inspiring image.

I find myself looking at this picture quite often and I'm not ashamed to admit that it brings me great joy. Dammit, I like living in a world where a pelican thinks that it can eat a cat.

Oh, and three years ago yesterday this blog was born. Or should say bored?

What tedium

Well, I guess now is as good a time as any for this month's post.

So, what's been going on in my life? Nothing. I'm now on first shift, but I still don't like my job. Oh, and I now make less money, but do more work. (Third shift workers get a small bonus for working such crappy hours, plus they get to goof off quite a bit because no one else's there.)

Last month for some stupid reason I became obsessed with watches, particularly Rolexes. Fake Rolexes to be exact. I looked all over the damn internet to find something cheap enough to waste money on. Finally, I found what I was looking for and it only cost $50. Friday it was waiting for me when I got home from work: a beautiful, and totally fake, blue dial Rolex Submariner. The next day I wore it shopping. Since it's in the seventies right now I didn't have to wear a jacket and could even get away with wearing a short sleeve shirt. So I was flashing my Rolex all over town. Naturally no one paid a damn bit of attention to it. Imagine how annoyed I'd be if I'd spent several thousand on it.