I was stuck at my desk so long, working hard and drinking my water like a good
little scout, that when I finally got to the ladies' room, I peed more than
all of Tom Hanks' movie characters combined.
I thought of that line mid-wee and said to myself, "I have got to blog
that, 'cos it is vastly clever."
And it struck me, yet again, how sad it is that I am willing to risk The Puddle
Dance just to have an entertaining line with which to amuse the masses.
Stuff I Don't Care About:
American Idol. Reality that fits tidily into a specific time period
is contrived for ratings' sake, and buying into it just sends a message that
I'm as dumb as television producers want me to be.
Katie Holmes. There's something fishy about this whole thing, and I love
a good mystery, but if the case isn't going to blow wide open, I have no energy
with which to give a shit.
Burger King.
They stopped flame-broiling (at least at the stores near here) and started
adding liquid smoke to fool our taste buds, which would be fine if one
didn't subsequently belch charcoal like a Titanic boiler for hours
afterward.
They hired that spooky plastic-faced serial-killer-looking Burger King
guy to do silent, scary commercials, making me not hungry for burgers,
but desperate to find a bed under which to cower and whimper.
They made the Hootie and the Blowfish guy sing in a cowboy hat, and
that was Wrong.
They did the rebellious-child Whopper Junior ads, which never managed
to cross the line to "So Stupid It's Funny" from "Just Plain So Stupid."
Now they have a commercial for something they're calling a Texas Whopper,
which, to the best of my knowledge, is a regular Whopper with jalapeños,
but geared toward attracting the male demographic whilst alienating the
female demographic. Their television spot, parodying Helen Reddy's I
Am Woman, implies that boobies = incapable of enjoying the Texas Whopper
(whose only distinction, you'll recall, is that it's enhanced with jalapeños)
and not only do I no longer want to give Burger King my business, I'm
a bit afraid of what might happen to me if I decide I'd like to visit
Texas. Do I have to turn in my estrogen at the state line?
Stuff I Do Care About:
Cash Cab. I want Benjamin Bailey to be my personal chauffeur. Butt-nekkid — oh, what a giveaway.
Nicole Kidman. She's still in love with Tom Cruise, even though he never jumped on the sofa for her. That's devotion; albeit a little bit stupid, but which of us is not stupid in love?
Please, Sonic, I promise you if you put a store in my general vicinity,
I'd buy Tater Tots and diet cherry-limeades just about daily. Honest. I love
me some diet cherry-limeade. Also, I love that "Foot-Long Coney"
sounds like something dirty.
If you donate to That Man's Paypal, he'll know who you are and
tell me to put you on this year's shirt, but if you donate directly to the United Way
or mail your donation directly to the clinic, I have no way of knowing what
a nice thing you did unless you tell me. So note me or comment me and I'll add
your name to the Shirt of Much Tackiness.
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