“Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean…”
I’m just sitting there with
a cup my 2nd cup of morning afternoon-ish coffee, and I start singing this ad jingle. It just pops into my head, I’m not sure why or from which dark, cerebral crevasse of my brain. But it dawns on me that I’m full of stuff like this; full of product ads, slogans, jingles. It’s like the plastic garbage that floats adrift in our oceans, only it’s my head and the garbage is of a non-physical kind. Now and then it washes ashore and comes to mind.
I know, from that day in college when I was paying attention, that there’s no finite limit to the amount of things we can store as memories, so it’s not pushing anything else out of there. There’s no problem in that sense. Maybe the oceanic plastic metaphor isn’t the best; I can’t think of an equivalent to the seagull with a 6 pack ring around its neck, so to speak. But it’s still disturbing on some level, how we’ve bombarded ourselves and retain to some degree the residue of our commercialism lifestyle. And it’s not just something ephemeral like memory. Supposedly our bodies are riddled with preservatives from eating so much processed food that even postmortem decay is slowed to an unnatural rate. So maybe there is some way that prolonged exposure to marketing messages changes how we think too.
It’s just one of the many ways which our modern way of life in 2016 is so different from the vast majority of human history. Things have gotten pretty fucking bizarre. We didn’t evolve under these conditions; “today” is an aberration. I wonder what would happen if you plucked your average 1776 New York citizen and dropped them into present day Times Square. I think they’d just explode. I mean an actual explosion, with flames and people diving in slow motion towards the camera. We might need Mr. Clean after all.
If you’ve ever read anything of mine, you won’t be surprised to hear that writing isn’t my day job. I’d be more surprised that I have return readers. Anyway, at work we have several reference guides for authenticating ID’s from far and wide. I felt a few of the samples were worth sharing, so without further ado:
“Surprise!” Or maybe the photographer captured the moment she was told her sample name would be Happy H. Zzzviisagedlover.
Mr. Clean: A good guy to have on your side in a prison riot. More importantly, what do they mean by “Experimental, Full-privileged?”
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to take off the motorcycle helmet for the – ohh.”
Organ donor: No
Chin donor: Hell Yes
Jessica Rabbit? (Young people reading this are all “wtf.”)
Tina Yothers?? (Again with an 80’s reference! #WhenHashTagsWerePoundsigns)
I’ve been binge-watching Game of Thrones, and it’s making me into a horrible human being. After a long period of not having HBO, I do now and am trying to catch up with the series before the premier of season 6 in April. So that is why I find myself immersed in the world of Westeros and Essos, where the conniving rule, the blood-thirsty lead, and the whores smile when you wink and toss a coin in their general direction.
As vastly entertaining as George R.R. Martin’s epic saga is, perhaps it is not the healthiest practice to spend hours inhabiting it, as it may have certain, shall we say, undesired consequences.
I find myself rather preoccupied with what Lord Steve of the House of Feingold is plotting. He’s my neighbor in case you’re wondering. Should he try to expand the reaches of his realm by taking the lands west of my driveway, nothing would stop him from marching his forces across the cul du sac and seizing the only road in or out.
Of course, with Lord Steve out of the picture, the heir to his title would be the “Mad Toddler” Cooper. A loose cannon if there ever was one. Why, the fool would burn the entire neighborhood if he could be king of the ashes! Perhaps diplomacy has its place from time to time.
Another recent development has been my inclination to swing a broadsword at the neck of the insolent cashier at Tedeschi’s. I won’t stand for disrespect from a low-born peasant. I am a land owner! Aye, truth be told, I’ve never swung a sword at anybody, but now it seems like a viable option on a day to day basis. Kinda concerning?
But no time for that now. My lawn needs tending to, so I shall send a raven to The Home Depot inquiring the price of grass seed. After all, spring is coming…
It was a nice day outside so I figured I’d take a stroll through my local internet. I went to a major news website, I won’t say who but they have a 3 lettered name that rhymes with ZNN, and was shocked to find, buried among the legitimate stories, all these absurd and irritating “click-bait” links to sponsored content. The idea is that people are compelled to click on the link simply because it is sensational and outrageous, however dubious the source. Of course some people are going to mistake them for actual news content and that’s a legitimate gripe for those who are concerned for the state of real journalism these days. But I won’t get into that now.
So anyway, sprinkled in and among news items I’m reading these inflammatory article titles, often hinting that you’re doing something wrong or telling some terrible truth about a popular topic. And then I realized – this is just like my thanksgiving.
Sure, there’s some actual content – maybe Cousin Dave got a new job or something – but then there are the click-bait comments courtesy of my mother-in-law. Actually, I’m starting to wonder if she isn’t writing those articles. “You’re paying too much for car insurance!”; “How Old Is Too Old To Have Children!”; or “Here’s Why Hilary Can’t Be Trusted!” Two out of the three are from her, see if you can guess which.
I can’t exactly remember, to be honest. It’s all one big stuffing and gravy drenched blur. Though I’m pretty sure the anti-Puerto Rican ones are purely hers. The real click-bait writers, manipulative little weasels they may be, have some sense of decorum after all.
Mood: The Vent
Signs: constant talking about co-workers you don’t know, may be accompanied by tears or yelling at others not present
Notes: crack a beer and get comfy, nod in agreement frequently, occasionally say “yeah, that sucks” or similar empty platitude
Mood: The Ebert
Signs: unabashed critique of how you’re spending your day, what you’re doing wrong, your communication skills, etc.
Notes: she’s probably right
Mood: The Koala
Signs: clingy, cuddly, touchy-feely
Notes: tolerable, may lead to sex?
Mood: The Monk
Signs: unusually quiet, withdrawn, not talking for once
Notes: caution – a storm may be brewing, often precedes Agitated Bag-lady (see below)
Mood: The Agitated Bag-lady
Signs: muttering to self, outbursts of profanity, frantic gesticulating
Notes: RUN AWAY
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Brainwave.”
Get outta here. I’m not showin’ you my best idea. Get your own. Look, I see what you’re trying to do here, Jedi mind tricking us into giving up our A material, but it’s not gonna work on me. That’s right, you gotta get up pretty early in the morning to trick ol’ Jay Sparrow into talking about his idea for the toothless trouser zipper….oh CRAP!
I need help in the selfie department! How can I become a selfie ninja?
-San Fran Selfie Fail
Don’t fret, you’re not alone. Bad selfies are as pervasive as virgins at Comic-Con. Or VD at Burning Man. Here are some hacks to step up your game.
Remember Einstein’s lesser known Law of Selfie Relativity: An ugly friend in your selfie increases your attractiveness at a level inversely proportional to their nastiness. Also, consider a longer selfie stick, let’s say 20-30 feet. Close-ups are only flattering to those blessed with looks.
I suck at flirting with girls online. Whenever things progress to sexting, they always lose interest. Any advice?
-Creepin’ in Canton
Nothing is a turn-off like bad sexting. To pull it off, you have to be smoother than a baby’s butt in a velveteen diaper. Here are some common pitfalls to avoid.
Make sure auto-correct is off. Getting a text like “Girl I wanna duck u all night long” is more confounding than erotic.
Also, no pics of your junk. I can’t stress that enough. But if you must, use a background other than your bathroom floor which hasn’t been cleaned since the Bush administration. The first Bush administration that is.
My ex-boyfriend and I made a sex video. But I dumped him and am scared he might post it online for revenge.
-Terrified in Tacoma
Hi TiT (heh heh),
That is quite a predicament. You could try and make this into a positive. After all, Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian made millions from their sexploits.
The fact remains: that which has been seen cannot be unseen. By the way I wish somebody pointed that out before I watched the Bea Arthur sex tape. Sadly, we’re not talking Maude era either, this was deep into Golden Girls. Coincidentally, that was also the title of the video.