The beastly thing. How is humidity elsewhere? Do you have much of it? I often wonder. I remember being on the west side of the U.S., and experiencing unbelievably hot weather, but I remember the heat was somewhat satisfying. It was dry heat, without even the idea of moisture. That really seemed to be doing the thing right. There is the sun, and here is the heat. Middle-man skipped. Genuine heat.
Yet here, on the east coast, in Maryland, Humidity is God of all. A dry day? As foreign a thought as an ocean to a desert. The very air is liquid. I feel like I'm learning to swim in a vat of oil. And when it rains, dear god. A person can't think in such conditions. The concept of patience no longer makes sense, and the only words that exist are curse words.
Is this natural? I don't live in a rain forst. I live in a house, in a city. My de-humidifier should not fill with water every 20 minutes.
I hate it. I absolutely.. Ugh. Hate. I hate it.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
Ollie's! Ya Gots Ta Come
This store resides in Maryland, Pennsylvania, and Delaware -- or so the internets tell me -- so those outside of this perimeter are most probably unaware of its existence.
You lucky bastards.
Let me assure those in sweet, sweet ignorance, if Hell were to be given a different name, that name would be "Ollie's Bargain Outlets".
I give you the website to look upon, and for those with an aversion to opening links (see possible future post), here is a picture that represents a small (very small) portion of that nightmare that is Ollie's.
You see the man? That is Ollie, aka Beelzebub. Look at this drawing. You have never seen it before, but a part of you recognizes it, I'm sure. You may say no, but this is just suppression. We all supress things that are painful to us, and if you say no to this as well, you are only suppressing your suppression. End.
But he is there, at the back of all of our minds. This is how he recruits his employees. At night, he enters into the nightmares of the innocent and repeats, "Ya gotta come to Ollie's!" until the message wears in and the poor souls show up at the store the next day, demanding name-tags to wear and cash-registers to stand behind. There is no other way that these people would allow themselves to be subjected to such torture, and not even notice or mind. Not even the world's most violent masochist could do this.
The store itself, though. When you enter the store, your ears are accosted by your favorite overplayed hits of who knows when and god I wish never, with frequent interjections of "Ollie's! You can get a blah blah etc. for something or another, and here's a bad joke to make your day!" from a voice with the most obnoxious Baltimore accent (you don't even know about Dundalk) that could slaughter your young, if you allowed them to accompany you to the hell-hole, you horrible, uncaring person.
Your eyes are continuously raped by picture after picture of Ollie in get-up after get-up, until you are trapped in the middle of a hopeless, helpless, badly illustrated gang-bang.
I don't know how many times I have been in this store, maybe only once. But time does not exist in Ollie's. Not time as we know it. It was a dazed eternity, of confusion and misery. I spent a life-time, or maybe five, flailing within the aisles, waiting for my accompanying party to free themselves of the ridiculous notion that they were getting great bargains.
They don't understand. There are more things to pay with than money. (Just ask your mother about her exploits of last night.) But you, dear reader, you must understand, while you are in the store, Ollie sucks out some of your soul. Each time you enter the store, more of your soul has been stolen, and each time, more pictures of Ollie appear. You think that the "artist" has had great inspiration since your last visit, but no. Ollie recreates himself. Soon, he'll have enough souls to take on solid forms, and he will not only take your soul, but turn you into an Ollie as well.
Mark my words, Ollie's will no longer be confined to Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania. He'll be headed your way soon enough.
You lucky bastards.
Let me assure those in sweet, sweet ignorance, if Hell were to be given a different name, that name would be "Ollie's Bargain Outlets".
I give you the website to look upon, and for those with an aversion to opening links (see possible future post), here is a picture that represents a small (very small) portion of that nightmare that is Ollie's.
You see the man? That is Ollie, aka Beelzebub. Look at this drawing. You have never seen it before, but a part of you recognizes it, I'm sure. You may say no, but this is just suppression. We all supress things that are painful to us, and if you say no to this as well, you are only suppressing your suppression. End.
But he is there, at the back of all of our minds. This is how he recruits his employees. At night, he enters into the nightmares of the innocent and repeats, "Ya gotta come to Ollie's!" until the message wears in and the poor souls show up at the store the next day, demanding name-tags to wear and cash-registers to stand behind. There is no other way that these people would allow themselves to be subjected to such torture, and not even notice or mind. Not even the world's most violent masochist could do this.
The store itself, though. When you enter the store, your ears are accosted by your favorite overplayed hits of who knows when and god I wish never, with frequent interjections of "Ollie's! You can get a blah blah etc. for something or another, and here's a bad joke to make your day!" from a voice with the most obnoxious Baltimore accent (you don't even know about Dundalk) that could slaughter your young, if you allowed them to accompany you to the hell-hole, you horrible, uncaring person.
Your eyes are continuously raped by picture after picture of Ollie in get-up after get-up, until you are trapped in the middle of a hopeless, helpless, badly illustrated gang-bang.
I don't know how many times I have been in this store, maybe only once. But time does not exist in Ollie's. Not time as we know it. It was a dazed eternity, of confusion and misery. I spent a life-time, or maybe five, flailing within the aisles, waiting for my accompanying party to free themselves of the ridiculous notion that they were getting great bargains.
They don't understand. There are more things to pay with than money. (Just ask your mother about her exploits of last night.) But you, dear reader, you must understand, while you are in the store, Ollie sucks out some of your soul. Each time you enter the store, more of your soul has been stolen, and each time, more pictures of Ollie appear. You think that the "artist" has had great inspiration since your last visit, but no. Ollie recreates himself. Soon, he'll have enough souls to take on solid forms, and he will not only take your soul, but turn you into an Ollie as well.
Mark my words, Ollie's will no longer be confined to Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania. He'll be headed your way soon enough.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
I find the weirdest things browsing the internets.
Wandering about the W(orld) W(ide) W(eb) (do people still call it that any more?) today, I came across a rather interesting piece of fiction entitled "Olsen Twins Raped by Genetically Altered Wolves". At least, I think it was fiction. The title does read a bit like a news headline though.
So, yeah, I don't really have a whole lot to say about that. At least it advertises what it's about right there in the title - if you read that and get upset about the content, well, then... you're probably Christian. Ba-dum kish.
I want to find some poorly-written piece of fanfiction at some point and make fun of it here, just because I can.
Perhaps that shall be my next entry.
So, yeah, I don't really have a whole lot to say about that. At least it advertises what it's about right there in the title - if you read that and get upset about the content, well, then... you're probably Christian. Ba-dum kish.
I want to find some poorly-written piece of fanfiction at some point and make fun of it here, just because I can.
Perhaps that shall be my next entry.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Sometimes (okay, quite a lot of the time) I really don't like living in Texas.
Harrold ISD in Texas recently put district policy in place that allows its employees to carry concealed firearms.
All righty, let's get the positives in the article out of the way:
In order for teachers and staff to carry a pistol, they must have a Texas license to carry a concealed handgun; must be authorized to carry by the district; must receive training in crisis management and hostile situations and have to use ammunition that is designed to minimize the risk of ricochet in school halls.
There. That's it. That's the good stuff.
"[...] If something were to happen here, I'd much rather be calling a parent to tell them that their child is OK because we were able to protect them," Thweatt said.
And what you really don't want to be doing is calling a parent to tell them that their child isn't okay because a teacher shot them.
Now, granted, perhaps it's unfair to assume that just because teachers are given guns means that 1) something bad's going to happen and 2) it's going to be the teacher's fault. But here's how I see it: adding more guns to any situation involving guns is a bad thing. It means more bullets and more shooting. And in a room full of kids liable to panic because their classmate is trying to fucking shoot them, it can mostly only lead to bad things.
You also get into lots of other questions. Does the teacher only break out the weaponry when a kid pulls a gun? What about if someone has a knife and threatens a student or teacher with it? Is that a gunnable offense? And it seems to be that if cops can easily be a touch trigger-happy, non-law-enforcementers will be just as bad, if not worse.
I've got my highly-liberal knickers all in a twist over this, it seems.
And if anyone outside the other contributers reads this and thinks I'm jerking my knee a bit in my reaction, well... go shoot some rats, you hick.
Just kidding.
All righty, let's get the positives in the article out of the way:
In order for teachers and staff to carry a pistol, they must have a Texas license to carry a concealed handgun; must be authorized to carry by the district; must receive training in crisis management and hostile situations and have to use ammunition that is designed to minimize the risk of ricochet in school halls.
There. That's it. That's the good stuff.
"[...] If something were to happen here, I'd much rather be calling a parent to tell them that their child is OK because we were able to protect them," Thweatt said.
And what you really don't want to be doing is calling a parent to tell them that their child isn't okay because a teacher shot them.
Now, granted, perhaps it's unfair to assume that just because teachers are given guns means that 1) something bad's going to happen and 2) it's going to be the teacher's fault. But here's how I see it: adding more guns to any situation involving guns is a bad thing. It means more bullets and more shooting. And in a room full of kids liable to panic because their classmate is trying to fucking shoot them, it can mostly only lead to bad things.
You also get into lots of other questions. Does the teacher only break out the weaponry when a kid pulls a gun? What about if someone has a knife and threatens a student or teacher with it? Is that a gunnable offense? And it seems to be that if cops can easily be a touch trigger-happy, non-law-enforcementers will be just as bad, if not worse.
I've got my highly-liberal knickers all in a twist over this, it seems.
And if anyone outside the other contributers reads this and thinks I'm jerking my knee a bit in my reaction, well... go shoot some rats, you hick.
Just kidding.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Diane Lane Movies
Inspired by the previews for her new movie with Richard Gere (who also gets a major HATE push) that played far too frequently during the commercials around the coverage for the Olympics.
Diane Lane is the epitome of bad romantic comedies.
First, let me state that I am a woman. Therefore, I do get a small, sick pleasure from romantic comedies. I allow myself one a year. (Sometimes I stretch to two, even three. Once you pop, etc.) Two years ago, or a year after whenever Must Love Dogs was released, I found it on TV. There we go, I thought. My romantic comedy of the year. I thought this even though I already hated Diane Lane. It's fun to laugh for the supposed wrong reasons, anyway. Besides! John Cusack! Yes, I do like him. If you don't, watch High Fidelity. If you still hate him, I hate you. And your mother.
Onwards.
Must Love Dogs. Ohhh dear, was it dire. I did not enjoy it in the slightest. My inner girl did not squee, as they say. It walked from the room with disgust, and the rest of me along with it. Mind, I'm sure this film would have been terrible without Diane Lane, but I'm sure it would have been more satisfying. Meg Ryan would have even been better, and we all (should) know how mind-bogglingly awful she is.
Diane Lane has this aura of.. euugh. "I'm just like you. I know how to live, I know how to cry." Her laugh, her watery smiles, her "I guess I'm just going to have to put up with this and make the best of it" look. It's somehow even worse than Meg Ryan's "I'm crying, where is the tissue box I'm going to comically go through" technique. Lane is a part of the giant self-righteous woman movement that I so despise (see future post). She's a woman, and by god, she's strong! She's lived life and she knows what goes on! She's been through much more than men have! Has a man ever given birth to a baby? No! And let me tell you!-
I just.. I just.. I just.. hate her. My god. I just.. Hate. Previews alone are enough to hurt my soul. Make her.. go away. Hate!
Diane Lane is the epitome of bad romantic comedies.
First, let me state that I am a woman. Therefore, I do get a small, sick pleasure from romantic comedies. I allow myself one a year. (Sometimes I stretch to two, even three. Once you pop, etc.) Two years ago, or a year after whenever Must Love Dogs was released, I found it on TV. There we go, I thought. My romantic comedy of the year. I thought this even though I already hated Diane Lane. It's fun to laugh for the supposed wrong reasons, anyway. Besides! John Cusack! Yes, I do like him. If you don't, watch High Fidelity. If you still hate him, I hate you. And your mother.
Onwards.
Must Love Dogs. Ohhh dear, was it dire. I did not enjoy it in the slightest. My inner girl did not squee, as they say. It walked from the room with disgust, and the rest of me along with it. Mind, I'm sure this film would have been terrible without Diane Lane, but I'm sure it would have been more satisfying. Meg Ryan would have even been better, and we all (should) know how mind-bogglingly awful she is.
Diane Lane has this aura of.. euugh. "I'm just like you. I know how to live, I know how to cry." Her laugh, her watery smiles, her "I guess I'm just going to have to put up with this and make the best of it" look. It's somehow even worse than Meg Ryan's "I'm crying, where is the tissue box I'm going to comically go through" technique. Lane is a part of the giant self-righteous woman movement that I so despise (see future post). She's a woman, and by god, she's strong! She's lived life and she knows what goes on! She's been through much more than men have! Has a man ever given birth to a baby? No! And let me tell you!-
I just.. I just.. I just.. hate her. My god. I just.. Hate. Previews alone are enough to hurt my soul. Make her.. go away. Hate!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Wearing Clash shirts to show how, like, totally punk one is
The good people at wikiHow have provided a handy guide entitled How to Act Like a Punk Girl. Let's have a look.
1. Being punk does not mean wearing a certain outfit or acting a certain way. It means to be yourself without caring what the others think! But remember being a punk is not always easy you will be judged by others but don't let that bother you. [Good so far. Perhaps a little self-helpy. The grammar could stand to be cleaned up a bit too, but, hey, it's not English class, it's just a wiki!]
2. Stand up for your cause! Punk is about being a rebel and standing up for what you want. This is not, for example, going up to a bank and stealing all of the money inside; rather, it is standing up for your values. Support something you want to. [I think they should have put the "don't rob a bank" disclaimer at the beginning of this section. I'm sure too many people have read just that first sentence and gone off to totally punk a bank. Check this out:
According to the guide's history, it was created in February of '07. Now, at the time there wasn't a particularly high volume of searches for "bank robbery" on Google, but you'll notice, dear reader, that the overall volume does climb starting around mid-2007. Coincidence? I think not!
The rest of the section tells us that it's definitely punk to do something like donate to a breast cancer foundation or try to save the local YMCA that the Man's trying to take down to replace with a Walgreens/CVS combo, instead of the common wisdom of these activities being just for pansy-asses who don't want their chest hams falling off. So I disagree slightly with the parts that don't have to do with bank robbery, but this isn't about what I think.]
3. Be an individual. Stand out. Wear clothes that no others dare to wear. Stand up for what you believe in, even if the whole world is against you. Be bold, but don't lose touch of yourself. [Even if the whole world is against you, stand up for what you believe-- so most crazed dictators are punk, by that. I'm not gonna say that one name, because Godwin's right over my shoulder with an axe. Also, is it just me, or does it seem like they accidentally copied a bit of someone's horiscope for that last bit?]
4. Dress punk fashion. Vests with pins and badges are also totally punk. Like mentioned, leopard print and plaid are also punk. Purses and messenger bags are great for putting pins and badges on. Don't be afraid to wear what no one else is wearing. [They bolded this to make absolutely sure you noticed it. It is imperative to dress punk, even though "Being punk does not mean wearing a certain outfit or acting a certain way", not to mention "Wear clothes that no others dare to wear." So, if all these punkies are wearing clothes that no one else dares wear, then aren't they all daring to wear it, thus negating the lack of dare and causing some sort of temporal rift? Scary thought. Do also keep in mind that, while leopard print and plaid are most certainly punk, leopard print and plaid together is simply a horrid crime of fashion and you'll both lose your punk license and cause most others to lose their eyesight. Unless, of course, you're wearing the two together because no one else dares to. Then it's okay.]
5. Make your hair punk. You don't have to, but you can get mohawks or liberty spikes. Hair color also counts. Different colors such as red, green, blue, orange, purple or pink also stand out from just getting highlights. [Yeah, you totally don't have to do this! They're just including it as a handy reference in case you actually want to be punk and not just pretend to be, you loser. Apparently, the more mohawks you have, the more punk you are, though the "multiple mohawk" hairstyle is not something I've heard of. And the colors-as-opposed-to-highlights advice is good, but I don't think colors are better because they stand out more. It's mostly because highlights are totally gay, and gay is not punk. (I'd say that gay is junk, but that's just... well, even I won't make that pun.) But, yes, the more like cotton candy your hair looks, the more punk you are.]
6. Ignore any negative outlook towards your clothes, hair or being punk; those who judge you are just not aware of your individualism! [Yeah, get the fuck away from this post, bitches! That statement reminds me of Mormons...
Dude, punk Mormons would be awesome.]
Final comment: this post was motivated mostly by a girl I work with who's all dressed punk (super-tight skinny jeans, straight, roughly shoulder-length black hair, piercings on her lip and eyebrow), but, here's the problem. She was wearing a London Calling shirt. If you're going to dress like that, and try to assert your punkosity, and you have, just have to wear a Clash shirt, please limit it to one that references this album and this album only:
That is the U.K. release of their first, eponymous album, people. If you're wearing a Clash shirt that's not referring to that album, you are not wearing a shirt that has to do with a punk album The Clash were only punk for their first album, and after that they were just punk in spirit.
Also, please don't refer to the Clash as a "pretty obscure" band. People know who the fucking Clash are, and you aren't super-awesome for knowing about them.
That is all.
1. Being punk does not mean wearing a certain outfit or acting a certain way. It means to be yourself without caring what the others think! But remember being a punk is not always easy you will be judged by others but don't let that bother you. [Good so far. Perhaps a little self-helpy. The grammar could stand to be cleaned up a bit too, but, hey, it's not English class, it's just a wiki!]
2. Stand up for your cause! Punk is about being a rebel and standing up for what you want. This is not, for example, going up to a bank and stealing all of the money inside; rather, it is standing up for your values. Support something you want to. [I think they should have put the "don't rob a bank" disclaimer at the beginning of this section. I'm sure too many people have read just that first sentence and gone off to totally punk a bank. Check this out:
According to the guide's history, it was created in February of '07. Now, at the time there wasn't a particularly high volume of searches for "bank robbery" on Google, but you'll notice, dear reader, that the overall volume does climb starting around mid-2007. Coincidence? I think not!
The rest of the section tells us that it's definitely punk to do something like donate to a breast cancer foundation or try to save the local YMCA that the Man's trying to take down to replace with a Walgreens/CVS combo, instead of the common wisdom of these activities being just for pansy-asses who don't want their chest hams falling off. So I disagree slightly with the parts that don't have to do with bank robbery, but this isn't about what I think.]
3. Be an individual. Stand out. Wear clothes that no others dare to wear. Stand up for what you believe in, even if the whole world is against you. Be bold, but don't lose touch of yourself. [Even if the whole world is against you, stand up for what you believe-- so most crazed dictators are punk, by that. I'm not gonna say that one name, because Godwin's right over my shoulder with an axe. Also, is it just me, or does it seem like they accidentally copied a bit of someone's horiscope for that last bit?]
4. Dress punk fashion. Vests with pins and badges are also totally punk. Like mentioned, leopard print and plaid are also punk. Purses and messenger bags are great for putting pins and badges on. Don't be afraid to wear what no one else is wearing. [They bolded this to make absolutely sure you noticed it. It is imperative to dress punk, even though "Being punk does not mean wearing a certain outfit or acting a certain way", not to mention "Wear clothes that no others dare to wear." So, if all these punkies are wearing clothes that no one else dares wear, then aren't they all daring to wear it, thus negating the lack of dare and causing some sort of temporal rift? Scary thought. Do also keep in mind that, while leopard print and plaid are most certainly punk, leopard print and plaid together is simply a horrid crime of fashion and you'll both lose your punk license and cause most others to lose their eyesight. Unless, of course, you're wearing the two together because no one else dares to. Then it's okay.]
5. Make your hair punk. You don't have to, but you can get mohawks or liberty spikes. Hair color also counts. Different colors such as red, green, blue, orange, purple or pink also stand out from just getting highlights. [Yeah, you totally don't have to do this! They're just including it as a handy reference in case you actually want to be punk and not just pretend to be, you loser. Apparently, the more mohawks you have, the more punk you are, though the "multiple mohawk" hairstyle is not something I've heard of. And the colors-as-opposed-to-highlights advice is good, but I don't think colors are better because they stand out more. It's mostly because highlights are totally gay, and gay is not punk. (I'd say that gay is junk, but that's just... well, even I won't make that pun.) But, yes, the more like cotton candy your hair looks, the more punk you are.]
6. Ignore any negative outlook towards your clothes, hair or being punk; those who judge you are just not aware of your individualism! [Yeah, get the fuck away from this post, bitches! That statement reminds me of Mormons...
Dude, punk Mormons would be awesome.]
Final comment: this post was motivated mostly by a girl I work with who's all dressed punk (super-tight skinny jeans, straight, roughly shoulder-length black hair, piercings on her lip and eyebrow), but, here's the problem. She was wearing a London Calling shirt. If you're going to dress like that, and try to assert your punkosity, and you have, just have to wear a Clash shirt, please limit it to one that references this album and this album only:
That is the U.K. release of their first, eponymous album, people. If you're wearing a Clash shirt that's not referring to that album, you are not wearing a shirt that has to do with a punk album The Clash were only punk for their first album, and after that they were just punk in spirit.
Also, please don't refer to the Clash as a "pretty obscure" band. People know who the fucking Clash are, and you aren't super-awesome for knowing about them.
That is all.
Stupid: The Obama Salute
"Our goal is to see a crowd of 75,000 people at Obama's nomination speech holding their hands above their heads, fingers laced together in support of a new direction for this country, a renewed hope, and acceptance of responsibility for our future," says Rick Husong, creator of the Sign of Progress.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
HATE: dudes who frost their tips.
Why? For the love of Jesus H., why does anyone think it's "cool" to frost their tips? It's just plain hideous. But to answer my own question, I'll tell you who frosts their tips: Christian men. Let me get specific -- Christian men who live in North Dallas, listen to God-rock, use terms like "whazzup, bro?", and probably teach a Sunday school class for 3. You know the ones, don't act like you don't. There was always that creepy guy at church who'd lead the music worship that had something... peculiar about him. Can't put your finger on the peculiarness? I'll refresh your memory: the motherfucker had frosted tips. Men who frost their tips are also likely to enjoy drinking Becks ("near beer"). They are likely to strike up a conversation with you about your "personal lord and savior" while you're waiting in line to renew your driver's license -- probably interjecting a few "bro"s and "righteous"s along the way.
When I see frosted tips, I head for the hills.
GEICO
Ah, yes, GEICO. How we know the company so well. Why? Because we use it? Hardly. No no no, the commercials are the things that drove the company into our subconscious.
The GEICO Gecko. I remember when this little fellow first appeared in 1999. How we thought the little thing was cute. All wanted their very own Gecko. It was a loveable little creature.
Was.
Though, no. Still I like the thing (I am weak), but in a limited way. I feel that this Gecko is a real creature that GEICO is exploiting. Even still, that damned Gecko is whoring himself! And! David Attenborough! Fortunately, this is not the actual David Attenborough, so we need not worry about his standards. At least, GEICO doesn't.
One can easily make the connection of Mr. Attenborough to Mr. GEICO Gecko, but one stops there. And why does one stop? Because Mr. Attenborough is respectful. And though Attenborough connects to the Gecko, respect does not. Thus, Attenborough could not ever possibly be fully connected.
But he has been.
GEICO corrupts. Not only has the Gecko been ruined, but David Attenborough now has had his good name sullied by association with the "Cavemen". And this, my friends, is the very heart of this entry. The GEICO Cavemen. Never. Never.
Never.
Never should such a thing have been allowed. Ok ok ok, maybe with a company like McDonalds, which supplies actual shit. GEICO, however, is car insurance. This is a branch of the law. These people are insuring your car. Your car. You are giving responsibility to the creators of the Cavemen commercials. How does this make you feel? The commercials barely make sense and haven't even a fragment of humor. I... I .. I can't even go into it. No, not this. I cannot bring myself to go into detail about every thing that is wrong with these few seconds of television time. It's a black hole, for god's sake. No, I cannot.
Stepping away from this, I ask you to be in my thoughts for a moment. Terrifying, I know, but bear with me. There. Now, imagine, as I always do, the people who created these commercials. Go ahead, think of it. And now consider the outcome. Connect. Do you think that these people exclaimed, "My god! I've got it! The most brilliant idea!" when these Cavemen entered their (even more terrifying) thoughts? Well, gee, of course not. This very rarely, if ever at all, happens with commercials. Yet no other reaction could warrant this incessant flow of Caveman nonsense. Nothing. Unforgivable. Never. Never.
Never.
Never should such a thing be allowed.
You would think, you really would, that after these Cavemen tried for a show (did anyone watch it?) and failed miserably, the creators would have gotten wise to the fact, the solid fact, that there is absolutely nothing worthwhile in their dreadful creations.
Yet. Turn on your TV, and what do you see? That's right.
You may now ask, why has my hatred for GEICO only just surfaced? Because, I have only just realized what the Cavemen commercials were for. I truly had no idea that they were promoting car insurance. How could I miss this? Because my ears and my eyes refuse to fully take in such pain. Pain!
For such a long time, I had excused GEICO, for their lack of inspiration for commercials. They were, after all, doing better things in the world. ...Well. Anyway.--
But now all is clear. So clear. GEICO is evil. I know nothing about them apart from their commercials, yes, this is quite true. With such ignorance, what right have I to judge them? To make this blanket statement, of EVIL? I have a right. Every right! They allow these commercials to represent them. They allow the Cavemen. The Cavemen. They allow them. Unforgivable. Never. Never.
NEVER.
Never should such a thing ever be allowed. In the words of the wise William Shatner, I. Can't. Get. Behind. That.
Good night.
The GEICO Gecko. I remember when this little fellow first appeared in 1999. How we thought the little thing was cute. All wanted their very own Gecko. It was a loveable little creature.
Was.
Though, no. Still I like the thing (I am weak), but in a limited way. I feel that this Gecko is a real creature that GEICO is exploiting. Even still, that damned Gecko is whoring himself! And! David Attenborough! Fortunately, this is not the actual David Attenborough, so we need not worry about his standards. At least, GEICO doesn't.
One can easily make the connection of Mr. Attenborough to Mr. GEICO Gecko, but one stops there. And why does one stop? Because Mr. Attenborough is respectful. And though Attenborough connects to the Gecko, respect does not. Thus, Attenborough could not ever possibly be fully connected.
But he has been.
GEICO corrupts. Not only has the Gecko been ruined, but David Attenborough now has had his good name sullied by association with the "Cavemen". And this, my friends, is the very heart of this entry. The GEICO Cavemen. Never. Never.
Never.
Never should such a thing have been allowed. Ok ok ok, maybe with a company like McDonalds, which supplies actual shit. GEICO, however, is car insurance. This is a branch of the law. These people are insuring your car. Your car. You are giving responsibility to the creators of the Cavemen commercials. How does this make you feel? The commercials barely make sense and haven't even a fragment of humor. I... I .. I can't even go into it. No, not this. I cannot bring myself to go into detail about every thing that is wrong with these few seconds of television time. It's a black hole, for god's sake. No, I cannot.
Stepping away from this, I ask you to be in my thoughts for a moment. Terrifying, I know, but bear with me. There. Now, imagine, as I always do, the people who created these commercials. Go ahead, think of it. And now consider the outcome. Connect. Do you think that these people exclaimed, "My god! I've got it! The most brilliant idea!" when these Cavemen entered their (even more terrifying) thoughts? Well, gee, of course not. This very rarely, if ever at all, happens with commercials. Yet no other reaction could warrant this incessant flow of Caveman nonsense. Nothing. Unforgivable. Never. Never.
Never.
Never should such a thing be allowed.
You would think, you really would, that after these Cavemen tried for a show (did anyone watch it?) and failed miserably, the creators would have gotten wise to the fact, the solid fact, that there is absolutely nothing worthwhile in their dreadful creations.
Yet. Turn on your TV, and what do you see? That's right.
You may now ask, why has my hatred for GEICO only just surfaced? Because, I have only just realized what the Cavemen commercials were for. I truly had no idea that they were promoting car insurance. How could I miss this? Because my ears and my eyes refuse to fully take in such pain. Pain!
For such a long time, I had excused GEICO, for their lack of inspiration for commercials. They were, after all, doing better things in the world. ...Well. Anyway.--
But now all is clear. So clear. GEICO is evil. I know nothing about them apart from their commercials, yes, this is quite true. With such ignorance, what right have I to judge them? To make this blanket statement, of EVIL? I have a right. Every right! They allow these commercials to represent them. They allow the Cavemen. The Cavemen. They allow them. Unforgivable. Never. Never.
NEVER.
Never should such a thing ever be allowed. In the words of the wise William Shatner, I. Can't. Get. Behind. That.
Good night.
Okay, so y'know what I hate?
I hate people like this:
I mean, really.
In the course of trying to find a suitable picture on Google Images, I discovered that "Wigger" is, in fact, a real last name. Just ask Torben Wigger!
Cue my immature giggles.
Fortunately, he's never going to see that I'm making fun of his last name, because a person that old is clearly never going to use the internet.
Also, firsties.
I mean, really.
In the course of trying to find a suitable picture on Google Images, I discovered that "Wigger" is, in fact, a real last name. Just ask Torben Wigger!
Cue my immature giggles.
Fortunately, he's never going to see that I'm making fun of his last name, because a person that old is clearly never going to use the internet.
Also, firsties.
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