| I am fascinated with marketing.
From the New York Times today:
To promote Flavor Station, the Chicago office of Foote Cone & Belding Worldwide, a unit of the Interpublic Group of Companies, has created a television spot depicting people in different work situations - an office, a factory, a construction site - who eat Flavor Station chicken and shout, "with KFC's Flavor Station, I'm in charge." The tagline is, "Be the boss, choose your own sauce."
"Everyone can relate to working for somebody, not being able to make your own choice," said Tom O'Keefe, executive creative director of Foote Cone in Chicago. "The commercial is a celebration of being in charge, nobody but me can call the shots. You're able to have fun with it."
Mr. Bergren added, "We're really talking to the iPod generation that wants its own music, wants to be in control and create its own playlist."
Alternate Taglines for the Flavor Station:
Because Hitler only had one dipping sauce flavor for his popcorn chicken.
Terrorists want to take away our freedom...of three kinds of delicious sauce for our heart disease inducing poultry snack treats.
Baby Jesus likes 'em pre-dipped. (A favorite among Baptists.)
And as I shake off the remnants of another Labor Day, I'm glad to know that not all of our wage earners have health care, but everyone can get their chicken pre-dipped.
Pre-dipped? How lazy is that?
How much freedom is there really in pre-dipping? Shouldn't true freedom include the ability to determine the quantity of sauce?
I fear sharing my feelings about this, as the Colonel might view my questions of dipping as unpatriotic and un-American.
Have fun with the fact that your life is not you own.
I want to blow my fucking head off and splatter chunks of cornea and eyelash all over that.
Random questions:
What music video just destroys any chance of an erection?
What is required for a traditional Viking wedding? | comments: 22 comments or Leave a comment   |
| As a smoker and binge drinker you don't really just "get over" colds.
Last week I was hacking up Rosemary's abortion.
And being whimsically delightful at work. The combination of nicotine withdrawal and a pseudoephredrine high resulted in a battle between my coworker and I pleading over who gets the last bullet in our boss' gun.
I watched National Treasure today.
I didn't realize it was produced by Walt Disney Pictures when I added in my NetFlix queue.
It was like watching Mickey Mouse jack off the United States for two hours.
I wish I could contribute my recent absence to something interesting.
Like kidnapping.
Like hospitalization due to complications resulting from the improper use of hula hoop.
Like joining a cult that worships radishes.
But no. I've just been lazy.
I'm going through a "productive is overrated" phase.
You know, Hitler was productive.
Stalin was pro-active.
Ghenghis Khan had a can-do attitude.
I figure, sometimes it's better not to do anything than to do the wrong thing. | | comments: 11 comments or Leave a comment |
| From the New York Times:
Alive and Thriving in the Midwest: Brawling in Cages
SIOUX FALLS, S.D., July 23 - When they rewind the video of the fight in the cage, all the blood will spray back into Gervis Fool Bull's nose, all the screams will be sucked into the collective chest of the sweating crowd, and the fist will snap back toward the big truck driver from Iowa who threw it, a man with a mohawk haircut who grew up fighting his twin brother in the neighborhood junkyard.
I think I just found my future husband.
Speaking of marriage, a friend of mine is getting married (for reals), and this week she bought her first bridal magazine.
You know what I say?
Fuck the perfect guest book.
Fuck the cake.
Fuck matching bridesmaid clutches.
Fuck using stupid ass adjectives like "whimsical" for flowers.
Two words: Milkshake Bar. | | comments: 26 comments or Leave a comment |
| Apparently UPS drivers refer to their largest truck lovingly as "Chocolate Thunder."
This would totally be my stage name if I ever became a professional wrestler. | | comments: 24 comments or Leave a comment |
| A few nights ago I found myself, randomly, senselessly, in a sake bar located in the Embarcadero surrounded by people who looked like they had just snorted a bucket of cocaine, constructed a time machine, and traveled back to the late eighties for the sheer purpose of raiding my cousin's closet.
You realize a few things while engaging in sporadic bouts of depressive, self-medicating, binge drinking.
I'm on the market for a uniform.
Because certain mornings, who has that kind of decision making ability?
Currently it's in the idea/recon phase.
I remember being in elementary school and listening to my older cousin speak enviously, almost pornographically, of this girl at school who wears something different every single day.
That's like, thirty outfits. You have to keep up. People will like, totally make fun of you if they see you in the same thing two days in a row.
Looking different every day is overrated.
If you didn't get sick on it, if it doesn't need a wash, why put it in rotation?
Wearing something different every day is like having a small pimple. No one notices or cares except you. | | comments: 17 comments or Leave a comment |
| My new phone meows.
And not like cute little kitten getting a saucer of milk meow.
More like...cute little kitten getting ass raped by an ice cold thermometer meow.
I hate phones. | | comments: 7 comments or Leave a comment |
| I'm covered in bruises.
I'm bleeding.
I smell like a whiskey factory.
I'm coughing up pieces of my left lung.
I broke my watch.
And I lost my phone.
It could only be the day after my nephew's first birthday party.
I met his mother freshman year of high school in English class.
She's married, settled down, looking to buy a house.
I'm twenty-seven and as far as I know I don't even own a fork.
Listening to NPR the other week, apparently 666 is not the number of the beast, it's actually 616.
It's been an inexplicably strange month.
I almost set a girl's face on fire.
I had to go to court...twice.
A nectarine exploded in my bag.
I (finally) learned how to shotgun a beer.
I feel like I've been having other people's dreams.
Listening to a man from Kentucky talk about the time five tons of concrete fell on his head and how he hears the voice of his dead wife.
I wanted to respond, "So does this mean you're single? I'm really into blunt force head trauma."
This week I'll be proofing a half sleeve sketch. A tattoo in honor of my mom. She got back from holiday this month and got me a beaded Hello Kitty coin purse. I'm going to use it to hold bandages. Evidently I cannot get out of a car without breaking skin and rupturing three arteries.
Other Presents from my Mom Include:
Red polyester Tom and Jerry drawstring pajama pants
When I wear them I look like a recently discharged cutter from the local insane asylum.
A bright turquoise t-shirt with a frilly flower application in the front
It looks way better with accessories such as PayLess mesh slippers, eczema, and a tornado beaten trailer.
A double extra large Maui t-shirt with native flowers from her trip to Hawaii
I think she shops for the fifteen year old me. The one with sixty extra pounds constantly circulating a stream of antidepressants.
A watch of Chairman Mao Tse-Tung waving, but it actually looks suspiciously like he's getting ready to smoke some cock.
I broke that fucker exactly ten hours later. Kinda sad. It was starting to grow on me. | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
| When something bad happens, the first thing I do is avoid certain music, because I know it will be scorched into my brain and forever associated with that moment.
Like when I threw up orange after getting shit-faced at my cousin's wedding. I didn't listen to anything that night underneath my bathroom sink.
As such, I've stopped listening to music at the gym.
I'm actively trying to severe the Pavlovian connection.
I don't want to start getting leg cramps whenever I hear The Sisters of Mercy.
So I've started reading magazines.
And you know what?
Good HouseKeeping blows.
"How do you know if your marriage is in trouble?"
Maybe if you are seeking relationship advice from a magazine with a picture of a brownie on the cover, that might be your first hint.
"Delicious recipe for one bowl brownies!"
Let me find that recipe after flipping through sixty eight pages of diet advice.
"Organize that clutter once and for all!"
I'll get some wicker baskets after I order this totally useful and non-cluttering porcelain Cinderella statue you've got advertised by the table of contents.
The magazine selection at my gym is sketchy at best.
However I don't really give a shit what I'm reading as long as it doesn't involve rubbing more than two brains cells together.
Anything is better than spacing out while the chatty Cathy's next to me talk about how great their lives are.
I'll read about training for Ultimate Fighting. (It was Brazilian dude who took the battle to the ground and changed the sport forever.)
I'll read about some dude surviving a great white shark attack. (The trick: Punch the shark in the nose.)
I'll read about inspirational moms making millions selling their baby inventions. (One woman started her company after stepping on a fucking Cheerio.)
I'll read about Rene Zellwegger's (sp?) wedding dress. (It was a Carolina Herrera)
I don't watch TV and some of the articles about popular culture doesn't really make sense, but I know something is popular, I'm just not sure why.
It's like high school all over again.
Speaking of high school, I'm dressing like I'm back in high school and my jewelery and nail polish choices are like that of an eight year girl.
I think I'm going through a pseudo-pre-mid-life-whatever right now. It's rad.
I think I need a shark attack to gain some perspective.
*The title of this post comes from an actual magazine cover: Ten Things Your Man Wants You To Know in Bed. | | comments: 9 comments or Leave a comment |
|
We had a meeting this week and apparently "some" of the office staff needs to be more aware of their explicit comments.
I can't help but wonder if my comment last week about wanting to skull
fuck a customer with his dead grandfather's dick crossed some sort of
line.
In my defense, the guy was a prick and I didn't appreciate being yelled at in Korean.
However I think I need to explore other options in stress management.
In other news...
Lately I'm getting into shiny things, like a geriatric parrot with ADD. Shiny shoes, shiny earrings, shiny nail polish.
I want to know how you get a job naming cosmetic colors.
M gave me a nail polish called "Resort" and it's like this iridescent pearly pink color.
I like it a lot more when I think of it as a verb rather than a noun.
I've been sticking to the climbing thing fairly regularly, however I don't consider myself a climber.
It's like the difference between a biker and a motorcycle enthusiast.
| | comments: 7 comments or Leave a comment |
| At a friend's birthday dinner several months ago I met a girl who casually mentioned she once let a guy watch her masturbate for pills.
What I chump, I thought. Referring to myself. I had to undergo a quadruple teeth extraction for mine.
But alas, my supply is dwindling down and although there have been many pill-worthy situations as of late, I'm saving them for situations involving blood loss (mostly mine).
Uncle Sam decided to kick some love my way back in April and I've decided to throw down for some new tattoos this summer.
D, an 81-year old guy I work with has the best tattoo ever.
It's an anchor with his initials and the initials "H.Something.Something" underneath (I've been sniffing paint fumes all day and can't remember). Let's pretend it's "H.M.R."
One day D wore a t-shirt to work and I noticed his anchor.
Me: That's a nice tattoo.
D: *Makes a hand gesture which makes it look like he swatting an enormous fly*
My boss: Ask D whose initials those are.
Me: Whose initials are those D?
D: Some guy I got drunk with fifty years ago.
Dude.
Now *that* is hot.
The most not-hot tattoo I've seen (not on a website) was last spring in Dolores Park.
The guy looked like a Miami Vice reject living on a diet of nothing but cocaine and sperm and was walking around in a white unbuttoned linen shirt and a spray-on tan with the words "Keeping It Real" tattooed in 72-point script on his CHEST. Um, sir what are you keeping real? The spray-on tan or the poly-nylon blend manpris?
A close second was a few months ago. I was in my neighborhood picking up some ribs and saw this guy with a large naked squatting girl tattooed on his stomach. The weird thing was, they shared the same belly button. There has to be some meta-physical, supernatural, zen-shit behind that one.
Brain...eating itself...
Of course my dilemma is that I can't get "Keeping It Real" in script on my chest now. I curse thee Miami Vice!
I'll have to make due with "Don't Give A Fuck" in Old English.*
*Not really, hopefully pics to follow in about 3-6 months. | | comments: 13 comments or Leave a comment |
| |
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
threepennies's journal