Monday, September 29, 2014

Million Dollar Idea: Embarrassing Purchase Proxy

Tired of the harsh judgement of the store clerk when you're buying the 32 pack of industrial strength three-ply toilet paper? Sick of buying the "magnum" size condoms because you're too embarrassed to buy the regular size so now you're stuck with this garbage bag hanging of your dangly bits during naked slappy time?
If these were carnival prizes, would anyone play the knock-the-bottles-over game?
 Maybe you're just not interested in the teenaged cashier swiping your hyper-absorbent maxi-tampon, picturing your monthly flow as so heavy that it would make Katrina look like a drought.

How can anyone hope to avoid such mundane human experiences? Hire B.E.T.T.E.R. where we help you Buy Embarrassing Things Through Electronics Regularly but without the shame.  At B.E.T.T.E.R., we empathize with the desire to never acknowledge any bodily functions yet still indulge in all of the products that make those bodily functions tolerable. 

All employees of B.E.T.T.E.R. go through a patented process of shame and judgement removal. Not to give away our secrets, but it involves spending a week with my mother. Sure, you could buy your herpes cream from Amazon, but think of all the judgmental hands it goes through: the payment processor, the warehouse worker, the person mailing it to you, it's a chain of shame. 

What's worse is that Amazon stores your purchase information. Say you buy one tube of Preparation H (it's for hemorrhoids, they're like poop blisters) now every time you go to Amazon, your "suggestions" page will be replete with anus creams. The "targeted advertisements" will involve anal care. Hope you don't let anyone else use your computer. Not with B.E.T.T.E.R., we don't store cookies or personal information. If you don't want us to even know your address, we'll meet you at night on a dark corner. We'll take instructions to leave the package on a park bench at noon wrapped in a newspaper if that's what you want.
Well, they're really not burying the lead, are they?
No job too big, no purchase too small. Are you an obese person embarrassed to buy another pair track suit, or want to try an at-home enema? A celebrity who needs a proxy to purchase a solid brick of cocaine...well, too bad, we don't do illegal purchases, but if your dietary restrictions insist you eat nothing but baby food, we can do that. We'll even buy McDonald's for you, pretend vegetarian who won't shut up about Whole Foods. Too craven to buy the DVD collection of the 12th season of Grey's Anatomy (seriously, how is that show still going)? We are--albeit begrudgingly--there for you. 

Every cashier everywhere is like a 50's judgmental, disapproving mother.
Don't try to trick the clerk into not noticing the diarrhea medicine buy hiding it amongst a slew of other purchases, let one of our B.E.T.T.E.R. Butlers proudly strut to the front of the line and make eye contact with the cynical, teenage (redundant) cashier to make that purchase for you. 

There you go, world, go ahead and make this a reality since I'm too lazy to be any sort of entrepreneur. 

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


A conversation about happiness...

I'm so happy! Happy happy happy! It's glorious. Life is glorious. I'm so, so so happy. Everything is wonderful, I'm happy! Ha ha ha ha ha!

That's weird.

What, happiness? Of course YOU would think that. You're so cynical.

That's what delusional idealists call rational pragmatists. But yes, happiness. You think that happiness is a state-of-being?

Of course, that's what everybody aspires toward. If you don't aspire to be happy, than, what are you doing living?

Harboring realistic ambitions toward which I've stagnated due to a love of inertia. But the point is, sustained happiness is an impractical, nonsensical, quixotic goal.
To a misanthrope, maybe, but look at me, I'm super happy. 

Right now.

Happy. Happier than that Pharrell song, that's me.

Like that relentless sledgehammering of a simpleton's understanding of the complexity of human emotions, that song? It makes sense that someone who thinks she's in a perpetual state of happy would like that song. Even if you somehow believe that emotions are dictated by your heart or soul, that your brain and your thoughts will eventually poison your current, temporary mood? Haven't you changed moods swiftly and often enough to know that no emotional state is permanent, and thus, seeking a state of happiness is pointless?

N...Well, maybe but screw them for the image alone and make it a double
for the shmaltzy saying

But...but I'm happy. 

Great, but that's just for now. Something will happen that will make you temporarily not happy. Emotions are often randomized, but all emotional states are temporary, particularly the extreme emotions, like happiness. 

So I should just burn all of my motivational posters? Aspire to be just not sad?

Maybe strive for contentment. Pockets of happiness will come and go, but contentment means you've achieved something. You got right above "not sad" which is really pretty great if you look at the depression numbers.

I think I need a drink.

Well, I feel happy. Have you ever met someone who claims to be happy all the time? They're insane and annoying.

Why are we even Facebook friends? I haven't worked with you in over a decade?

Enlightenment? Cute kitty pics? To find out what character I am in an endless series of Buzzfeed quizzes? The act of defriending someone is so emotionally taxing that it's like I'm somehow holding you hostage just by existing? I get that. 


Post Script: This is why there's no Pickleope interactive Facebook page.

Monday, September 22, 2014

If Life Was a Car

If life was a car, I'd trade mine in. Maybe get an upgrade. I can't exactly afford another one, but I'd get a loan. What? My loan request was denied? Well, what if I leased a new life? DENIED!?! That can't be. Let me see that credit report. 
It's pretty depressing that this is probably the best representation of the
thing that will be towing my boring life away at the end. Credit

But that K-Mart never sent me a bill, that delinquency is a lie, I returned those 20 pool noodles, they never kept the shape of my sandals or felt like hugging Marlon Brando when taped together. And look, look right there, default on my Blockbuster account? How can I default on an account to a place that doesn't exist anymore? You want to check on my Woolworth's account next? 

Okay, okay, forget trade-in value? How about this, how much will you offer me for my current life? Go ahead, pull the LifeFax on it. This life has great mileage, only took it out every-other-weekend and...Whoa, what do you mean there's damage from persistent submersion? What does that even mean, my life has never been caught in a flood? 

OOoooOOoooh. I didn't realize that using too much fuel could negatively affect the inner-workings of my life. I mean, it is what powers my life, so how was I to know that using too much of it would cause the converter to short out? What if I got a new converter from a junk-yard? There's a waiting period for those? I can probably get to the top of the list, after all, I'm the proprietor of a mildly unpopular blog.
Because Lightening McQueen is NOT on drugs, that's why he has that grin. Sure thing. Credit
Of course there are rust spots, it's not like I've ever cleaned this life. Don't look in the trunk, that's super...Sorry, I was trying to tell you how gross it is in there. The glove compartment is pretty clean, nothing has been in there...Except, I forgot I left a rancid bologna sandwich in there. That part of my life probably smells something awful.

Credit..and holy crap, get your poo together, man.
Yes, I do know that my particular model does not have the best resale value, that people are giving it away for pennies on the dollar, but I've made some modifications. Look here, my life has brand new rims and some dice hanging from the mirror which I will throw in at no cost because I sewed them to the roof lining. 

Aww crap, those modifications reduce the value? Is this one of those old GI Joe toy situations where if I kept my life in its original packaging that it would be worth more? Damn.

Okay, fine, for my life I will accept a rusty Slinky and a cassette tape of your middle-aged brother's jazz-fusion band. Fine, shake on it.

Ha ha, sucker, I win! 

Friday, September 19, 2014

For Grandma Max

Rest in Peace Grandma Max.
Grandma Max, my last grandmother, died this week. Please do not say any variation of "sorry for your loss." Grandma Max(ine) was not into anything cliche like that. 
Not Grandma Max, but damn close. I think this granny clit-slapped Rick Ross, and regardless of whether that is true or not, she deserves at least a gobbler tickle. Credit
Maxine was an amazing woman. The fact that she and her late husband Burt managed to never make me feel like an outsider to the family despite being a step-child, a new edition as part of a third marriage, is a staggering feat worthy of praise at minimum on par with the praise heaped on children who win spelling bees. That sounds like an insult, but think about how much adults faun over spelling bee winners, or even how much praise is fire-hosed upon kids who lose in the third round, then triple that, that's the praise Maxine deserves. 

Max was able to be a badass without having to be overt. She just was. This lady
would have been embarrassed by being in the presence of Max. Credit
She was warm and welcoming to me and my spouse right from the outset. Every time we saw her, which was usually Christmas, she was legitimately interested in my life, or at the very least, made me feel like that. That is a rare quality in a person. Hopefully I can live up to that example.

At the very least, she gave birth to and raised the one person clever and caring and special enough to be a legitimate father figure and brilliant enough to raise me. I would call him "Dad" but the one time I did, he said, "Don't ever call me that." (It was because I was being a little jerk, trying to get money out of him.)

I'll miss you, Grandma Max. You were one-of-a-kind, hilarious (whether intentional or not), loving, and blunt in a way that could be mistaken for gruff.

She was exceptional and deserves better than cliched notions of faux-sympathy. Instead of "sorry for your blah blah blah", if you are inclined to comment, please give Maxine some sort of unique send off, even and especially if it would confound her. She was great at chalking things up to "well, that generation." So let's try something different like, "a thousand grumpy cats for Max" or some sort of photoshopped nonsense or Ryan Gosling shirtless, I think she'd like that, or some strange non sequitur that she'd be absolutely bewildered by but dismiss in the most polite-yet-condescending way imaginable. 

I'll miss you Maxine. And the biggest of hugs to those she left behind. 

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

It's Still Better Than Ikea

There is a furniture store I drove by today with, given the current world issues, has probably the most unfortunate name since Ayds Diet Candy. This furniture and flooring store is unfortunately named "Issis." Considering the President of the United States in concert with a number of Middle Eastern nations has ordered "death from above" for all things "ISIS," I'd say that's bad P.R. for this family-run furniture store. 

For those somehow unaware, ISIS is the evolving acronym (probably the only thing that's evolved about them) for a Sunni group unsupportably murdering and raping their way around Syria and Iraq in the name of a bastardized version of Islam (From the outset, if you're going to comment, please curb the anti-Islam talk. Oh, really, you think Islam is a religion of hate? Are you truly afraid of Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Dave Chappelle or Muhammed Ali? Yeah. your argument is invalid and not welcome here.).

I need furniture, but how can I explain I'm getting my furniture from Issis? Do I have to drag out the "s" sound, "no, no, I got my funiture from I-ssssssssssssis." That's not going to work. Even if I say the full name, "Issis and Sons," that just sounds worse, like I'm buying furniture from an extremist beheading group's next-of-kin. 
That's so cute, ISIS and sons are allegedly adept at not just shooting, but reloading and cleaning. The family that kills together thrills together. Image Source
"Wow, where'd you get this new entertainment console?"
"All of this, everything you see, I got it from Issis. Yeah, they were having a real blowout sale. Yeah, Issis and their sons (no daughters, but we all know what that is) are really great craftsmen. CraftsMEN."
No, I'm not talking about ISIS from Archer. Credit
"'re proud of getting your furniture from ISIS? Or is it ISIL?"
"No, it's definitely Issis. And heck yeah I'm proud, we got these at cutthroat prices."

Is there any way they can just weather the storm of phonetically sharing the name of what is the current most notorious terrorist organization on the planet? Can they maybe use it to their advantage? 

"We at Issis and Sons are not murderous cult members with delusions of zealotry-driven world domination. We just want to takeover the competition. Bring in any competitors price and we will cut off the head of the price by at least 10%! Once you get a single piece of Issis furniture in your home, Issis will begin invading the rest of your home. That is how much you'll like our furniture and/or flooring! We are declaring a jihad on high prices! Our prices and craftsmanship will convert you or die trying. Visit Issis and Sons today, or we will visit you."
If I'm going to treat them this rough, the least I can do is give them a free ad...well, the least I could do is not write a full post comparing them to a terrorist organization, but that certainly wasn't going to happen. 
Yeah, I don't think it'll work either. Maybe they should start commenting on every online news story, "THEY CHANGED THEIR NAME TO ISIL WITH AN L" and hope that the media picks up on that and stops calling them ISIS? I understand that "Issis" is probably someone's name, but there were probably a lot of people named Adolf before 1939, not so much now. This is that family's opportunity to change their name to something cool like FistShark DangerPorn. No matter what, going to the Issis furniture store is still better than going to Ikea, anything is better than going to Ikea.

Monday, September 15, 2014

Butt Darts and Defining Taints

As I mentioned in my last post, I went to my brother-in-law's wedding the weekend before last. It was beautiful. Filled with emotional expressions of love, poetry, song, tears of joy, and ridiculous dancing. But among all all the beauty and joyous celebration, there is one moment that stood out: butt darts. 
Not the wedding I went to, but holy hell, I wish it was. Credit
I met a lot of new family, some I'll probably never see again, yet, they left an indelible mark. At a pre-wedding family picnic one of the elder aunts initiated a game, an unspeakable (yet, here I go) game that could only be brought on by copious amounts of alcohol supped in the daylight. This woman in her 50's started a game called "butt darts". 

It's a game you can play on your own. All you need is a large-ish coin and a cup. Participants place the coin betwixt their buttocks, shuffle toward a cup that was placed on the ground, position one's buttocks over the cup, and release the coin into the cup. Don't worry, all clothes remain on, no familial nudity, unless that's your spin on the game, everybody has their own home-rules regarding Monopoly and Scrabble, Butt Darts isn't exempt from home-rules. I watched as my brother-in-law played, my in-law's in-laws played. One after another, putting a quarter up in their wedgie, duck walked over to a cup and released their gluteus clench in an attempt to get the coin into the cup. You may have seen Two Girls One Cup, I've seen "Dozens of In-Laws, One Cup".

Throughout the numerous people playing the game, not once did I see what happened to the coin. Were people using the same coin? Did people stuff the coin back into their pocket to mingle with their keys and other coins? I don't know. 

Of course I couldn't let this go without jovial mockery, I called it "jacked-up piggy bank" (though I employed the most favored of profanity rather than "jacked-up") and said that my family plays "taint tiddlywinks".  That last comment left my father-in-law to ask, "What's a taint?" I have never been handed a gift quite as wonderful as being able to explain in graphic detail what a taint is to my father-in-law. 
For those unaware, a taint is the oasis between bits-and-butthole, or, as I described it to my father-in-law, "you know, the gooch, the perineum, that fleshy area between your ballsack and your anus, you know, the sweaty part, 'cause there taint nothin' there." T'was a glorious day.  Oh, yeah, and the whole marriage thing was great, but seriously, what can top butt darts and describing a taint to one's in-law? If you have a wedding, at minimum there must be butt darts. Dinner and dancing just doesn't cut it anymore. 

Friday, September 12, 2014

Notes From the Periphery of Sanity

With full recognition that nobody cares except me, I declare that I have been absent from my tiny, dark, disturbing, surrealistic, twisted, exceptionally brilliant-yet-tragically-ignored corner of the internet for the last week. Initially this was for a great reason, I was traveling for my brother-in-law's wedding.
Ever wonder what I look like? That drunken blur in the center is me. Not really, but close enough.

Upon my return, I'm champing (or has that saying evolved into "chomping"?) at the bit to leave snarky remarks on your blogs and create unedited nonsense on my own gutter-dwelling self-indulgent online pseudo-diary. Yet I cannot. Instead of indulging my fetish (What, you didn't recognize blogging as a masturbatory exercise?) I am wrestling with a deep seeded desire to return to normal sleep patterns.

External circumstances have forced me to brawl with my general need for slumber (which I have been denied for the past few days for various reasons), and fail. I write this under an oppressive cloud of a desperate need for a full night of sleep. 

As much as I want to relay stories from my travel time, like spending two hours tucked hip-to-thigh smothered beneath a blanket of globular flesh whilst the baby behind us decided to mess its diapey pre-take-off, I cannot because my sleep deprivation is causing me to hallucinate. Currently, I'm being attacked by cherubs wearing those weird Eyes Wide Shut sex party masks. 
Where do they get the robes and elaborate hats? That's a lot of wardrobe just to get your naughty on. 
I would complain about neutered airline gate agents abusing their nominal power and work out my excess travel-rage, but my acute exhaustion has me wondering if the words I'm typing are actually 3-D or if this is more of an immersive world experience. 

My sleep-addled mind is blindly grasping in the dark, seeking relief for my mania. The elusive mistress of slumber taunts me like the well-dressed gremlins having a fancy dinner party in my bedroom. 
I'll be back...provided I can sleep in, that's all I ask, one sleep uninterrupted by an alarm, the drunken sleep of the damned, maybe a nap. I'll settle for day dreaming.