Title to be decided

I've been a tad busy lately and so no updates. So, gentle reader, here is an incomplete post to keep you diverted. I'll get around to finishing it sometime in the future.


In no particular order ellipsis abuse, razor blades and people who are chipper in the mornings.

Ellipsis abuse. You know what I'm talking about. The urge to use those innocuous periods, "..." with gay abandon in any and all sentences. I know that I am guilty of it and ergo my apologies. And you gentle reader, you do know that you are guilty of it too. So the next time you feel the need to use ellipses, ask yourself, "Are these dots really necessary? Would I use them if I was talking to someone? Would I say, “But Dot Dot Dot" or "I disagree Dot Dot Dot"?” It will not be any easy change to make, but with time and effort we will be able to fight the problem.

And now onto my pet hate (With props to Dave Barry and apologies for any unconscious plagiarism).

Razor blades have proven to me once and for all that the human race is still evolving. A brief history of the razor blade and the reasons for my conclusions follow. In the distant past when dinosaurs roamed the earth and the average human ancestor resembled a hamster, razor blades had but one blade. A single solitary blade, one that could make the hamsters presentable before they set out for work in the morning. Fast forward a few million years and someone at Gillette or Boeing or IBM decided to add an extra blade. I can imagine the shrill cries of excitement at corporate head quarters when the research boffins came up with this idea. “Two Blades! Why, that’s brilliant. Brilliant I tell you, brilliant.”

But they were soon faced with the daunting task of selling this idea to the stubbled masses. And then the geniuses at the ad agencies came up with the modern razor blade advertisement. An animation showing the first blade merrily chopping off a hair, but doing so imperfectly and leaving behind a sizeable chunk. At this point in the ad, the wise men would whisper to themselves “It was now that the focus group said that they felt the most amount of despair.” But just when you think that all was lost, along would come the second blade which would decapitate the remaining hair and quell any other follicular rebellion.

Well okay, that ad wasn’t too bad. But then they needed to sell the razor with three blades. So the ads would now show blade two waging a valiant battle but being ultimately defeated by the evil forces of H.A.I.R. And just when you thought the battle was lost, along would come blade three, which would neatly swoop in and save the day. And then they would switch to a close-up of a model stroking his cheek with a goofy smile on his face. Sometimes there would be a female model with the male model and she would stroke his cheek, and they both would have goofy smile on their faces. I think the subliminal message here is that if you use their razor blades models will stroke your face in the morning. Now think about that. That is a bit creepy. You wake up, you shave and out of nowhere, a model pops up strokes your cheeks and disappears down the drain.

And then just when we, the stubbled masses, thought that we had reached the pinnacle of shaving progress we were presented with the four blade razor. But the ads stayed the same. Blade one bad job, blade two some progress but not enough, blade three would valiantly struggle but falter at the threshold of victory and then finally blade four would swoop in and save the day. This would be followed by the obligatory goofy looks and metaphors of smoothness, the metaphors of smoothness being illustrated by visuals showing an abnormally cute baby’s whose cheeks would be rubbed against the freshly shaven. It must be pretty traumatic for the kid to be used as some kind of smoothness gauge. I can imagine him growing up and going on a murderous rampage because of that trauma. His weapon of choice would of course be the razors, which by this time would have forty six blades. And they no longer would be called razors, but would be called shaving systems, because that makes them more impressive. I know I’m impressed. I truly am.

And as the French say...

...Adios.

I had nearly forgotten this. :D

Not creative enough to come up with a title...

Scott Mccloud has this concept called the twenty-four hour comic. You’re supposed to pencil, ink and letter a twenty-four-page comic, each page having nine panels, in twenty-four hours. You are allowed to think about the story before actually drawing the comic, but actually putting it down on paper has to take place in one contiguous twenty-four hour window.

I would do this, except I’m not in the least bit creative and I cannot draw for nuts.

Just to clarify, I cannot drink draw for any amount greater than nuts.(Freudian slip there, the effects of prolonged sobriety).

And on a different track, what’s the deal with women and pottery? Here in town there’s an establishment going by the ambiguous name “Paint Your Own Pottery Studio”. What is the ambiguity you ask? Well, because of the lack of hyphenation it could either be a studio where you bring your pottery to paint, or it could a place where you can paint your own pottery studio. I suspect it is the former, because pottery studios are a bit unwieldy and lugging them downtown to be painted can be hard work.

Well whatever their business model, people whom I have posed this question to on occasion (every time we’ve passed it on our way to lunch) have asked me to shut the fuck up and leave them in peace.(Ah the simple pleasures of life…Painting the pottery studio $20, Lunch $4, Exasperating people to the point of sparking a murderous frenzy…priceless) .

After that digression let me guide you back, o gentle reader, to the matter at hand wiz what’s the deal with women and pottery? What is this all-consuming urge to create pottery and then paint it? Is it some deep-seated evolutionary imperative? Did cave-women hunt down prehistoric pottery on the plains of Africa and then paint it, while the male primate pondered deep questions (Is it Paint “Your Own Pottery” Studio or is it Paint “Your Own Pottery Studio”? And Great Taste or Less Filling?). Whatever the case may be, let me make it clear that I have not the least intention to ever paint pottery. I do not feel the lack of a pottery-painting outlet in my life. There isn’t a part of my soul that screams out aloud to paint pottery and end the misery. I can say without a shade of doubt that when I die, and I look back upon my life (Yes there’s a contradiction there. Deal with it.) I will not feel regret that ne’er was there was a pot that I did paint.

(And with props to the Daily Show) Please stop interviewing the Jackson trial jurors and analyzing the trial and discussing the freak. Please. The first couple of hours were excusable but now I’d really like to see the news. Please. Really. I’ll paint a pottery studio if you stop. Honest.

Withdrawal symptoms...

..can be painful.

And take a look at VGCats take on Episode 3. Yes I do know that the link does not belong in this post. Let it go.

Evil...

Chocolate cake and coffee ice cream.

Nothing profound to see here. Move on.

The only thing that's...

…worse than not being able to put your contact lenses on...is not being able to remove them.

Words of wisdom, courtesy yours truly.

More words of wisdom.

Not really, just a long extended rant.

Why are most advertisements so goddamn stupid? Why is it, that an advertisement for razor blades shows titanium blades cutting a car in half? I can assure you that I will not use anything on my face that could conceivably rip through metal.

And while we are on the subject of advertisements, why does McDonalds have cartoons pimping their new products? It is my personal belief that the actors they hired to be in the ad, had coronaries when they saw one of the grease burgers.

Infomercials. Please for the love of all that is good, hire somebody, anybody, to do your voiceover, who does not sound like a two bit crook trying to sell me shares in Enron. Try Kermit, Jabba or the lead singer of the Beegees .The sound of that voice telling me to call 1800-SCAM-ME-NOW makes me want to buy a gun (which is illegal for me) and stay up at night guarding my wallet.

Movie Trailers. DO NOT SHOW ME ANY MORE EXPLOSIONS. I get it. You can blow stuff up. Stuff includes cars, trucks, buildings, birthday cakes, bridges, and vacuum cleaners. Let me share a secret with you, the quality and the quanitity of your explosions does not sway me. They mostly serve to annoy me. Next time do not waste money on the explosions. Take a page out of that Batman series and flash the word “BOOM” on the screen. Take a few liberties with the word. Color it green or pink or fuschia. Change the font. Try Arial or Times New Roman. Use punctuation or italicize it. Surprise me. Add a disclaimer if you want to. Frame it something like this ”We could have blown stuff up (Stuff includes cars, trucks, buildings, birthday cakes, bridges, and vacuum cleaners.), but we didn’t feel like wasting time, money and explosives. Deal with it”. I assure you that the audience will approve of your candour. If you really feel like you have to blow stuff up, go ahead and show me a firecracker exploding. Try to pass it off as an experiment in minimalism. We will go along with the charade.

Alcohol commercials. Um…nothing wrong there. Gorgeous women wearing very few clothes getting drunk…always good.

Television Serials. There is no such thing as a “Must see” episode. There are “Might be interesting to watch” episodes, “Nothing out of ordinary” episodes, and “Totally Sucky” episodes. The “Must Have” operation exists, as does the “Must Attend” meeting. The “Must See Episode”, no, not so much.

Shampoo ads. That hair waving across the screen like a pack of anorexic octopi in a mating frenzy freaks me out. Please cease right now. (Disclaimer: I have no idea what the collective for octopuses is. It could be a pack, a village, a bakers dozen or a bunch. If you figure it out, gentle reader, let me know.) Let me explain that line about the anorexic octopi. Anorexic octopi, which means small bodies and prominent tentacles ala hair. Aw screw it...I’m keeping that line. Imagine it as you will.

And automobile commercials. Well considering my past record, I should probably shut up but I’m on a roll. If I ever see anyone with a broad smile on his or her face jumping in through the window of their intermediate, economy car I will buy your car. No questions asked. I won’t give a damn whether it gives me a half-mile to the gallon, or whether it can be driven only on days which have the letters ‘B’ and ‘∆’ in them. However if they do jump in through the window they should not impale themselves on the gear stick.

House-bloody-hold cleaning-bloody-products. No one smiles when they clean the toilet bowl or scrub behind the throne. Trust me, I speak from painful experience. Even if I was masochistic enough to enjoy the act, the fumes from your odious chemicals ensure that my nostrils feel like a meteor ripped through them. A particularly jagged meteor with rusty nails sticking out of it. Your attitude in these commercials only ensures that one day your executives will one day be found dead in their offices with a plunger boldly shoved up where no plunger has been shoved up before.

Cell phones. No they do not make you sexy. It can have a screen that can show movies (with explosions) and have the ability to control weather satellites and translate from English to Klingon. It could double as a foldable bed and be smaller than your average bear. It could be all these things and more, but it will not make you any sexier. Again I speak from painful personal experience.

I’m about done.

Sing GNR’s “Welcome to the jungle” but sing it as Sinatra would. Croon it. Enunciate every word clearly and feel better about it.

Finally, I have been invited to godhood in Singularism. I have regretfully had to decline. The reason is that I am an atheist. So if I were a God and an atheist I would have to believe that I do not exist. So I would either cease to exist or I would get a really bad headache. Neither sounds very appealing. So I shall stay mortal.

Finis.

Inder just informed me...

...that he was visitor 666 to the blog. I find that unusually apt, in light of the fact that he seems to have single handedly crushed one of Singularism's deities. Aroo Aroo, much howling and gnashing of teeth.

I gotta get me one of these...

Clicky clicky. If you didn't get it, I'm not going to bother to explain.

And GRRM is finally done with book four of his series A Song of Ice and Fire. However, since A Feast for Crows was apparently too long it has been split into two books, the other being A Dance with Dragons. The author says that the books will be complete in themselves, in that each book will cover different story arcs. However, this means that the two characters I like the most will probably be shipped off to the second book.

Well, I guess I'll just have to keep waiting.

Edited: Cause my dog ate the URL.