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Man, did I do absolutely jack squat with my blog over the holidays. I mean my lazy ass couldn’t even be bothered to write a “Happy Holidays” message.
And that’s a total mail-in post.
Well folks, not a whole lot more effort getting put into this post. But I will try to make it worth your while.
So, I’m driving to work over the holidays – you know, one of those stratospheric productivity days like the day after Christmas (or “Critma,” as it is known in my household), and I get behind your standard boxy delivery truck. I took particularly good note of the truck because it was one of the nine cars I saw on the road during my hour commute to work (albeit not such good note that I could tell you what it was delivering).
Perhaps the company needs to turn up their marketing efforts…say to 11?
Anywho, what I did notice was the friendly inquiry on the back of the truck:
“Hows my driving? Call 1-800-who-gives-a-poopy.”
Really? Really? Are you sure that’s the right question to pose?
Beg your pardon, sir, but I believe a better question is, “Hows my punctuation?”
I mean seriously. Just freaking GD seriously. How does that even happen? Or perhaps I should be asking, “Hows that even happen?”
Courtesy of Penny Arcade (best Web comic, bar none)
Did no one see the apostrophe was missing? Not the owner of the company? Not the company that painted it on the truck? I guess that falls into the “not my job” category of having zero pride in your workmanship (which is an entirely separate rant that I would post here, but God knows Mrs. Off The Pole could recite it for you).
Hows your driving? Better than your level of literacy, I hope. Otherwise I’d thank you kindly to steer clear of the school bus ferrying Weirdo to and fro.
Tangent: I just wanted to say “to and fro.”
This reminds me of when I was in college (go state beat the GD bulldogs mark dantonio i love you jonny spirit is a green-skinned imbecile my liver hates me). The Clark gas stations refreshed (or “reskinned,” as the hep marketers of du jour like to say) the brand. And with that reskin, every pump had the following designation painted on it:
“Pump No.#1″
Pump number number X. That’s right: Number number.
“Can I get $20 unleaded please?” (Oh, who am I kidding? This was college. That’s Natural Ice, Faygo Moon Mist and Planters Cheeseball money, friend.)
“Can I get $5 unleaded, please?”
“What pump?”
“Number number 8, please.”
I find this even more egregious than the delivery truck, because presumably there is an entire PR and marketing team, graphic designers, C-level management and perhaps a board of directors who this reskin went through before seeing the light of day (let alone the company hired to make it so). Sounds like they needed a better designer.
Tangent: “Make it so.” That’s what Jean Luc Picard used to say to Cmdr. Riker on the Enterprise, right? “Make it so, Number 1.” Good thing Clark wasn’t fueling the reactor. Otherwise Picard would have had to order Riker to “Make it so, Number Number 1.”
Whatever. I gotta go “make it so, number 2,” if you get my drift.
Happy New Year, all!
(Yes. I’m including it in this post. Too much effort to create a whole new one.)
P.S. Spell check had a godforsaken nervous breakdown editing this post. The ubiquitous anthropomorphic Microsoft paperclip became increasingly agitated as I banged the “Ignore Rule” button incessantly as all the “No.#” and “Number Number” instances popped up.
Check out the most important scientific discovery of our generation: http://richarddawkins.net/article,2761,n,n
The rest of you are all content with your opposable thumbs. How adorable.
So, I get that the allegations rendered by the Fashion Police include language and articles surrounding the legality of white pants prior to Memorial Day.
Perhaps I need counsel on retainer to help me with this, but does that mean white pants can make their debut over Memorial Day Weekend, or do the have to remain shrouded in the recesses of our repective closets until said day on remembrance?
Full disclosure, short of mocking the 80’s in full Sonny Crocket regalia, I would sooner be caught in a flowing white tafata gown than in white pants or (to be more precise) slacks. And I am certainly no stickler for rules, but I need clarification of this.
Reason being, I witnessed a brightly clad gent in lovely downtown Ann Arbor yesterday afternoon almost strutting in his white slacks, preening like the proverbial peacock.
One can envision this day or weekend boldly encircled on his calendar, a chain of pastel colored paper links dangling from a nearby hook, his bubbling anticipation perculating ever increasingly as he rips off on daily in the excrutiatingly slow slog toward the day he could produce this prized fashion possession, too long banned from the light of day in his cherry cedar armoire.
The genesis of my query is simple: do I mock him on prnciple of wearing white slacks, or can I stack on bonus riffs for defying the tennets set forth by the founding fashion fathers? A quandry indeed…
Oh how the people are regaling me with their tales of mirth