Time for generic and aimless ranting! Woof, I'm sure everybody (Read: nobody) looks forwards to this from me.
First, because the newspaper is sitting here under my elbow, and the thought just struck me . . . Okay, there's an advertisement for laser hair removal in the bottom riht of the page of the Dave Barry column I just read. In the middle of this ad, there's printed the words "Gift Certificate Available" on white against a little black circle. How frickin' insulting would be it be to hand that prize of a gift over to whatever friend, family member, or loved one you've decided is too much of a nuisance with his or her hair in weird places like the chest and legs, somewhere every human being on the face of the planet grows it? "Here, grandma, I noticed you've been growing a healthy, unsightly moustache as you slowly creep towards the dark days of senility and being spoon-fed Jello and mushed carrots, so how about a trip to the happy-happy land of magical hair-no-more, complete with a pretty light show!" Yeah, I'm sure your girlfriend will be so pleased to receive this welcome implication that the patch of curly underarm fuzz just has to go in order for you to continue being attracted to her, despite any such instances of love or COMPASSION that would directly urge you to buy anything BUT a gift certificate for HAIR REMOVAL as a way to celebrate a six-month anniversary. Maybe, just maybe, couples who have been married for twenty-five years are comfortable enough with each other to purchase a trip to the bikini-wax-deluxe-o-matic shop as a way of saying thanks for all the blowjobs, but who else is going to buy a gift certificate to have neck hair SOLDERED off by a death ray for their significant other, a lovely little bonus to tuck into the folds of that cute, warm and fuzzy Hallmark card portraying a Scottish Terrier and the caption, "Here, see this dog? He's got LESS HAIR THAN YOU DO, bitch!" Sure, as a bearded, card-carrying member of the Testosterone-Possessing Society of Earth, or M.E.N., I appreciate the discounts I get on shaving cream and disposable, Bic razors (Not just makers of ink pens, but another keen source of hair removal that doesn't involve MELTING YOUR FACE!); however, honestly, I have never said to myself, "Gee, man, I hate shaving my neck every other day of my life so much I am going to pay money to have trained professionals aim concentrated death at the underside of my chin, and what would be even better would be my mother giving me a certified gift certificate to do so for Christmas, instead of something useful like a Playstation 2 or a newer motherboard and processor to slap in place of this Pentium II that's suffocating to death because my internet connection moves faster." Really, who is so pissed off at nature that they're going to use the latest wave in technology for the sole purpose of murdering the tiny little souls of each and every follicle of hair on your face as revenge for being called "Mr. Hairy McFuzzball, Jr." in junior high school? Is there a cult out there, somewhere, dedicated to the eradication of tiny hairs peeking over the bikini bottoms of women everywhere? Who trains a doctor to operate a multi-million dollar laser machine for the most effective shave-job a man or woman could ever receive? Who first thought up this idea, was some scientist fiddling around with a laser, and after melting a 50-foot thick slab of titanium-alloy-coated steel-laced-iron, gets the geniun brainstorm of aiming the same device at someone's pelvic area in order to delicately erase the very memory of pubic hair existing there? These are questions worthy of answers, damn it! And I want them NOW!
Alright, boys and girls, wasn't that fun? Now that I've spent way too much time in my life pondering the intricacies of laser hair removal, let's all take a deep breath. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . *inhale* One . . . Two . . . Three . . . *exhale* Repeat until near-unconsciousness or hallucinations of George W. Bush dressed in spandex as Captain Democracy flash before your eyes. Everyone calm? Settled down? Relaxed? Good . . . Good . . .
JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH AND RALPH WIGGIM, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? IS IT THAT HARD TO OBEY THE PRAGMATIC AND COMMON SENSICAL LAWS OF THE WORLD? AAAAHHHHH! MY EYE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY EYE?!
There is a limitation on the speed by which we drive transportation vehicles for good reason! You're already propelling two tonnes of steel, fiberglass, plastic, and glass forward at enough of a velocity to decimate any human body upon impact at forty miles per hour, but you choose to kick it up a notch to fifty-five. Thank you, Emeril frickin' Lagasse, I was worried that if you did smack into my back bumper, you might have only left a dent; I want to be positive that a collision with your car would result in massive death and destruction. Do you know why police officers pull you over when you're driving fucking fast, to put it in the proper legislative terms. (Seriously, I'd love to see it read, printed in boldfaced lettering, across every speeding ticket ever written: TOO FUCKING FAST, JACKASS.)
There seems to be this mentality among the human race that the world owes them to ability to be able to do whatever they want, go anywhere they want, and do it as fast as they want.
To be continued, at a later date . . .
Adios, hasta luego.
First, because the newspaper is sitting here under my elbow, and the thought just struck me . . . Okay, there's an advertisement for laser hair removal in the bottom riht of the page of the Dave Barry column I just read. In the middle of this ad, there's printed the words "Gift Certificate Available" on white against a little black circle. How frickin' insulting would be it be to hand that prize of a gift over to whatever friend, family member, or loved one you've decided is too much of a nuisance with his or her hair in weird places like the chest and legs, somewhere every human being on the face of the planet grows it? "Here, grandma, I noticed you've been growing a healthy, unsightly moustache as you slowly creep towards the dark days of senility and being spoon-fed Jello and mushed carrots, so how about a trip to the happy-happy land of magical hair-no-more, complete with a pretty light show!" Yeah, I'm sure your girlfriend will be so pleased to receive this welcome implication that the patch of curly underarm fuzz just has to go in order for you to continue being attracted to her, despite any such instances of love or COMPASSION that would directly urge you to buy anything BUT a gift certificate for HAIR REMOVAL as a way to celebrate a six-month anniversary. Maybe, just maybe, couples who have been married for twenty-five years are comfortable enough with each other to purchase a trip to the bikini-wax-deluxe-o-matic shop as a way of saying thanks for all the blowjobs, but who else is going to buy a gift certificate to have neck hair SOLDERED off by a death ray for their significant other, a lovely little bonus to tuck into the folds of that cute, warm and fuzzy Hallmark card portraying a Scottish Terrier and the caption, "Here, see this dog? He's got LESS HAIR THAN YOU DO, bitch!" Sure, as a bearded, card-carrying member of the Testosterone-Possessing Society of Earth, or M.E.N., I appreciate the discounts I get on shaving cream and disposable, Bic razors (Not just makers of ink pens, but another keen source of hair removal that doesn't involve MELTING YOUR FACE!); however, honestly, I have never said to myself, "Gee, man, I hate shaving my neck every other day of my life so much I am going to pay money to have trained professionals aim concentrated death at the underside of my chin, and what would be even better would be my mother giving me a certified gift certificate to do so for Christmas, instead of something useful like a Playstation 2 or a newer motherboard and processor to slap in place of this Pentium II that's suffocating to death because my internet connection moves faster." Really, who is so pissed off at nature that they're going to use the latest wave in technology for the sole purpose of murdering the tiny little souls of each and every follicle of hair on your face as revenge for being called "Mr. Hairy McFuzzball, Jr." in junior high school? Is there a cult out there, somewhere, dedicated to the eradication of tiny hairs peeking over the bikini bottoms of women everywhere? Who trains a doctor to operate a multi-million dollar laser machine for the most effective shave-job a man or woman could ever receive? Who first thought up this idea, was some scientist fiddling around with a laser, and after melting a 50-foot thick slab of titanium-alloy-coated steel-laced-iron, gets the geniun brainstorm of aiming the same device at someone's pelvic area in order to delicately erase the very memory of pubic hair existing there? These are questions worthy of answers, damn it! And I want them NOW!
Alright, boys and girls, wasn't that fun? Now that I've spent way too much time in my life pondering the intricacies of laser hair removal, let's all take a deep breath. One . . . Two . . . Three . . . *inhale* One . . . Two . . . Three . . . *exhale* Repeat until near-unconsciousness or hallucinations of George W. Bush dressed in spandex as Captain Democracy flash before your eyes. Everyone calm? Settled down? Relaxed? Good . . . Good . . .
JESUS, MARY, JOSEPH AND RALPH WIGGIM, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? IS IT THAT HARD TO OBEY THE PRAGMATIC AND COMMON SENSICAL LAWS OF THE WORLD? AAAAHHHHH! MY EYE, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY EYE?!
There is a limitation on the speed by which we drive transportation vehicles for good reason! You're already propelling two tonnes of steel, fiberglass, plastic, and glass forward at enough of a velocity to decimate any human body upon impact at forty miles per hour, but you choose to kick it up a notch to fifty-five. Thank you, Emeril frickin' Lagasse, I was worried that if you did smack into my back bumper, you might have only left a dent; I want to be positive that a collision with your car would result in massive death and destruction. Do you know why police officers pull you over when you're driving fucking fast, to put it in the proper legislative terms. (Seriously, I'd love to see it read, printed in boldfaced lettering, across every speeding ticket ever written: TOO FUCKING FAST, JACKASS.)
There seems to be this mentality among the human race that the world owes them to ability to be able to do whatever they want, go anywhere they want, and do it as fast as they want.
To be continued, at a later date . . .
Adios, hasta luego.
posted by c.Jay Wrong at
1:18 AM
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