Posts filed under ‘Humor – Commentary’
Charmin’ Ad
As part of my ongoing fascination with how truly bizarre, borderline gross, and 7th-grade funny Charmin’s marketing is, here is an ad that appeared in the margin of facebook today.
At least they’re not asking customers to share photos. Yet.
Dish Washer
Recently, I noticed a certain deterioration in the performance of the dishwasher. One by one, the buttons stopped working. “Pots and pans” died. “Heavy wash” died. “Normal wash” died. I was down to “Light wash.”
I had a repairman take a look. Prognosis: A new electronic pad unit thingamabob, $200 for the part, yada-yada, and I decided—with a surge of energetic, disciplined vim that I, whose ancestors crossed the ocean on a boat . . . that I, who have camped in the wilderness and washed my mess kit in a stream . . . that I, who generally only have dishes for one—could certainly live without a dishwasher for a while.
And so, my friends, I washed dishes by hand. And, you know what? It was soothing. It was a sort of Zen thing. It made me wax philosophical about this rush-rush-rush world we live in.
The next day, I decided that the “Light wash” cycle was, you know, probably fine really, and, while loading up the dishwasher, I noticed this plastic rectangular bit (inside the door, opposite the not-working buttons) that looked as if it would pop right out. And it would. And I did.
Journey to Stupidville. Step 1.
Then, I noticed the screws around the edge of the inside door. I’d turn back if I were you!
With the door taken apart, I came upon this bit of bulky black plastic (with electrocution warnings) that also looked as if it would pop right off. And it would. And I did.
(Yes, I turned the power off first.)
And then, as I realized, sigh and rats, that I couldn’t access the buttons anyway, I decided to put it all back together again. And that was when the entire top third of the inner door fell out of the doorframe.
Ah. Yes. Hmmmm.
I attempted to put it back together for quite some time while staving off a wave of fear, panic, and completely unjustified astonishment. No go.
I did indeed consider picking up the phone to call the repairman or my Dad. But, the Unsinkable Molly Brown Maniac in my head suggested I try again.
After another hour or so of fumbling, straining, cussing, and wishing for a third hand to reach the screwdriver . . . it was, suddenly, somehow, some it-can’t-be-right way back together. I tightened the screws. I pushed the “Pots and pans” button. (Nothing.) “Heavy wash.” (Nothing.) “Normal wash.” (Nothing.) “Light wash.” (Ah, the little green light comes on, water begins to run.) I stood watch, truly fascinated at the lack of leaks and/or explosions. I shook my head at my wasted efforts but breathed a sigh, saluted the Gods of Dumb Luck (who prefer offerings of icy cold beer), and promised myself to call the repairman very soon.
So.
Last night, I loaded up the dishwasher, and pushed a button—in the way I have been doing since it started to stop working, pressing each button in a row until I get to one that works. I hit the “Pots and pans” button, and, as I slid my finger to the “Heavy wash” button, um, Hel-lo. The little green light under “Pots and pans” is on?! and the water is running?! The dishwasher had started up! On “Pots and pans”! It also started on “Heavy wash” and “Normal wash.” Every. Single. Button. Is. Working. Now.
Awesome! Amazing! Freakin’ sweet! Mwa-ha-ha! Mwa-ha-ha, in your face dishwasher. I won! I won! I won! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! I WON!
Hooray!
{On the other hand, I can’t help thinking this is positive reinforcement of the very worst kind.}
One Side of a Telephone Conversation
Hello? Spring?
Yeah. What’s going on? Where are you? You said you’d be back. We had plans.
Really? Well, I saw a robin yesterday. It tried to alight on a tree limb—which was covered in snow—and then it tried to alight on the ground beneath the tree—which was covered in snow—and then it sort of skittered onto the parking lot, bewilderedly chirping.
Well, I don’t speak bird, but I’m pretty sure it was “WTF.”
Yeah. The robins are here. Yes, they are.
Seriously? You’ve had 9 months’ vacation. Guess what, the rest of humanity gets 2-3 weeks. So spare me.
The time change? The time change! Don’t make me laugh. We’re all a little messed up from the time change, but it’s been over a week now. And you’re in Hawaii, where there is no time change.
You think I’m dumb?
Excuse me? Chill out, my furry butt! We’re all CHILL. Oh we’re very chill all right.
Do I? Do I sound stressed? Yeah? Yeah, well, the fear of imminent death is a tad stressful.
Dramatic? Have you checked facebook lately? Do you have any idea what I’m going through here? Well, maybe it’s time you think about someone else besides yourself. Maybe it’s time you think about me, your cousin Phil, the good ol’ ground hog who’s back here trying to cover for you.
Yeah. You said you’d be back early. Yeah, I told everybody.
They want to kill me.
I look like an ass.
Yeah, well, either you put down the mai tai, say good-bye to your cabana boy, and get your butt back on a plane to Pennsylvania. Or. I’ll tell Mother.
You wanna bet on that? Try to remember what she’s been like over the past year.
Okay, this weekend? You promise? You better.
Bye.
The 40-day Resolution
Over the past couple of days, I’ve been thinking about what my resolution should be for 2013. There is a long list of potentials.
I want to lose weight, eat healthy, exercise more. I could commit to changing bad habits, to being kinder, to swearing less while driving. I could make a firm commitment to clean the litter box every day or to never leave dirty dishes in the sink or to stop leaving clothes in the dryer until they’re so wrinkled I have to re-wash them. I could promise to talk to a tree guy about the once-weeds-soon-to-be-trees growing under my porch. I could return the busted comcast console that’s been boxed up and sitting in my basement for over a year. I could vow to write to my out-of-town nephews more often. I could say I’m going to wash my car once a week and clean out the papers, scarves, shoes, litter, water bottles, and who-knows-what-else on a more frequent basis so that there doesn’t appear to be a homeless person wintering in my back seat. I could start that novel. Or, at least, try to find a way to get all of the poems and short stories I’ve written off of two broken laptops, the old tower, and the stack of floppy disks. I should get my inbox back to zero (or, at least, lower than 1400 unread). I really should play the piano more often, and I want to learn to play my grandfather’s accordion. I could make a resolution to do more pro bono freelance jobs or hands-on volunteer work. I’d like to find a job that helps make the world a better place but still pays the bills. I could promise myself to be less shy, more hopeful, and at least make some attempt to assist the universe in bringing true love into my life. I could promise myself to cook a real dinner more often. I could stop cutting my own bangs. I could get organized. I really need to paint (walls, not canvases). I could promise to start doing one of those brain games that helps you improve your memory, so then I could promise not to forget stuff so much. I could resolve to get new glasses or go to the dentist. I could commit to cleaning out the garage and basement and sorting through the junk and making an overdue trip to Goodwill.
Yep. There are a lot of things I could focus on that would make for an acceptable, sensible resolution. Things to help make me a happier person or a more valuable member of society. A better friend, a better daughter, a better sibling, a better neighbor.
But, as things go quiet, with the hub-bubious distractions of the holiday season behind me, the goal has become obvious. Like a deer facing headlights on a dark and stormy night, like a track-tied damsel spotting the oncoming train, I see it clearly. I have 40 days. And there is but one resolution I can make.
I hereby resolve to do everything in my power to avoid a complete and utter, bug-eyed, jaw-dropped, screaming banshee, Don-Knottian, Daffy-Duckian, Thelma-and-Louisian, all-out-batshit-freakout when I turn 50.
Ring a Ding Ding
Last week, due to a rattle in the car engine of my Sebring, I took it to the mechanic. He wasn’t 100% sure what the problem was but suspected the alternator. After doing some checking, he had discovered that Chrysler had seen a similar problem in their mini-vans, and the Sebring has the same alternator/same design as the Chrysler mini-van.
With fingers crossed a bit, we decided to replace the alternator.
And, so, with an appointment for this coming Friday and the car deemed likely drive-able, I began my Monday morning commute. November in Pittsburgh and it’s blue sky-sunshine gorgeous. I was clean, dressed, and on time. Traffic was light, and I had just emerged from the g.d.-stop-start-I-hate-to-drive part of my commute into the easy-breezy-I-love-to-drive part of my commute. I relaxed, I accelerated.
And it all went bat shit.
Every light on the dash came on and a bell ding-dinged, and the speedometer started bouncing like a windshield wiper. Then the speedometer flapped to zero and every light on the dash went out and the car lurched. And my heart flew up and over the first hill of a very high roller coaster.
Eyes darting for a place to pull over, brain squealing There’s no place to pull over!, it registered: I’m still moving. I, uh, didn’t stall. Speedometer’s on zero and the dash lights are all out, but I’m moving.
And so I drove. And it settled down. The dash lights came back on. The speedometer bounced back up and stayed there.
Yes, truly, I did consider pulling over and perhaps I should have. But I was running pretty smooth. And it isn’t easy to pull over on the highway. And I was only about 20 minutes from the mechanic’s. And, if it was the alternator, I’d likely be okay if I kept her moving. And so I drove. And it happened again. Ding! Ding! Ding! Speedometer bouncing. Lights out. Car lurch. Roller coaster without the wheeeeee!
And again. And again. And again. I lost count after 20. But, hand hovering over the hazard light button, constantly on the lookout for a spot to pull over, I drove. And, each ding-ding-bounce-lurch-crap!, I was one more minute, one more mile, one more “I might make it” closer to the mechanic’s driveway. Murmuring sweet encouragement to the car, I drove. Trusting to the guardian angel clip from my Aunt Theresa, I drove. Off-the-exit, almost-there, c’mon-baby-c’mon-baby-c’mon you beautiful beautiful ba-by . . .
I made it.
Involuntarily quivering from neck to knees, fighting off the oh-no-girl-don’t-you-dare wet-blinkies, I looked at the mechanic, exhaled, laughed, and said, “It’s been a wild ride. I’m leaving her here.”
Now, the silver lining of this tale is that the lights-ding-bounce-lurch craziness confirmed for him that it was indeed an alternator problem. And he told me again about the Chrysler mini-vans, rolling his eyes, he said, “They tell me there’s no issue with the Sebring, but the Chrysler mini-van has this issue, and the Chrysler mini-van has the same alternator design as the Sebring . . . ”
So, it’s fixable. And the very nearby Enterprise Rent-a-Car, despite it being Monday, their busiest day, does have a vehicle left for me to rent. My adrenalin shifts into neutral as the nice Enterprise lady grabs a clipboard, comes around the counter, and says, “It’s right out front!”
And indeed it was. There, ready to roll, recently washed, engine running, sat my rent-a-car: a Chrysler mini-van.
Inspection 2012
The First Call
My tires would pass inspection but are looking a bit worn headed into winter. This was not unexpected. I say, Okay; get some good ones. I put in a minimum of 50 miles a day commuting; I live on steep hills for some tough winter driving; I don’t skimp on tires.
The Second Call
The I-don’t-remember-what-they’re-called gadgets that indicate tire pressure and trigger a little dashboard light if it’s less/more than 32 psi are busted. All four of them—busted after less than 4 years of use.
Oh, I remember what they’re called! Badly Engineered Bits of Crap. (Good on ya, Chrysler.)
He wants to know if I want him to replace them. I’m thinking, meh, might as well. I’m thinking, it’s a nice little perk for a busy commuter. I’m thinking, how much can these bits of crap cost? And I ask. And he says, $165.
Uh.
Each.
Each!? To have a little light come on to tell me that my tire pressure is a tad off is going to cost more than I’ll be paying for four good, brand-new tires? More than my next three car payments combined? More than 165 gallons of gas? More than a year’s supply of beer? More than a plane ticket to the beach?
When I stopped laughing I said, No thanks.
And he explained that the normal repair kit won’t work in my car; my car requires factory replacements, yada something yada, which is why it’s so expensive. And I agreed it was indeed expensive, and said, rhetorically, And what happens if I don’t have them?
And he, taking me literally, explains that I’ll never know if I have a flat.
hee hee!
I say, Well, I’ve been driving for more than 30 years without a little light to tell me to check my tire pressure; I think I’ll be all right.
Then he wants to know if I’ll sue him if I have a blow out.
Sigh. I’m not sure which is the worse portent: A society that places such value on cheap complicated crap that will do something that you could easily do yourself or one that employs lawyers more often than common sense. But—you can all be witnesses—I’m not going to sue this guy because he didn’t replace the BEBC (Badly Engineered Bits of Crap), aka TPMS (Tire Pressure Monitoring System).
The Third Call
It’s time to pick up my car.
I’m minus a dashboard indicator light, but the Sebring still has some other free and very useful gadgets to handle tire pressure: my eyes, my ears, my brain, and a tire gauge in the glove box.
My Recommendations for NBC
NBC’s coverage of the 2012 Olympics continues to get very low marks among social media, water cooler conversation, and people yelling at TV sets. They’ve even earned their own hashtag, #NBCFail, on Twitter.
NBC’s Vivian Schiller, fancy pants Chief Digital Officer, shrugs and calls it whining and points to good ratings. Which is kind of like saying people love rush hour traffic because they sit in it every day. Yep, we’re stuck with NBC’s coverage, so I’m watching it. But I have some recommendations:
1. Smaller blocks of programming more conducive to DVRing limits, provide an accurate guide to event coverage, and wrap-up the day before midnight.
2. All sportscasters should be forced to watch the events live and report on what they see happening. It should be illegal to dub in new (scripted) commentary post-event/pre-broadcast.
3. Sport is drama. Just let it unfold. Even if the Americans aren’t the winners.
4. All swimmers of every Nation outfitted with NERF Super Soaker Hydro Cannons; allowed to blast Andrea Kremer at will every time she tries to ask an answer instead of a question.
5. Can we go back to amateur status athletes?
6. Well, all right. Can we at least send basketball back to the NBA?
7. Vault replaced with Elfi Schlegel; pommel horse replaced with Tim Daggett.
8. Back the heck up. I don’t need to glimpse a person’s optic nerve to imagine what he or she might be feeling during a National Anthem.
9. Ban the phrase “I’ve been working for this my whole life” for anyone under the age of 30.
10. Move all features and promos to Entertainment Tonight or Hallmark Channel. But please do show live coverage of Bob Costas being removed from set to be kept from Olympic coverage until he:
– Studies Geography.
– Cultivates good manners.
– Stops using Botox.
– Agrees to send Matt Lauer to Madagascar.
As I end my broadcast day, for your listening pleasure, some pre-recorded audio (that I have rescripted) from the Aquatic Centre:
“Hey Michael Phelps, will you predict for us that you’re going to win everything? No? Well, hmph, I guess you don’t care about swimming anymore! Hey everybody, Michael sucks! He’s old. He’s done. heehee! Hey, let’s follow this Lochte guy cause ‘it’s his time!’and he made a lot of money doing a commercial for NBC that claims winning at the Olympics can’t be bought. Oh dang, he’s proved it. (And he’s kind of a knuckle dragger in an interview.) Crap! Michael is doing well again! Quick, let’s all run back and see if he will let us lick his feet and purr in his ear and do a retrospective on his most eminent greatness-of-all-time-ness. ‘Hey Michael Phelps, over here! I’m the one who said you’d be the greatest ever while broadcasting your first swimming competition as a sperm.’”
An Unlikely Post
Dear FTD,
Bully for you for striving! And I’m so glad that you are in the process of making changes to improve your service. Maybe in another 100 years you’ll sort out some of the more complicated details of balloon delivery.
What a load of tepid corporate drivel. Here are my suggestions for what would have been a better response:
1. How about a refund?
2. I’m not even talking full refund. How about a refund of the service charge for the butt-scratching knuckle dragger who didn’t manage to deliver the balloons until late afternoon and did not even bother trying to locate the person they were sent to?
3. Dear “floral industry leader” — would it have killed you to send me . . . oh, I dunno, how about . . . a nice big “We’re Sorry” bouquet?
4. A small, cheap vase of carnations and baby’s breath?
5. The photograph of flowers is very nice but it just makes me feel as if I deserve pink roses. And a better apology.
6. A coupon? Even a crappy 10% off my next order? I probably wouldn’t have used it. It probably would have expired a year from now crumpled up in the bottom of my purse. But it would have been nice. (And you would have stayed off my Schmidt List.)
7. While apologizing, might I suggest you skip the request for my permission to send me more junk email?
8. Spare me the passive-aggressive self-promotion. Don’t tell me you’re sorry I’m disappointed. Tell me you’re sorry that you screwed up.
9. Nothing. Doing nothing would have been better than sending me the politically correct corporate equivalent of an “up yours!”
10. Baldassaro? Really? (tee hee)
Okay, I now need to go unsubscribe from their exclusive offers and updates.
Hey Now
Running multiple errands on my lunch hour, I found myself backing out of a parking space in a mall parking lot designed by a schizophrenic whose every personality is a sadist, from in-between two SUVs that hadn’t been there when I first parked, into a thruway of moderately heavy car and pedestrian traffic. I was going slowly, inching out, and finally got a break.
Let me note here that there was a crosswalk about 6 spaces down, i.e., nowhere near my car but not so very far for a healthy adult to walk to. Let me also note that I had already paused for about 12 cars and at least as many J-walking (J is for jagoff) pedestrians during my inching out until one kind motorist (who may or may not have been more focused on the space I was vacating than on a random act of kindness but still) stopped and waved me out. I checked all angles, sides, etc., and eased back. As I stopped, still a bit more vertical than horizontal due to the length of the SUVs blocking my turning radius, to put the car into drive, some lady steps blatantly off the sidewalk at my rear-right fender (i.e., nowhere near aforementioned crosswalk) and walks directly toward the back of my car without varying her steps an inch, without hurrying, without pausing, without glancing in any direction. She did not veer from her path. She walked slowly. She walked haughtily. She did not even glance at me or perform any nod or wave or twitch that could maybe-possibly be interpreted as a thank-you or pardon me sort of gesture. She sauntered (Sauntered!) past my passenger window with about 3 millimeters to spare.
She was young enough to move faster. I’d say 30s. Heavy, overdone makeup. Overly styled hair. Clothes that screamed “the latest fashion” too loudly to be fashionable.
She was obviously someone VERY important.
The kindly driver had remained amazingly patient, along with about 10 other cars lined up behind him at this point and another 5 or 6 now coming in the other direction, and I was able to complete my back-up and drive on to my next stop, to pick up lunch at the Giant Eagle at the far end of the same mall.
As I drove, I marveled at the adult-sized morons bursting out of doorways, right off sidewalks, into traffic, talking on cell phones or blue tooth gadgets, texting, trailing children, and waddling like blind ducks with vertigo and I marveled that the news reports so few pedestrian injuries
I parked again and made my way to a crosswalk. I stopped. A car was coming and it did not appear to be slowing down for the cross-walk. I made one of those mostly shoulder, fake steps, to make sure she saw me there, in the crosswalk. And she did, a bit suddenly, come to a stop. She saw me.
And, oh, I saw her.
It was the Sauntering Lady of Great Importance!
Nice.
I. me. thod. i. call. y. stepped. for.ward. mov. ing. through. the. cross. walk. step. by. step. star. ing. at. the. ground. and. mov. ing. so. slow. ly. that. it. was. hard. so. hard. to. keep. a. straight. face. step. by. step. try. ing. not. to. look. up. or. gig. gle.
And you know how it is when you’re trying not to smile. As soon as I stepped out of the crosswalk and through the doors of Giant Eagle, my oh-sweet-goody bit o’ secret revenge popped out into an eye-sparkling grin just as I lifted up my eyes into a direct line of sight with a good-looking delivery man who stopped his cart, took a Kramerly pose, smiled broadly back, and said, “Hey now! How are you doin’ today?”
Indeed. I’m doin’ fine.
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Another Creepy Facebook Ad
1. I am not signed up for truelove2013.com. Although I must admit I’m curious: What happens in 2014?
2. I find the wording hilarious, especially given the photo of this man in a vehicle. Um, should I be checking the rearview mirror while running errands today?
3. btw, this isn’t (according to facebook) the only handsome, eligible guy in my vicinity who is aware of me and wants to date me. Yeahhhhh, that sounds about right. Boys lining up. Always makes it so hard to back the car out of the garage.
4. So, is facebook doing this with my photo? Are there strange men across the world (or “nearby”!) who are seeing my photo and being told I want to date them? If so, how do they select the photo? Imagine if they pulled this one from my facebook profile:
So, dear facebook (and other) friends, a request: If you see one of these fellows following me around, please alert me and protect me.
But, you know, don’t scare him off.
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July 10, 2013 at 1:03 pm 1 comment