squidbag

Only the Finest Print

Today, one of my co-workers read me this disclaimer, which was printed inside of it's own bordered rectangle, on the back of his can of Mountain Dew Amp Energy Beverage:

"This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease."

Now - if you're anything like me, your experience with litigious America leads you to believe that warnings like this only appear on products after some submoron does something stupid and then sues a manufacturer or distributor with deep pockets in the hopes that millions of dollars in damages will assuage his/her general condition.  In short?  You know someone was drying their hair in the fucking bathtub and became stew before that warning appeared on hair dryers.  Someone ate the wrap on individually wrapped cheese.  Someone thought their McCoffee would be tepid, and even more people rocked the vending machine, put their hand in the gears, and thought cigarettes were good for them.  And now I am forced to conclude that somebody somewhere thought Amp was helping them with a recent illness.  I can almost hear the letter being typed on an old, damp Royal by a semi-toothless man in a stained and turgid Mackintosh living in a rundown shack near a roadside convenience store:

"Dear Amp:

I been using your elixir product there, with it's special amalgamation of herbs and stimulants, to treat my testicular swelling for nigh on six months now, and to no avail.  Indeed, my manly areas have grown prodigiously, and have kept me from gainful employment or relationships.  Please advise me with proper prescriptive instructions for your medicides, or refer me to your counseling attorneys at law, for I believe malpractice may indeed be at issue here.  At least when I received my elixirs from the horsecart men, I could address issues of boils and/or blindness when they ventured back through town - but this new arrangement requires a desperate measure on my part.  And perhaps on yours.

Sincerely,

Attaturk Jenkins,
dirt path under the I-85 overpass,
just past the Carter Store Shell station & bait shop,
Armpit, Alabama"

Of course, my theoretical redneck only addresses the "cure, prevention & treatment" part of the warning - who the fuck are these people using Amp like it's barium, to diagnose a condition?  What kind of tree stump, animal pelt, Houdoun medicine is being practiced out there?  "Oh, you got your leg all mangled.  Better take a couple of Amps and call me in the morning when it's really good and infected."

I don't drink Amp, and now I never will.  According to it's label, it doesn't do anything useful anyway.  I mean, no diagnoses?  You mean I'll keep having to use qualified health professionals for that service instead of a soft drink?  Damn.  Damn you, Amp!  Damn your sickly candyish smell and narrow can!

A Little Favor...

Those of us voting for Barack Obama for President of the United States in November would like to ask those of you voting for John McCain a little favor: If you're going to hate Barack, which, you clearly are, please hate him for something he actually is or has actually done (like voting the wrong way on FISA), as opposed to shit you just made up or - the equivalent -  heard on the Fox Wastework or right-wingnut radio and decided to believe, regardless of whether or not facts ever entered into the equation. 

For instance, all of us who worship at the Church of Facts would like it if you stopped saying Barack used to be a Muslim, since this is not true.  He wasn't raised Muslim, never was a Muslim, and does not have here in his hand, a list of purported followers of Islam.  Even the Muslims have retracted the letter they printed, which they claimed was Obama talking about Islam.  The chain emails you get that have evidence in them are full of lies, big lies, the ones the Nazis said were easiest to swallow.  The man's a Christian, if that makes you feel any better, and I'll take you one step further on that one, too.

He didn't bail on his congregation because he needed to get away from Jeremiah Wright.  Wright was already his former pastor when the shit hit the fan.  This "he quit being a Muslim, quit his Church" thing has been blown up by people into a propensity to run from organizations when they create trouble for him, leading to the natural question, "Will Barack run at the first sign of Presidential trouble?"  This question, unanswerable until the future itself unfolds, is at best speculative, since it's based on specious reasoning and assumptions drawn from non-factual data.  Specifically: He's been a committed Christian pretty much his whole life, and he left his congregation for that most predicable and age-old political reason - it simply isn't mainstream enough for a Presidential contender.

Truly, this question of "right religion, wrong religion" is a six-inch curb the human race needs to hold hands and jump together, along with any other petty, ignorant, stupid, emotion-driven hatreds we maintain over others.  Stereotypes aren't universal and so thus, cannot be relied upon.  They do not make a firm foundation for further action or decision-making, and are, thusly, crap.  Stop trying to jam square people into round holes you previously decided made sense, and judge people for the things they actually do.  It seems unfair that you would deprive people of the chance to be their own assholes, as opposed to the ones you just think they are.  So cut it out.  This will keep you writing the script, and minimizes re-writes.  Follow that?  Ha.

Additionally, it would also be great if everyone could vote for a candidate for President, and not simply vote against one of the guys running.  I'm getting really exhausted with single-issue morons who vote for Candidate B, even though they don't much like him, simply because Candidate A is pro-whatever it is they don't like.  You would have voted for Candidate A, except that some group somewhere has got you convinced that his stand on this one issue makes him non-viable as a candidate, and so you gotta throw him out.  Imagine if you picked your friends that way.  Shit - I guess some people do.  I am flawed enough that I can't imagine I have any friends who choose friends this way.  Good thing I'm not running for "friend."  This "voting against" thing is really stupid, and should be done away with as a process.  You could have a couple of guys wait outside the polls with truncheons, weeding out anyone who doesn't seem to have a concrete rationale for supporting their man.  Sounds like I'm giving up on democracy, doesn't it?  Again, ha.

So yeah, I feel like if everyone could just get on my wagon here, and following a couple of simples, it would lead to a lot more shutting the fuck up on a national level, and possibly more thinking, which, it struck me, could probably help us out a lot.

Supervillain's Birthday

Recently, to entertain ourselves in the car, Max and I threw ideas back and forth in the category of "things you would give to a supervillain for his/her birthday."  I suppose we were inspired by the recent bouts of birthday shopping we've gone on.  You have to guess which are mine and which are Max's:

1. A tall hat with a razor blade brim that can grab your head and control your brain if you're not the owner and you put it on;
2. A vial of something irradiated & potent that could make the government nervous even if you just kind of wave it around while you're talking, possibly in powdered form;
3. A microscopic animal robot that could be mailed and would jump out of an envelope upon delivery, rapidly growing and attacking;
4. "Flowers."  "Oh, come on."  "With big fangs and stalk eyes."  "Oh, okay, then."
5. Zombies, but with effective remote control attachments.  On their heads.
6. A dragon so truly huge it must live in the Atlantic Ocean, just off the coast of New York City.
7. "A Doomsday Machine."  "You think so?"  "Why not?"  "Seems to me like most of the fun is planning Doomsday.  If you had a machine that just went and did it, it would suck the fun out of the whole thing, yeah?"
8. Powder or liquid that makes you vanish into thin air.  Possibly when thrown, but also could be ingested.
9. A portal to another dimension.  That fits into a closet.  This was very important.
10. Some sort of really big tall chair, with chains and lights and skulls on it, but comfortable for sitting.

C's Birthday Weekend

In my small family, you don't just have a birthday.  Your birthday becomes an event, one which stretches on for days and involves multiple gatherings, meals, presents, and finery.  A birthday should be like an overblown outdoor music festival - several days long, involving a lot of people and drinking, and with a huge amount of prep on the one side, clean-up on the other.  C's birthfest was this weekend past, and we managed to fill the time with much love and fun and good times indeed, while also meeting most of the other criteria.

On the 4th, we ignored the holiday for most of the day.  Not because we hate freedom or are terrorists or anything - we just had shit to do all day long.  As I believe I mentioned, I did laundry for part of the day.  Towards the end, C suggested that we just throw everyone in the car - me without shoes, and the kids in their PJs, and drive down to the riverfront to watch things explode.  We did, and it was good.  After some protracted cruising adventures, we double-parked and watched from the car as the air filled with light, smoke, and noise.  It was good stuff.

EP & Diane were in town for the weekend, and the first anniversary of "the best party ever" fell while they were here, so there was a banner and a gift of paper and a quiet dinner out.  There was also Max away for an evening at his friend Cedar's house, followed by the Sunday BBQ for C's birthday, which featured tons of food and good friends, eventually hosting about 17 people.  If you didn't make it, you missed out, and we missed you.  We still have leftovers, though.

Extending into Monday, we hit Nashville sights, fought some rain, and hung out.  Diane bought a belt buckle with a bottle opener on it.  Tuesday was C's birthday actual, and there was gift opening and breakfast at the Pfunky Griddle.  Taking it easy was the name of the game, and so we cruised the city in a van borrowed from the Guys.  Thank you, the Guys.

It was a great weekend, and - I think - a good birthday.  Happy Birthday (again) Sweetheart!
 

Dangerous Curves

I saw this commercial at the laundromat last Friday morning.  I found myself standing next to an open washing machine, clothes in hand, staring up at the screen with a half-cocked grin on my face and having the slow, dawning realization that "this commercial's not targeted at women; this one's for the fellas."  I mean, yeah - everybody likes the boobage, but come on - unless you're a guy or a lesbian (no, I will not capitalize it) you're not entertained by this ad.  The whole thing is shot not just to draw attention to the women's breasts - like countless bra ads - but compels you to stare at them, focusing on the muscles beneath the breasts, and the slow, undulating motion as the woman in the ad goes through the various "double-tension" exercises or whatever they are.

It's also transparently fucking hilarious.  "Throws a curve."  Facts and "figures."  "Looked down while I was doing it."  Some generic "University Research."  You can firm up your bustline if you know which muscles govern that region and how to "reach them."  Yeah, I'll show ya how to reach 'em, sweetheart.  The obvious hand job motion of what I cannot resist referring to as a "tool."

Anyway, you have those moments in life.  You're puttering along the pop culture highway, and suddenly, one media or the other passes you in the surreal lane going at top speed and not giving a damn about what will happen when it hits something.  This time, it was the infomercial boobs that got to me.

Squidbag: The Hero

Yesterday, Max introduced me to the Create Your Own Superhero application on the Marvel Comics website, and I, in turn, showed it to C.  This proceeded to fuck up our whole family's collective ability to be productive, sucking up a couple of hours of yesterday.  I decided that having subjected you, my fair readers, to a dearth of posts over the past week or so, I would show you some of our family's efforts, and invite you to create and send me yours.

At left are Squidbag, bearded large hero of the wastelands, and possible new mascot for this blog, who looks a bit like the Hulk's uncle; Power Sword, Max's creation who fights "evil everywhere;" Kick Ass Bird Chick, my attempt at making a viable-looking Marvel Superhero; and Gaydar, C's openly gay avenger for equal rights for everyone, regardless of race, gender, or sexual orientation.

Getting The Chop

(Had I been Jesse, this would have been titled, "End of a Hair-A."  I think.)

Back in 2006, I started letting my hair grow out.  I was living in Pensacola at the time, and long hair in Pensacola is like wearing a sign around your neck - directed at a certain kind of person - that says, "Don't talk to me."  Before I moved, it got long enough for a ponytail, and I've been letting that grow since we got to Nashville so I could eventually send it to Locks of Love.

About two weeks ago, I sat down in a chair, let a woman measure a part of me, make a quick judgment, then got my hair hacked off and put in a bag.  The bag is red.  Pictured at left is the ponytail in question, scanned once before I send it away.  I can assure you that the flecks of white are not dandruff (which is what I took it for initially) but grey.  There's nothing more pathetic on a guy than a grey ponytail, yeah?

The reactions since have been weird.  Apparently, most people like it better this way, and one of my bosses thinks I look substantially younger, which could be because of all the grey I mentioned, I don't know.  I can wear hats again, which is nice.  The air feels great on my neck.  My head weighs less, and I have all these hair tie back things I no longer need.  The haircut lady, Kelly, suggested I send them all to Locks of Love with the hair.

Anyway, now I have to send it in.  I'm going to go watch the video.