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October 2005

Hands-Free Voice-Activated Solar-Powered TMH Update
Our Price: $4,499 | Wednesday, 10.26.05
I'll never understand how stores like Brookstone and the Sharper Image stay in business. Their products range from the needlessly expensive to the expensively needless, with some voice-activated bird feeders and gas powered hammocks in between. The next time you're in the mall, set up camp at one of the massage recliners and take a head count of how many people actually buy something. It doesn't count if the customer flew to the mall with a jet pack, or is wearing a suit made of live baby seals. Don't be average Joe idiot consumer!

$300
For instance, how much use would you get out of an InVoca™ Hands-Free Voice-Activated Remote Control? If you replied, "Gasp... wheeze... tons of... blurp... oh god... gasp... tons of use, John," maybe you should start searching the Brookstone catalogue for a Hands-Free Voice-Activated Crisco-Powered Pace Maker, instead. Look, voice activated shit never works unless you're Knight Rider. "I save so much time with my voice activated cell phone! Check this out: Call home. Call home. Call home. Call home. See, it's ringing! Oh, hi Jerome. No, I was trying to call home. Yeah, it's voice activated. I know. Fifth time today, yeah, I know. Sorry Jero-- hello?"

Look at all the time and energy you just saved! Imagine experiencing that type of convenience every time you sit down in front of the TV after a long day at work. "TV on. Volume up. Channel up. Volume down. Channel up. Insert fried food in mouth. Chew. Volume up. Continue chewing. Remove tissue from box. Turn on pornography. Volume down. Volume down! Oh shit, volume down!" Clearly, this is a gateway into the future, and way more efficient than controlling your television with your stupid clumsy fingers. $50. Sold to the idiot who's waiting for his wife to finish trying on sweaters at Lord & Taylor.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "John, I have $500, and I need to get rid of it as quickly as possible. Help me, I'm scared!" Sure thing, friend. May I introduce you to the PictureBook Digital Photo Album? I may? Great, here it is. See, this product makes sense because... yes I know you could buy a computer for $500 that could store more pictures than you could take in a lifetime, but... this has a rechargeable battery and a USB port. Just like a real picture frame! Finally, no more selecting a favorite picture and lovingly placing it into a frame. Don't waste any precious brain cells trying to decide which child deserves "frame status." In fact, don't make any decisions again, ever! We wouldn't want you to commit to anything that has the potential to harsh your, or heaven forbid someone else's mellow. We live in an age where we must have access to everything at all times, including personal files, music, pictures, games, internet... we must not be too far from our e-stuff! How am I supposed to sit on the subway without my iPod? What do you want me to do... talk to real live people? What the fuck? I might have to look up from my PSP for thirty seconds! Oh my god, I almost forgot that I have AIM on my phone... LOLZ OMG HOW R U :P HEHEHEHE?!?!?!

Sorry. Bit of a derail there. Please excuse me while I breathe, step down off my soap box, get that crazy look out of my eye, and continue. Whew. OK, here we go.

A musical soap dispenser. A $300 pogo stick. An electric nail clipper. There aren't enough synonyms for "no" and "why" available for me to properly tear these products apart, so I'll just leave them alone. They're not hurting anyone. Except me, apparently.

 
Sorry folks, park's closed. Moose out front shoulda told ya.
honkey lips | Tuesday, 10.18.05
I am a diabolical pussy when it comes to rides. As a kid, while everyone else was soaring through the air and getting splashed with liquid fun, I was sitting on a bench with mom, holding onto a half deflated balloon, sobbing quietly. Family members would return from the ride, smiles stretched wide across their faces, "You should have gone on the ride, John!" they'd say. "It was the most fun we've ever had!" At this point my balloon would deflate fully and land limply on top of my head. "Hey, this bench was pretty fun too, guys," I'd meekly retort to no one, because everyone left to go ride something else. A member of the grounds crew would find me during their midnight cleanup, asleep on the one animal on the merry-go-round that didn't go up and down. Y'know, the swan seat for handicapped children.

"Jam their comlink, center switch!" I am gay.
When I was presented with an opportunity to go to Disney World with my family, I decided to grow at least half a testicle and ride everything. I mean, these are Disney rides. It's not like some shitty state fair, where you're ushered onto a battery-operated ferris wheel by a grizzled war veteran whose body is 85% steel plate and 15% cancer. "Ride the ferris wheel!" he shouts at the nearest garbage can, then precedes to whack it with his prosthetic leg until the sun comes up. No thank you, state fair. I'll take my disgustingly happy Disney cast members who piss rainbows and vomit individually wrapped bags of taffy.

Before I get started on the rides, I'd like to have a word with Snow White, if I may. Dear Snow. I've seen your work in the past. Namely, Rammstein's video for "Sonne," wherein you die of a golden heroin overdose and are revived by Rammstein's furious rock power. You seemed like a really fun girl to be around, what with your sexy undergarments and your love of German industrial music. That being said, I find the way you turned down the opportunity to have your picture taken with me surprising, disgusting and, to a lesser extent, ego-shattering. You pose with thousands of unappreciative little monsters every day, who wipe their snotty noses on your dress and accost you with gigantic turkey legs like anachronistic Genghis Khans. You said, "The prince would get jealous" if he saw you having your picture taken with me. I have some news for you tuts... last I heard, your "prince" was just some schmuck who makes $3.25 an hour to gallivant around in sweaty tights when he's not selling mouse ears from a fucking cart. Most of the princes I know don't drive Toyota Corollas, ok sweetie? Bitch.

Here are some rides that made me shit, pee and lose my pants.

Dinosaur. One day, Satan was sitting in his jacuzzi of damned souls and molten lava, drinking baby diarrhea from a 40-story goblet. "I have the perfect idea for a ride at your park," he said to the headless corpse of Walt Disney. "I envision a jeep that holds 6 - 8 people. We drive the victims through a dark room filled with animatronic dinosaurs, loud noises and death. The ride shall be dubbed, 'Dinosaur: Death to Christ' ... or maybe just 'Dinosaur.' What do you think, Walt?" The headless corpse of Walt Disney just sat there, getting fellated by Bob Hope. Fuck that ride. If you look closely at the picture, one of the kids sitting behind me and my sister is missing body parts. I'm not sure if he had them when he went in, but they're definitely not present in the picture.

Space Mountain. I've ridden Space Mountain before, and to rollercoaster aficionados, it's probably not that scary. I'm not particularly scared of the ride itself, but the feeling that I'm going to get decapitated makes me sink down into my seat and scream like a monkey that is forced to anally test skin care products. It's completely dark in there, ok? Yes, I'm the guy that's screaming in your ear, which in turn makes you scream because you think I know about some upcoming drop or sharp turn. "Mommy, why is that man crying?" is a question that I heard a lot on this trip.

Tower of Terror. If George Bush wants to fight the war on terr'r, he should start at MGM Studios. The Tower of Terror hates your freedom. That's why it drops you and your family 157 stories, because it's trying to send your freedom-loving ass straight to hell, where you will be treated to 666 virgins... all guys. My jihad detector was working overtime as I strapped myself in. The ride operator said something about infidels, and with a flip of the switch, we were off. During the first drop, my left hand gripped the seat in front of me. The woman sitting in front of me had long hair which hung over the back of her seat, and I let out a faint "I'm sorry" when I realized that I was yanking the hair out of her head. My right hand went straight for my brother-in-law's leg, and I let out a very audible "I'm sorry" when I realized that I was yanking the hair out of his leg, and a couple more inches would have yielded some sort of incest that may or may not be illegal in Orlando. As the ride ended, I realized that America's God was smiling down on us, because we faced terr'r dead in the face... right in its terr'ble, jihad-loving face, and we overcame like real American heroes.

There were many, many, many, many, many other rides that were ridden, but I think I'll save them for another time. Or maybe I'll never write about them, and you'll have to imagine how brave I look while spinning upside down, vomiting all over myself.

 

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