WTF – Infomercials

For the last in my series of television related rants, I have chosen to unleash my oft abated fury on the infomercial.  It is not to say that I have a problem with infomercials, as they are a necessary evil and allow struggling affiliates and cable networks to reap the benefits off-peak-hours advertising.  However, as they say, the devil is in the details. 

  And who doesn't like an infomercial anyway?  Their cheesy hosts, the compensated studio audience, and the beautiful myriad of gadgets you can't possibly survive without ... until five minutes after the program is over.   They’re an American institution, and an oft marginalized beacon of Capitalism.  They bring the magic of the flea market hard sell to the boob tube.

Some of our best inventions have come to us by way of the infomercial.  What could be more iconic than the Chia Pet, the George Foreman Grill, or the Ronco Food Dehydrator.  Nothing says love like spreading muddy seeds on a clay base with a poorly glazed sheep's head.  Who wouldn’t like to “knock the fat”, out of an otherwise juicy and delicious hamburger?  And where would we all be without delicious fruit roll-ups made from strawberry jam, the all natural nutrition and pure goodness of dried fruit, or the lumberjack convenience of homemade beef jerky.

That's right, hold the phone, you can make jerky at home.  Could life be any better?

But wait, you're depressed with no direction in life?  Shucks, nothing a little Tony Robbins can't fix.  Top notch motivational speaking from a guy who looks like the girlfriend stealing douche from every 80’s movie.  Nice DeLorean asshole…

Thanks but no thanks, I’ll deal with my inner demons on my own.  For now, I’ll try to poison the little fucker’s with a steady stream of Jack Daniels and Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburgers.  Which is good segue to…

Fat?

No worries my tubby friend.  Drop your French fry and jump on Tony Little's Gazelle. 

True story time… I almost met an untimely death losing control of one of these fuckers sitting on the back patio of my parents house.  Do not, if you value your life the slightest bit, get on a Gazelle.

Better yet, hit up Chuck Norris' Total Gym. 

Speaking of Chuck Norris… (better fire up the JRTW Rimshot Monkey™ for this one)…

 

I hear that Chuck Norris is so strong, Volkswagens lift him to prove their strength.

I hear Chuck Norris is so tough, he shits sideways.

Hmm... one more...

Every time Chuck Norris ejaculates, a third world country suffers a natural disaster.

Thank you! Don’t forget to tip your waitress…I’ll be here all week…try the veal.

I'm sure I could go on for hours about the Chuck and/or the pseudo-benefits of the gadgetry of years past.  But this is not about then, this is about now.

And what do we get for our hard earned American dollar these days?

First, there's the ShamWow.  A magic little towel that holds 4 billion times it's own weight in water.  I recently read in Popular Mechanics that this little towel does in fact work as intended.  In their tests it sucked the cola right out of the carpet, and without the clever edit we see in the commercials.  From what I could tell they liked it, but felt is was better to dab than to rub, as it had a rough texture to it.

Little. Yellow. Different. Better.

My problem lies not with the product.  My problem lies with the former Tilt-a-Whirl operator they've now hired to hock this thing county fair style, Vince Offer (born Offer Shlomi).  With his best Sammy Davis Jr. impression, this lazy-eyed psycho is at best the meth-addled incarnation of Billy Mays and at worst... well, himself.  Although I guess now we know that Billy Mays was himself meth-addled, so it's kind of a moot point.

Fun Fact! - Coroners used OxyClean to sanitize the autopsy table after his death.

But I digress, apparently no one on set has ever heard of a boom mic so Schlomi here has to use a first generation Bluetooth headset to communicate with us.  Secondly, sweet merciful Jesus what is with that eye?  Thirdly I don't give a rat's ass what Olympic divers use to dry themselves off with, I only care about when and where they hit their heads and if they're HIV positive or not.  I'm looking at you Louganis!

And now Mr. Offer has moved to the Slap Chop.  The little gadget with the ninja name.  If I had a little person in my employ, I'd seriously dress him up in a dogi and call him Slap Chop.  I'd pay him to jump out at my guests at random intervals like a tiny Bruce Lee.

The Slap Chop is endearing in it's ability to whip up tiny mounds of pico de gallo faster than you ever thought possible.  It slices and dices, and chops onions WITH the skin on mind you! I haven't been able to chop up anything with the skin on since that incident with the Vegas stripper summer of 03.  FYI, it is true, what happens in Vegas, stays in the Glad ForceFlex bag behind the dumpster at CVS. 

What's better is the whole kit'n'caboodle opens up butterfly style for easy cleaning.  Somehow...sadly… also like the incident with the Vegas stripper.  Moving on.

So we sit there having our ears unapologetically raped by "Vince", to the point of ordering the damn thing in the hopes it will shut him up.  But no, it won't.  You’ll just cry yourself to sleep eating ice cream, like every other night… only this time with freshly chopped nuts.

Moving on....

It used to be the campy things in infomercials that I liked. The cheeseball audience, the ridiculous testimonials that were nothing short of poorly staged, it all had a very silly feel that made them ever so slightly funny.

Now I can't say really when it happened, but somewhere along the line infomercials discovered this as well.  So now they're playing to the cheese.  Deliberate cheese! Forced cheese, like an Easy Cheese enema. 

Now I'm all for camp. I dig it. It butters my bread. But intentional campiness is like Christian metal, it simply cannot exist.  If you're doing it on purpose, it's not camp.  If you're rocking about the lord, well my friend, you're simply not rocking at all.  And if you are truly rocking, you don't pimp a genre.

I recently saw an infomercial that didn't even have it's own paid audience. Instead it had a pre-recorded studio audience edited in.  That is something so inconceivably  artificial that I can't even begin to wrap my brain around it.  And what's worse, is was some infomercial audience from 20 years ago, with clear delineation in audio/video quality.  Deliberate cheese.

There used to be a few big names... Ron Popeil, Jack Lalane, Anthony Robinson.  Now every douche bag with a British accent need only latch on to the first fly by night time saver to make it big in the infomercial world.  I miss the good ol’ days when we'd simply light the hood of a car on fire and wipe our concerns away.  What do we get now, a thousand bucks courtesy of the "Magic Jack" stimulus package.  Personally, I'm only a few certified Obama silver dollars short of insanity.

Before long, we'll see infomercials re-enacting infomercials using clips of other infomercials.  We’ll be fed and re-fed parts of infomercials we’ve already seen come and go, a mishmash of digested parts, like those which inevitably led to mad cow disease.  But instead of it causing insanity in cows, it will lobotomize the brains of countless at home drones, waiting with open-wallets and empty closets, longing to be filled with regurgitated junk.

 

I don't mind crap products marketed to my weakened, inattentive mind in the middle of the night, with the crass authority one can only attain with high volume and a cockney accent.  But put some Goddamn effort into it!  I like my useless programming with some production value, even if it's a bunch of useless big dick pills being hocked by Ron Jeremy himself. 

And that's that.  TV, you're officially off the hook for awhile.

That’ll do Hedgehog…. that’ll do.

WTF 15 - Swine Flu Part 2

Ahh, nothing quite like the breakdown of civilized society. As Porkatosis continues to ravage the western hemisphere, 9/11 style paranoia again graces the streets of America. Nothing sets you up for the 4th of July like a scared American ready to shut down his or her borders to protect themselves from dark people.

Meanwhile, "Patient Zero," as he is lovingly known, sits at home in La Gloria, Mexico, unaware of his inevitable impact on Ben and Jerry's stock portfolio.

In the meantime, even I must admit that the probability of a swine flu outbreak has increased my hermit-tude a little. Something about having a 6-month old child that forces you to be concerned about things you once brushed aside as mere inconveniences.

I'm just saying that you won't find me throwing Caitlyn into a crowd of sneezing children anytime soon. I might have considered it in the past to test her immune system, but I'll probably just keep her home and watch Spongebob. She'll thank me later.

Fortunately, swine flu has managed to take our minds off of the economy for awhile. Personally I'm moving my investments over to pharmaceuticals and surgical masks and away from pork futures, it just seems like the right thing to do.

In other good news, pork spare ribs are buy 1 get 2 free at Albertson's. I'm ready for the 'itis motherfathers! Nothing says fight back like three juicy racks of slow roasted pork ribs slathered in sauce. Hell yeah!

So yeah, fight back by eating pork!

The more we eat = the fewer there are to make out with = swine flu free America.

Later on today I'll be watching Fox News, only to see how they can spin this into somehow being the fault of Barack Obama. My guesses for their reasons why:

• Higher taxes take your money preventing you from buying flu remedies.


• A soft stance on border protection allowed swine flu to cross over unchecked, where it has induced illness and stolen jobs from hardworking Americans.


• Patient Zero, Edgar Hernandez, hails from Mexico, but only recently moved there. He is originally from a pig farm in Portugal where he once herded pigs with his pet dog. Upon further investigation it has been determined that his herding dog was in fact a recently born Portuguese Water Dog adopted by ... you guessed it... Barack Obama. Swine flu came not from Mexico, but straight from the First Dog.


• Patient zero was released from Guantanamo Bay.


• Swine flu backwards is Ulfeniws, the name of Obama's imaginary childhood friend.

So I'll continue my verbal assault on swine flu unabated. It's kill or be killed at this point my tasty friend.

More to come,

Jimmy

WTF #14 - Ugh

So freakin' tired. What the hell man?

I'm not really sure where this feeling of exhaustion came from, but I feel like I just came from the losing end of an out of control pillow fight. Like when you were younger and it started out playful, but then things got a bit out of hand. Next thing you know people are swinging wildly and you end up with a rogue pillow in the face. Except now that pillow's been swung so much it has all its' fluff compressed by centrifugal force so it's all packed in one end.

Then POW!, right in the kisser. It didn't really hurt but you're a bit disoriented, and your eyes won't stay fully open. That's pretty much the jist of how I feel.

So, what's the answer? Caffine? Perhaps, but we're out of cream and sugar, and I'm not sure drinking the office coffee is safe to inbibe in its' purest form.

I'd buy a soda, but I have no cash. I'm the type who deposits his cash every chance he gets because that way I don't spend it on stupid shit like buying sodas at wor..... ah, fuck me.

I guess it doesn't help that the AC is running at cryogenically appropriate levels. Why I'm inside with a jacket and outside with a t-shirt is anyone's guess.

Likewise, nothing says "wake up" like lukewarm flourescent lighting and surroundings that scream neutrality.

So yeah, Ugh.

But hey, only half a day left here, so all is not lost. Plus someone just handed me a White Chocolate Macadamia Nut cookie, and my spirits are rising.

Tonight it's the final rehearsal for the Las Cruces Symphony before our concert set this weekend. Sure it's a 3 hour rehearsal, but on the plus side we get Roberto's burritos during the break, so it's still a win.

Looking forward to a smooth weekend, here's hoping yours is equally free of complication.

Must. Nap. Soon.

Jimmy

WTF - Ominous Life Insurance

Now, what the fuck is this nonsense. I'm just over a cnn.com checking out the news and this is the add I see. Really?

Can't we try a little harder to not remind me that I might kick the bucket any second now? Who would fund my family's future? Well if I had a network of ads out that preyed on people's insecurities, funding my family's future wouldn't be a problem now would it?

I get it, life insurance. Makes sense for some. Maybe get yourself some to pay off the rest of your mortgage, make sure there's no residual debt passed on to your spouse or family. But c'mon... a shitty banner add with a mother and child next to what is supposedly my coffin with my bloated dead body in it? That's just mean.

I'm just trying to make it through a Thursday, warm cup of coffee in hand, delighting in the spoils of surfing the net during lunch. But noooooooo, you have to come and remind me that *poof!*

....I've shuffled off my mortal coil and now my wife has to pay my vast Internet porn bill.

No thanks Accuquote. You can keep your half a million dollar policy and your quick easy quotes. You can't scare me into paying for your crappy insurance.

It's just bullshit I tells ya.

Jimmy

WTF - Terminator: The Sarah Conner Chronicles: The Hunt for Red October: Revenge of the Kraken: On the Beach

So yeah, what the hell is up with Terminator: The Sarah Conner Chronicles "running silent" to avoid "The Kraken".

Sean Connery just called and wants his plot device back. Last time I checked Sean Connery is the only one with a valid license to say the following phrases:

-"There can be only one," (Christopher Lambert's license expired when he took on the role of Raiden).

-"I've got a clear shot from here Moneypenny."

-"Crush depth."

-"Knight of the Old Code."

-"Welcome to the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen."

-"Losers whine about their best, winners go home and fuck the prom queen."

-"We named the dog Indiana."

And what's with transporting Australians by sub to a post apocalyptic North American west coast? Last time I checked (which was like a minute ago) that was the main plot point of the 1957 novel On The Beach, later made into a movie.

Are we all out of fresh ideas??

And the Kraken? Are there no more names available for deep sea dangers anymore. Is the Kraken just default for anything waterborne with the potential to kill us? Be careful, man! Don't get stung by the Kraken. Don't drink to much Kraken. Holy shit! Did you just see that huge Kraken demolish Indonesia? Croike, moi hahrt's jus been pairferated boi the Kraken?

No more Shark Week, it's Kraken week from now on!!!

Fucking Kraken, fuck the Kraken. You don't see J.J. Abrams whoring the unicorn in every other psychological action thriller do you? It's mythology for a reason, leave it alone.

Kraken out.

WTF! - The Old Switcheroo

The 2nd in this weeks series of television related rants.

If there's one thing we've learned these past few months, it's that what's old is new again. From grassroots presidents to the Not So Great Depression, Americans everywhere are experiencing a rebirth of ideas.

What we have on television is, instead, an afterbirth of ideas.

Again this particular take on the degrading quality of television has nothing at all to do with actual programming, which for the most part has taken stride with a happy medium of sitcoms, drama, and reality tv. Nay, this declaration involves advertising once more. Today's subject, the old switcheroo.

Here's a comedic taste of what I speak of by our beloved Farley.

Just golden, rest in peace my chubby friend.

Anyway, back to business. This particular skit mocks a popular advertising tool from the time, swapping out real brewed coffee for instant coffee crystals. Hidden cameras revealing that normal everyday people can't tell the difference. The clever little bastards behind the scenes reveal themselves and everybody has a good laugh. Farley notwithstanding, it's a cute trick that exploits the assumed power of assumption. In that half of believing something to be is not knowing there's a chance it isn't.

On a side not, I'm almost positive that somewhere somebody just defended a masters thesis on this concept ... a testament to my wasted genius.



So, again back to bad marketing. And by bad I mean Pastamania bad. Don't know? I think you can figure it out for yourself.

So in today's day and age what do we get for our marketing dollar? The same old bullshit, with the clean fresh 21st century smell of Febreeze™.

Only this time it's Pizza Hut. Purveyors of gimmick pizza after gimmick pizza (i.e. The 14-cheese 2-layer chicken wing lasagna pizza bordered by cheese-filled chocolate-dipped tear-n-share bread sticks with buffalo ranch dipping sauce).

Yes Pizza Hut is regurgitating the ads of old. Taking unsuspecting everyday people and replacing the shitty pasta they ordered with an entirely different shitty pasta transported from all points foreign. Enter the viewer, in a staged upscale dining establishment.

Now far be it for me to say that when you're opening an "upscale" restaurant you should probably spice up the menu beyond say... two dishes with the culinary complexity of a bread sandwich, but that's neither here nor there.

Ok, whatever, pasta at a pizza place. Feign excitement, roll eyes, continue watching The Office.

Now, I'm ok with the repetitive advertising, as there have been at least two to three tangible generations born and raised with no concept of the concept. It happens all the time I know, as do you, for I'm sure you as well as I have watched most of our beloved childhood toys re-released. And what's worse re-released, politically corrected, modernized, and mass-produced as though they were collectible before they were imagined on paper.

I don't want a neon green water gun. When I'm squirting water at my wife-beating step father I want the satisfaction of imagining I'm actually killing him. Neon green does not a weapon make. I want a jet black water gun molded from the same mold as the 9mm pistol the cops will inevitably kill me with after mistaking my water gun for an actual gun. If you want to rob a vending maching and don't want the cops shooting you, paint your own gun green!*

*It should be noted that the cops may still shoot you based on ethnicity, fashion, or neighborhood. This chance is multiplied by one order of magnitude for every jelly doughnut in your possession at the time. Also, Jimmy Rules the World in no way supports the use of fake weapons as real weapons. Opinions in this blog are solely those of Jimmy and should in no way be misconstrued as the opinions of Jimmy, Jimmy Rules the World, or it's parent companies or subsidiaries. All rights reserved. Not valid in AK or HI. See rules for details.

But I digress!!!

This isn't about me this is about shitty advertising. The old switcheroo as it were. I was willing to take it once but not a second time. And what do we get from Pizza Hut?

"The Natural"

Please sweet Jesus not again.

So here we are watching some douche of a chef preparing a fancy-ass pizza with "all natural" ingredients. Only to surprise an unsuspecting room of even douchey-er people with mouths agape at the concept that the pizza they've eaten came from a restuarant and not from an actress in chef's clothing.

Last time I checked the utilization of a chef was the only way for a restaurant chain to mass produce a dish. Do you think this shit just falls out of the air? Pizza Hut no doubt has dozens of people researching recipes and cooking full time, looking for that new gimmick or local favorite to rip-off. Even if the idea is simply ripped from pop culture, like The Natural, it still requires months of work to streamline for mass production and marketing. Why so shocked you moron, a shitty pizza is a shitty pizza, be it from a staged cooking show or a staged pizza delivery. It's all fake, get used to it. Cut, wrap, print.

And another thing! Thanks for reiterating the fact that every Pizza Hut pizza I've ever eaten was the polar opposite of "natural".

Natural pepperoni? What the fuck was in the original pepperoni? Newspaper clippings and old gym mats (bonus points for the reference).

Wow, tomato sauce made from tomatoes. Unreal!

And that whole grain crust. Bread made from whole grain wheat? Holy shit, stop the presses!

And the cheese? Actual mozzarella!! I'll be damned!

Well butter my butt and call me bread. Pizza Hut... you've almost made a pizza.

Now stop while your ahead.


Again, thank you and goodnight.
Jimmy.

P.S. Next month at Pizza Hut for $11.99. Oh yeah, they'll make it look like a large in the commercials but it's really a medium.

WTF - Pretentious Cat Food!

Ok, ladies and gentlemen, birthday week is over. Back to business. And by business I mean bitching about things I have neither the resources nor wherewithal to change.

So here we are in the first of a series of television related rants. I felt the need to split these up seeing as how I can't seem to make enough time in the day to publish a nice long juicy post. Couple that with the fact that each of these little TV nuisances provides me with a full day's worth of frustration, nudging me ever-closer to spending the remainder of my days with just my wife, my baby, and my computer; relinquishing myself from the indentured servitude of commercial and/or pay television. Anyway, on with the show.

FYI, the trademarks (i.e. ™) were gumming up the works, so they're omitted. I'd appreciate it if the two of you still reading this blog would be so kind as to not report my infringement.

Now here's a small test for you.

Which of these delectable meals was manufactured for cats, and which one was manufactured for human consumption.




Answer: The food item on the left is cat food... on the right is risotto primavera.


My point being this, at which point did we decide that our cats should eat better than we do? Are they not prone to tongue-bathing their own asses? Do they not mate like rabid furr-banshees, making noises akin to a stuck pig in salt water? How did the cat go from the preferred "I can leave it home by itself" animal, to the Mooby of pets?
Don't ask him. He doesn't know.

Now I'm all for good pet nutrition. I've bought my fair share of Free Range Organic Hill's Science-Diet where applicable to any given pet. I can appreciate the complexity necessary to balance a diet of hair, white dog shit, and small Peruvian lizards.

But lavish and extravagant vittles for an animal who'd kill it's own mother to grasp laser light? It just doesn't add up.

Why in this day and age is there still a vast global famine, yet we feel compelled to dish up restaurant quality meals for ol' Boots here?

It's not to say that I can't appreciate cats, or the need to spoil them like children. But it all has a sort of Douglas Adams stink to it, in that someday, when it's all said and done and we're on the brink of Armageddon. The cats will leave us with a nice "so long, and thanks for all the fish".

Maybe it's just me, maybe I'm just being jealous.
After all, I eat goddamn Chef Boyardee. No! Scratch that. I eat whatever bastardized version of Chef Boyardee I can afford at Wal-Mart for 97¢ a can. And it sucks. But it's cheap, and you can survive off of it. In fact, it's probably closer to actual cat food than that hoity-toity bullshit pictured above.

Christ, I just can't take it anymore.



The real crotch-kicker here is that I love cats!?!! So the only people left to blame are the money-grubbing bastards at Purina. It's like they're preying on little old ladies who have personified their pets to the point of Waterford Crystal collars and self-scooping robotic litter boxes. So knock it off Purina! Leave the exploitation of the elderly to organized religion, the Hoveround, and CBS.


Jimmy out!

P.S. Next time: The ol' switcheroo! For now, a souffle.




Oh yeah.

That's right.

It's cat food.....

WTF - Online Chat Assistance

Ok so we were shopping for our Christmas tree (the end result being this beautiful, authentic looking, flocked number, 1640 tips baby!). This last weekend we determined that a tree was necessary, not because Caitlyn is here (because lets face it, she's a baby and she won't remember shit), but because this year Christmas is at our house for Crystal's side of the family. Granted everyone does their own thing on Christmas Day, but for Christmas Eve it's a fun family gathering complete with a traditional southwestern feast unmatched anywhere. So since we'll be playing host to the social event of the season, we need a tree. Mind you we already had a tree, but it's a clearance item I got off the Internet for thirty bucks with no tax and free shipping. Crystal hates it. I think it's campy. It's about six feet tall, pre lit, and has fiber optics as well. It sits on a stand that rotates the tree while playing Christmas music (not the good kind, just the beepy electronic kind).

So anyway, I'm on the website trying to find out our local store hours because we were trying to accomplish all this with our holiday shopping on Sunday. I find the phone number for our local store and notice on the store hours list that it closes at 8pm. I call at 7:40 to find out if, what with the holidays and all, our store has seasonal hours which might have provided us with the time we would need to make the trip and pick up a tree. Much to my chagrin, the automated store answering system picks up and I go through the usual motions of pressing 1, then pressing 1, and then pressing 0. Because we all know it takes a minimum of three useless button presses to find out the most basic of information about a business.





Now where do I transform from a mild mannered whippet to Wendy? (see right, then google Wendy Whippet, I'm not doing the work for you, you lazy bastard)

I'll tell you when! When I jump through the obligatory hoops only to have the phone ring for 2 straight minutes with no answer. "A fluke" I think to myself. So I do it again, with the same sad end result.

Now at this point a friendly little chat window opens up on my screen. Ah yes, the online assistant, ready to help. For the most part I usually believe that these robotic little helpers are simply feeding me scripted answers based on the key words of my questions and responses. I'm still pretty sure this is true, but in this particular instance I was actually chatting with a live human. I know this because I was somewhat irate, and with the gift on anonymity on my side, I was not the least bit afraid to make this known. It all turned out pretty humorous, but remember my name was changed to protect the innocent.

Here is my conversation.... verbatim.

Chat InformationPlease wait for a product specialist to respond.

Chat InformationYou are now chatting with 'Ashley'

Ashley: Welcome to Home Depot. How may I assist you today?

Ricardo: Quick question Ashley... I'm calling my local store and though it is open, nobody is answering the phone. I am very upset about this, and would like some answers. Their number is (575)521-1327

Ashley: What time zone do you reside in?

Ricardo: Mountain.

Ricardo: They close at eight o'clock. I was calling at around seven forty. I just wanted to know their holiday hours.

Ashley: I'm not sure. They close at 8:00 P.M. on Sunday.

Ashley: I do not believe the hours change for the holiday hours.

Ricardo: It's not really a problem, I just don't know why nobody answers the phone during store hours.

Ricardo: If they're open they should answer.

Ashley: I'm sorry but I am not sure.

Ricardo: But apparently they are satisfied with not receiving our business.

Ashley: Again, I apologize for the local store not answering. You may wish to call customer care for local store issues and voice your concern. The number is 800-553-3199, option 5. They are open Monday-Friday from 9:00 A.M. -8:00 P.M Eastern time.

Ricardo: I know it's not your fault but it's a waste of both of our time to be in this situation. Why leave the customer sitting on the phone after pressing 1, then pressing 1, then pressing 0, only to have it ring for two minutes.... just a waste.

Ricardo: I see that customer care is open 9-8, does that mean THEY stop answering the phones at 7:40? If it does let me know now and save me the trouble.

Ashley: As I stated the customer care line is open Monday-Friday, from 9 A.M- 8 P.M. Easter time.

Ricardo: Easter time? Wait, I have to wait until Easter? That's just ridiculous....

Ashley: I'm sorry but I had already stated Eastern time prior. I'm sorry for the spelling error.

Ashley: Is there anything else I can assist you with?

Ricardo: Well, unless you can help me find a Christmas tree at a Home Depot that's open, then no. But thanks for the effort.

Ashley: I'm sorry but I do not have access to local store inventory.

Ashley: I hope you have a happy holiday and take care.

Ricardo: You've been a good sport anyhow, happy holidays Ashley.

Chat InformationChat session has been ended by the product specialist.

So there you go, a little venting can go a long way. And I think I may just develop a fondness for strange complaints to online chat assistance, it makes for good blogging. Anyway, you all take care, and I'll see you soon.

Jimmy

WTF - Drying your hands away from home.

You know the drill, you're out and about, enjoying a nice steak or depositing a check or two ... when out of the blue your body alerts you that it is now time to head to the WC. A small inconvenience to say the least (abnormally small in some cases). Fast forward a few minutes - adding extra time to ensure you find the stall without the glory hole (unless that's your thing) - and it's time to wash your hands. A bit of unusually cold water, seventeen futile pumps on an empty soap dispenser, and it's off to dry your cold dripping digits and continue your day.

Or so you thought.

You now discover some Inquisition-like manner of torture meant to dry your hands. After twenty or thirty years of life, you are stricken with childlike awe as you gaze upon what must be the T1000 of drying mechanisms. Some strange device sent back from the future to dry your hands - for if left wet, they may go on to lead the human resistance.

Let's start at the beginning.

Here's the primordial ooze of paper towel dispensers. The one your mom and dad used. This is the dispenser that they put in the kitchen of whatever fancy dining establishment you frequent. It's the janitor of paper towel dispensers. You crank, you tear, you dry, you leave. It's the Steve Gutenberg of paper towel dispensers. You loved it in the 80's, and now you wonder where it went, but only because I reminded you to.

Still in use today, ol' cranky here is sure to be as effective as pumping water or jerking off a goat - in that it is repetitive but not without an end result. [see dry hands, fresh water, goat semen]


Now this one is a bit odd, and I've only used one of these once or twice. This is something more along the lines of what you might find in an executive bathroom, or an old country club. Here we have a real towel, actual linen, which loops around this aluminum 8-track cassette of a hand dryer. As it makes its rounds, the towel drys and is ready for another use. Of course, if you should haphazardly cornhole yourself through the Charmin (as we are prone to do when rushed ... or itchy), this fancy linen will ensure that several hours later, some geezer will dry his hands with shit and embarrass himself for the rest of his miserable existence.

Nothing quite like drying your hands on something that makes you want to wash them over again. OCD much?


Another tried and true mechanism here. This aluminum beauty contains cute little folded towels. All locked up and nowhere to go. You can't really knock the technology here. Stacked, shiny, simplistic. The downside here being that empty feeling you get reaching for a towel only to discover an empty hole with a razor sharp edge. The sort of dangerous hole one might find at Andy Dick's gerbil farm. Either way, you will leave with bloody fingers. In addition, if you're like me, it takes about 47 of these paper towels to dry my hands, and they're packed in so tight I rip tiny LSD sized snippets leaving my hand tarred and feathered with 80% post consumer confetti.
At the very least, at least you'll be entertained by the plethora of gang-related engravings. A solemn testament to our violent past.

Sad really. Just ... sad.








Enter this douchenozzle of a dispenser.
Cylindrical, center pulled nonsense. Like the inverted baby wipes of ol', this roll of towels is pulled downward from the center. Utilizing every diametrically opposed force in the wrist, MIT dropouts have developed the first truly legitimate way to induce carpal tunnel. You grab ... pull ... pull harder ... twist ... rock back and forth ... pull a bit more ... and then with one leg against a lime green tile wall you attempt to get them to release. No dice.

45 minutes later, after speed bagging like Rocky on meth, your hands are dry.




Again, we see idiocy in form and function. This 'automatic' dispenser requires you to pull the paper towel down to a point of release, at which point a mechanism cuts the paper towel in cute zig-zaggy lines and leaves 6 inches or so for the next guy (are we still talking about the glory hole?). Two problems here:
1. You must pull down with force so even and accurate that it can only be replicated by trained Shaolin monks. The rest of us will again rip confetti out of this mess until breathing a collective "fuck it" and using our jeans.
2. Whoever designed this knew all along that it didn't work, so much so that there's a little retard-knob on the side, so when you fail - and skip the jeans option - you can turn the knuckle-spraining crank on the side to release more paper. And of course since you have more paper, you are free to repeat the whole process over ad nauseum. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now to the most familiar, I'm sure. Ol' lever pull here is probably the most seen, and the most reliable, at least for the 30 or so days it's under warranty. After that, all bets are off. You'll find broken pull levers, plastic covers that won't stay closed, and the inevitable turbo spring meant to collapse the fingers in the "it's broken" direction with its metric ton of opposing force. Fortunately, since your hands are still soaking wet, the lever usually slips off after half an inch, thus preventing permanent damage. All in all the true beauty here is the transparent cover, meant to inform the staff that supplies are low. Instead, they only serve to mock your pissed-on hands and laugh as you stare toward the floor tile in disappointment, realizing all too late that you have been denied basic inalienable hand-drying rights.




Now we come to my personal favorite. This dolt-proof dispenser relies on one simple motion ... push, push, push. And it comes complete with a giant gray lever lets you know "Hey you wanker! Push here!"

And you do. Quite painless really. But the true magic of this design is that when the dispenser is empty, it improves the overall experience. You see, when the above dispensers are empty, you wallow in self pity, cursing your own existence ... moving your 'going postal' moment a fortnight closer.

With this dispenser, it doubles as an aggression-sponge. You push, and nothing comes out. So you beat the ever-living-shit out of it. You push that little gray lever right through the goddamn wall! And if your hands aren't dry by the time you finish fist-raping this machine ...

you're not trying hard enough.




And speaking of rape. Here we have the worst of the worst. This maniacal device was developed during break time by the Manhattan Project. The theory here being that the little infrared detector will sense your motion and dispense paper towels like pixie dust. But instead, I stand there waving my hands like an idiot trying to trigger the thing. Motion activated my ass!

Unless of course they mean that the drying of my soaking hands is motion activated, because if that's the case, mission accomplished. I just shook 3 ounces of water clear off my fingertips, you assholes!

Nothing says I'm gay like standing in a crowded men's room with 'jazz hands' waving. Meanwhile, that little red K.I.T.T. light mocks my pain. If this robotic piece of shit had a voice, it would be an eternal loop of Satan's laughter.

So, let me get his straight, we can develop forty two million ways to NOT dry my fuckin' hands. But we can't get the electric car right.

Nice. Just great. Real good America.

You know, the 'glory hole' option is starting to look better and better.

Yours Truly,
Jimmy

P.S. Just had to mention 'glory hole' three times in one post. Now somebody owes me lunch.

WTF - Over-evolved Technology

There was a time, not too long ago, when technology could be summed up in one word or a small explanation. You would plug the thing in, turn it on, and it would do what it was meant to do ... nothing more, nothing less.

For example, the Microwave. Put food in, press a button, food gets hot (pending the presence of moisture), burn roof of mouth, eat food.

Or maybe the CD player. Insert disc, push play, remove disc, blow on it, wipe off spit, insert disc, close lid, close lid, slam lid, close lid, push play, shout explicative, listen to radio.

Ok, let's try the phone, plug in phone cord, dial, talk. There, at least that one was easy, in fact, you don't even have to plug it in, in the good ol' days the phone drew its power from the line.

My point is this, one device, one purpose, end of story. No extraneous features, and if you had it and it was dependable, your need for anything further was eliminated. But something happened along the way. Some lazy nerds, and by lazy I mean they didn't want to invent something of their own, decided the best way to market increasing numbers of these devices would be to meld them into one device. Like chocolate and peanut butter, some tastes taste great together.

Sounds great in theory, right? Who doesn't mind that the microwave has a little clock that also lets you know what time it is ... simple enough, eh? And what's the harm in the phone identifying who is calling so you can elect to ignore the call? Or better yet - to show my age - let the machine get it. And the CD player, how about letting it play tapes, and instead of one CD, maybe 5 or 6, to eliminate the need for switching out the damned things every 52 minutes? All good questions IMHO.

But where did we go wrong?

The magic of technology, while meant to save us time, seems instead to whisk it away faster than ever. We are living in an age where our most adapted inventions have outgrown their purpose. Our cell phones are more apt to be utilized for everything but phone calls, the laptop has its own remote control, and the phrase "I have dial-up" seems to elicit more sympathy than "I have chlamydia".

The phone plays MP3s, connects to the net, can e-mail, fax, take pictures, record audio, recognize my voice, assign one of several million ringtones (which are caller-specific), play video games, give me driving and/or walking directions, act as a walkie-talkie, alarm clock, calculator, stopwatch, tip calculator, currency converter, monitor world time, my time, your time, address books, contacts, call logs, text messages, picture messages, video messages, shiatsu messages, accepts SD memory, headphones, bluetooth headsets, car chargers, wall chargers, solar chargers, San Diego Chargers, and about 43 billion other things I haven't the time nor wherewithall to mention

and yet...
it can't make a freakin' phone call!!!

Why, after all this hyper-gadgetry, can we not make the thing connect consistently to the network and provide the clarity and volume necessary to be considered - by even the most forgiving of us - reliable?

My Xbox 360 can stream Netflix video, I can purchase an almost unlimited library of vintage games, movies, tv shows, and content that boggles the mind. It connects to the net to access my Windows Messenger, and I can manage my Xbox Live account through my computer. I can stream music and video from a computer across the house and listen/watch on the TV. The wireless controllers work through walls, so I can play from the mailbox in the event I'm stranded outside of my house.

Yet somehow after three months of use I have to send it to be replaced, like an estimated 30% of 360 owners, simply because the insides melted like some crazy expensive snowman.



Really, lets just take it all down one peg. Make my phone work, my games play, my software load, and my TV watchable. That's a start.

As for you, microwave, I still love you.