Category Archives: Shopping
The economy sucks a pair of used transvestite thongs. Trust me, I know. I’m a poor law school student. Well, “poor” is a relative term. I’m on a scholarship, my parents help me out, and I bleed my husband dry. Fucker got to marry ME. The least he can do is sign his pay check over to me. HA! Perpetuating female stereotypes is FUN!
So, what can you do about Christmas presents when you can barely feed yourself or can’t afford to put a dent in your three-bottle a day whisky habit… I mean indulgence?
You don’t want to be “that guy” during the family Christmas gift opening extravaganza. You know, the stupid shit getting gifts while NO ONE seems to be able to find ANYTHING under the tree from you. Normally, I advocate the getting without giving scenario. But, it’s Christmas! Even I can’t stand to phone it in on this one.
So, I figure there must be a shit ton of other people out there in the same boat. In the spirit of giving, I decided to give you poor schleps some help. These ideas have worked for me in the past… just not well. Who cares? It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, prepare to have that adage stretched to it ever-loving limits.
Look, we all have gotten gifts that were on the meatier side of a shit sandwich. “Oooooooooo! School supplies!” How about that box of socks from Aunt Mimi? Don’t even get me started on that goddamn tub of Oxy Clean I got when I was 16. Just what the fuck were you trying to imply, Uncle Merl? Such an asshole.
This doesn’t even have to be stuff that you, outright, threw into the “reject” bin. But, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Just mix it up a bit. Don’t give Aunt Hortense the leg wax she gave you last year. Give that gem to Uncle Pete. Remember that box of bath beads sitting in the closet collecting dust? Well, hell, that’s a great gift for you 15-year-old cousin. Kids huff bath beads these days, right?
Free stuff you got at work/school
If you travel around for work and attend various useless trade shows or subject yourself to the joy that is a vender show at a university campus, you know what I’m talking about. These places are teeming with useless bullshit people can’t stop taking. Little flashlights with their company logo. Knock off Beanie Babies with their company logo. A travel mug… with their company logo. The whole point of this is to plant your company in the subconscious. What better way of doing this than using free shit no one has a need for?
If you look hard enough, you’ll find some practical shit mixed with the fake beanie babies and mini Breathalyzers. Who wouldn’t love to get a USB drive with almost no space? What kind of loved one would not want a leaky travel mug with the Halliburton logo? Take it a step beyond and mix and match. What cousin wouldn’t be grateful with a hand sanitizer/hand lotion combo? Come to think about it, that sends out a bunch of messages not association with the Christmas Spirit.
Stuff from around your house
Are you a shut-in? Do you want to be? Are you too poor, cheap, or lazy to actually step foot outside your house to go to conventions to get free shit? Does the thought of another year of mall shopping for people you barely like sink you into a deep depression? Well, good news Droopy! There’s not need to mingle with the rabble! Just look around you house. Do it! You live in a fucking sty. You should be ashamed of yourself. God I hate you.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I hate you. No! Wait! Oh yea. Christmas presents. My article about icky shut-ins is next month. Anyhoo… your house is a treasure trove of goodies. It’s a time capsule filled with outdated interests and failed life goals. Just because you failed doesn’t mean others will. Give that pair of roller blades to little Jimmy. That calligraphy set you never opened? Well, wrap that sommabitch! Remember that typewriter you use as a door stop? Give that ancient bastard to your nephew and call it an antique.
Stuff from around other people’s houses
Okay, look, I’m not advocating the act of breaking into someone’s home and stealing their shit to use for Christmas presents. I’m merely suggesting you do it when you’re already in the house for a visit. Let’s face it, you looked around your house for things to wrap up and dump on loved ones for Christmas, but your junk is sad. YOU don’t even want it. Maybe it’s not even that. Perhaps you’re a scrappy little transient without a permanent residence. Well, jingle balls! That’s what friends are for!
Odds are that your friends’ place is a considerable upgrade from the hovel you live in. There’s no shame in that. Remember, you don’t have to enjoy the finer things in life in order for you to find good Christmas gifts. Your friends do. Next time you drop by, bring an empty pillow case. Come on, they won’t miss it. That neat little cat statue would be perfect for crazy aunt Sofia. The commemorative plate they got on their trip to Pearl Harbor? Whammo! Instant collectors item for the history buff in your family. It’s Christmas. They’ll understand. It’s all about giving.
Wait a second there, partner. Don’t forget to get something for that someone special, too. There you are, thinking about others and you plum forgot all about yourself. Awwww. That’s so sweet. Tis the reason for the season! Treat yourself. It’s alright for Santa to take a kick back every now and then. Go on, treat yourself. After all this Christmas shopping you deserve a little present of your own.
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
It’s time to re-visit Roode’s complete and utter hatred of marketing mascots.
Gene Gene the Roode Machine-
Alright, auto companies, I’m on to you. Decade after decade you churn the same shit boxes on four wheels out for a drooling public with more credit than brains. Each one has some bell or whistle that is slightly different than the bell or whistle the other guy has. Maybe next season the Ford Explorer will have air conditioning in the seat so you can cool that sweaty taint of yours after a long day at the beach. They can call it the “taint blaster.” No more will Ford owners have to worry about their wet taints on the drive home. That’s fucking progress!
I understand the appeal of certain car names; Mustang, Charger, Bronco. That shit makes you want to wrangle up a herd of stampeding cattle or single handedly win World War II. A bad ass who quips one liners while he stomps another asshole where the bad guy’s face used to be always drives sex on wheels. Take Jaguar, for instance. JAGUAR. The name, alone, hammers images of eight cylinder justice and constant super model boning in your head. These names don’t disappoint. Jaguar is as impressive to drive as it is to say. You just know the vehicle is going to be awesome when it’s named for a carnivorous killing machine or a wild, rampaging horse. Quick! What comes to mine when you hear the word “Yugo?”
Man is, by nature, a stupid and gullible creature. Marketing firms and car companies know this. They invest so much time in the product placement and brand name that there’s little left over for the actual car mechanics. Or, they just pull the name out of their asses ten minutes before they make the commercial. Either way, someone is fucking the pooch here. Car names no longer instill boner raging masculinity. For fuck’s sake, there’s nothing sexier than a smoking hot blonde behind the wheel of a Mustang. Put that hot blonde behind the wheel of a Volarie and.. shit. Nevermind. Chances are that guys wouldn’t notice the car at all. So that’s just a shitty example.
Regardless of the calibre of hot blonde behind the wheel or on the hood, you’ll still be stuck with a car that sounds like a third grader’s super secret fort. It’s hard to narrow down the list of banana sandwich goofy car names. So, this list is pretty much a random assortment of marketing retardation. Sometimes there is a story behind a name. Other times it’s just made up bullshit.
1. Studebaker Dictator: – 1927-1937
It was a more simple time in the early 20th century. People played jacks, hop scotched.. shit with kicking cans or marbles. Whatever. I don’t really know. It was a barbaric age before iphones and internet porn. But, there was no excuse for phoning in the name for one of the earliest cars ever made. If anything, you want its name to rock harder than a metal band playing in the crater of an active volcano. Studebaker decided to go a different route. It was meant to refer to how they “dictated the standard” for automobiles. Instead, it sounded more like a car that was hell-bent on staying in power and eliminating its enemies.
2. Nissan Armada: 2004-Present
Obviously someone remembered a random word from their high school history class. I’m not sure if the name is supposed to conjure up images of something gigantic or impressive. Maybe it’s supposed to suggest it can fend off the British Navy while conquering territory. Come on, there are plenty of other words from school Nissan could have used instead of “Armada.” How about the Nissan Galleon? The Whaler? The Nissan Small Pox sounds catchy.
3. Ford Probe: 1989-1997
Quick! What comes to mind when you hear the word “probe?” Is it the worst performing car of 1997? Does a Mazda GD platform rip off stuck in 4 cylinder hell flash in your head?
Exactly, who thought this name was a good idea? Nothing about the word “probe” sounds enticing. Who said, “PROBE! That’s GREAT,” during a board meeting? That’s what we want in a car name. Who wouldn’t want to fork over some cash for a car with a name associated with some of the most horrific alien abduction stories known to man? Was the “Ford Rape” taken? Take advantage of society’s desensitization to porn and slap on a label with some gravitas. I would be proud to be the owner of a Ford Rim Job or a Ford Donkey Punch.
4. Toyota Sequoia: 2000-Present
Well, shit. No word in the English language embodies speed like the name of a big ass plant. Yeah, I get it. A sequoia is supposed to symbolize the hugeness that is this SUV. It also symbolized a gigantic immobile-fucking-object. Forget “lightning” or “cheetah.” Toyota is happy to compare their vehicles to a fucking tree.
5. Dodge Coronet: 1949-1976
This thing either sounds like a musical instrument you were stuck with in middle school, because all the saxophones were taken or a type of toilet paper.
The predecessor for the aircraft carrier sized Dodge Diplomat, the Coronet was Dodge’s first go at a post-war design. Some of its generations looked downright awesome.
But, as soon as you say “Yeah, this is my Dodge Coronet,” you’ve castrated yourself. There’s no good way to say it. Fucker might as well be called the Dodge “Small Dick Premature Ejaculation.” Any self-respecting guy would have ripped that name badge off with a screw driver and hammer.
6. Toyota Tacoma: 1996-Present
Toyota makes our list for a second time. Aside from the fact that the Tacoma is designed for the yup-fuck crowd who like to drive SUVs with the cargo section roof missing and pretend it’s a pick-up, it’s named for one of the shittiest holes in Washington. Nice going, Japan. You’ve forever associated this wannabe truck with gang violence and the putrid smell of one of the world’s chunk blowingest pulp plants.
7. Renault Le Car: 1972-1996
Those fucking French. “Le” has no business being in front of “car”. These fuckers weren’t even trying. OK, it was officially called the Renault 5. But, in Canada and the US, it was marketed as Le Car. What the fuck kind of effort went into this translation? Just because a bunch of cheese eating surrender monkeys dubbed it “The Car” in French doesn’t make it chic. The only thing more asinine is the fact that this piece of shit was one of the first super minis. This shit has no place in Canada. I saw one of these atrocities in Calgary when I was a kid. I bet the pretentious son-of-a-bitch that bought it thought he was on the cutting edge of the international car scene. I went back in the winter and saw that fucker completely buried under snow. Nice buy, dipshit. Way to keep the Albertan winter wonderland in mind while car shopping.
8. Toyota Yaris: 1999-Present
At this point in the list, I’m forced to assume that Toyota just doesn’t care. This poor bastard tried to get a straight answer from them. Essentially, as their marketing lore goes, the inspiration came from the Greek Goddess, Charis; a symbol of all that is beauty and elegance. Then, for reasons only known to their corporate marketing monkeys and Satan, they crammed Ya in front of the name to represent the German word for “Yes.” Yeah, that explanation is real. So, here you have a car which is almost obscenely a hatchback, the misspelling of a German word, and the Japanese pissing all over Ancient Greek traditions. I, for one, can’t wait for the Honda Pontius Pilate to roll out.
9. Chevy Avalanche: 2002-Present
I’m not sure likening a vehicle to a natural disaster is good for your image. In my experiences, people RUN AWAY from avalanches, not towards them. Is this Chevy’s ham fisted way of conveying the “surrounded with comfort” feeling. Is the comfort in the cabin of one of these yuppie trucks that jammed packed? Is the driver virtually smothered by mp3 ports, plush upholstery, and cup holders? Claustrophobia must be a big thing in the auto industry. But, how wise is it to cater to the small pro-smothering demographic? And will Chevy be tapping other niche demographics in the future? I’m sure their over paid marketing geniuses could crank out names that would appeal to tiny demos that are into anal fisting, water sports, or S&M. Damn it, the television ads practically write themselves! The 2011 Chevy Fister would definitely turn some heads.
10. Kia Soul: 2008-Present
Is this way Kia is trying to give the white man soul (Read: music)? Or, are they attempting to give us a four-wheel spiritual essence (Read: spirit)? I see a lot of things when I look at this car and none of them is “soul.” I wonder if this is, yet another, case of random words floating around the minds of the company’s marketers. Someone had to have watched a bit of Soul Train late the night before while contemplating suicide.
Why stop at soul? As with the other cars on this list, there are hundreds of random words a company can half- assedidly stamp on the back of a car. If we’re talking intangible things that relate to the human condition, how about the “Kia Conscious” or “Kia Hootzbaugh?” If ever you find that your soul is more connected with your car than with humanity, drive your mobile soul into the nearest body of water.
I know there are dozens more goofy, groin-grabbingly good examples of an auto manufacturer taking a marketing dump on its products. But, the more I think about the idiocy, the more aggravated I get. The Gremlin, The Judge, Pinto, this list is fucking endless. There’s only one way to derail this hate train.
Yeah, I know. I kind of blew the mystery of this article right out the gate. I’ve even had running arguments with Roode and Tresckow about it. They don’t want “an article of chick shit” to dominate this week’s update. Or was it they didn’t want chick shit in FWTC at all? I guess it really doesn’t matter, because I’m doing what I want, anyway. Who’s gonna step up and try to stop me? I’ll go all Sinn Fein on your ass!
Oh, buck up, little camper. No one is going to shoot you in the head for not digging an article written about the trials and tribulations of the trials and tribulations that women face at the department store. Well, I wouldn’t shoot you in the head. I know plenty of people who are fully capable of sending jacketed metal crashing through skull. But, there will be no need here. Will there? Don’t make me find a need!
What is this thing about? I’m sorry. I’m on my second bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and I’m not sure where I put my jeans. That’s it! Jeans! Well, to be more specific, clothes. Where do we get clothes? Stores. Why do we go to stores? To shop for things we need/want. What makes it a good shopping experience? Finding something in that fashion pushing abattoir that’s at least your fucking size! Sound easy? Does it? Then you’re a dude. And, dude, you don’t know SHIT about clothes shopping atrocities. You fuckers get new clothes, maybe, three times in a decade. If one of those times you find that you have joined the fatty circus America has been running for the past 20 years no worries! Just look down. Yuppers, has your cute beer gut added on guest quarters? Shit, just root through the lower shelves of jeans in the men’s section. It’s like hitting the piñata dead on, every time and getting a maelstrom of relaxed carpenter’s jeans or a twelve pack of tightie whities. You swinging dicks are in and out of a store in 3 minutes.
That shit does not happen for women.
Don’t you even say that’s because we don’t know what we’re looking for. Don’t start preaching like Ben Affleck in Mallrats, “I have no respect for people with no shopping agenda.” Suck it, ya sack. I always go to the mall or department store knowing what it is I’m looking for. Sure, I may not have run a reconnaissance mission the night before to get the drop on the turtle neck to black “fuck me boots” ratio, but I know what I need, damn it. Alright, I may come back with extra. The men that tag along need to clamp it. It’s fucking hard for a girl to find exactly what she’s looking for, let alone the correct size.
So, women- join my fist shaking. Men, sit there and shut up. If you guys want to reap the rewards of the end result (little skirts and tight tops with knee high boots), then you’ll fucking grin and bear it. Don’t make me take out my Baroness costume again!
1. Jean sizes lie
You know, it must be nice for guys to use the S, M, L, XL system. That shit doesn’t really work for most women. Why? Because some fudge sack at every manufacture makes all their sizes just a little bit different than every other clothing manufacturer. A small in Lee’s may be a bit larger in Silver Tab. What’s that mean? Well, instead of just grabbing shit off the counter, we have to try EVERYTHING on. We don’t just go into the fitting room for an hour and a half to piss you off. Well, that’s not the whole reason. Frankly, women can’t fucking trust what the labels say. A small is not a small is not a small. No one in either gender is built identically, but clothing manufactures for guys seem to be able to generalize like it’s no body’s business. Women get shafted with the “Goldilocks Porridge” scenario. You have to pick what fits right the first time or you’re pretty much doomed to having a pair of jeans that strangle your ovaries or have enough room left over to rent out.
For shit’s sake, Consumer Reports actually conducted a study on the batshit craziness of jean sizes. Comparing the same style of jeans, they found a difference of 2 inches in the waist and an inch in length. THE SAME FUCKING STYLE! So, even if you know what size of a particular brand fits you, all bets are off if you start looking at another one. It’s the fucking wild west!
2. Blouse proportions suck
I’m small. I’m little. I’m mother-chucking teeny tiny. I make no apologies for it. I’m a wee 5′ 1″ and hover around 100 pounds. I’m a leprechaun. But, I’m a well proportioned leprechaun. Mama’s got a nice rack and a butt that doesn’t quit. There’s a problem though. Other women have bigger racks and small asses. Or, some have smaller boobs and gimungous hips. Any way you slice it, blouse shopping sucks. Why, you may ask Well, Calvin Klein doesn’t design a top for every boob-butt-hip-torso scenario. The same shirt that looks awesome on me will be utterly useless for a chick with a long torso. A blouse that said long torso chick can wear will make me look like I’m wearing a friggin smock. It’s hell finding the right blouse that, not only is the proper size, but suits your proportions. Many a time I fell in love with a top that looked great on the rack, but looked ridiculous on me. So, what does this mean come shopping time?
3. Jean sizes are cryptic (Yeah, I’m still stuck on jeans)
Again, I have to draw a comparison between guys and gals. Let’s say my brother wants to buy a new pair of jeans (presumably, because his old ones have literally ceased to exist). Well, shit cakes, it’s easy! If he (more likely, his wife) knows his waist and inseam measurements it’s a walk in the park. He goes into the mall, roots around for his size, and now has another pair of jeans he can wear until they disintegrate. He doesn’t even need to try them on. It’s a fucking love story.
Sometime ago, some sadistic fucker decided that it wasn’t proper for women’s jeans to show such personal information. The measurement of a chick’s inseam and waist were just too taboo. A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells. BULLSHIT! Thanks to all that mess, women are consigned to a living hell of distrusting their eyes and needing a goddamn Enigma Machine to decipher the top secret sizing code.
Guess what this all means, again.
4. Finding the right bra is a pain in the ass
No, finding a bra isn’t like finding a pair of underwear for a guy. Good ones don’t come in three packs and you just can’t guesstimate it. Our boobs need more than a bra from the drug store.
Firstly, there are no less than a million different types of braziers out there. There’s full cup, demi cup, padded, underwired, strapless, convertible…
No, not this kind of convertible
Finding the right bra is like finding the Ark of the Covenant for us. The difference being that the Ark is easier to find. The bitch of it is that, unlike blouses and jeans, not every store lets a girl charge back into the fitting room and try on some boobicle restraints. I guess I sort of understand that reasoning. They don’t let you try on underwear. But, fuck, it’s almost impossible to find a bra that fits you like Cinderella’s glass slipper.
Here’s a little know tidbit of trivia: bra sizes aren’t an exact science. As with other clothes, each brand will fit a girl differently. Buy one too big and your boobs are bouncing around in the cups. Buy one too small and you got yourself a designer vice grip. Women don’t screw around when it comes to breast support and comfort. Once we find a brand that fits like the proverbial glove, we don’t deviate. This usually means they cost more. Fuck it! It’s worth it to properly showcase the goods.
Oh yeah, guys. Being braless isn’t always sexy.