31 August 2012

Padawanian Star Wars Musings

One might assume all INTPs are Star Wars experts. This one isn't. I've watched the movies and have a grasp on theme, characters, story...but I've never worked up the Willpower to turn from the Federation to the Rebellion (or even to the Empire, despite their storehouse of sweets). That being said (and half my readership gone as a result), I present you with two interesting finds...

I realize that Darth Vader possesses all kinds of dark powers and can kill with the The Force. But without his light saber, this Sith Lord just looks like an emo kid cursing the world. (Cue self-pitying monologue.)

Nothing warms the heart better than Darth Maul. His story tells us that if you turn to the dark side you'll probably kill some powerful people but you'll die in the end (which, it turns out, is a pretty common ending for human beings -- what a worn out cliché). 

In other news...If life is like a box of chocolates, I sure hope it's not this one.

A Criminal Offense in Most States

I was digging through a bin of 25¢ tees and came across quite a few shirts for school-related organizations. Most were extra-curricular -- sports teams, cheer squads, nerd teams (I can say this because I was a member of Odyssey of the Mind in elementary school, Battle of the Books in middle school, and Academic Superbowl throughout high school). But there were a few shirts that simply celebrated a group of students enrolled in the same class. Enter the Lollipops.

It seems to me that lollipops exist for one purpose:


Sure, crafters will try to disguise these treats as ghosts during October, but a tissue and set of googly-eyes cannot change what lies beneath:

Hard candy on a stick 
(best accessed by tongue).

I won't go into a discussion of things mounted on a stick, as Jeff Dunham has made lots of money off of this joke. (Though I invite you to continue his theme in the comments section.) 

I will simply count the number of lollipops on this shirt -- 22 -- and consider how many licks it takes to get the center of...

A few things to note (discuss at your leisure): 

  • The image depicts the teacher as a Blow-pop (or is it a Tootsie Roll Pop?) and the students as mere Dum-Dums. While I can agree that the Tootsie and Charms variants are a definite step up from Spangler's (yes, I did some Google-work), I am not completely clear on what the gum/Tootsie Roll in the center of Mrs. Litke-Smith represents. Are we to expect Dum-Dums to one day become bigger, better lollipops?
  • Urban Dictionary has something to add. The third definition offers a sentence to demonstrate proper usage of the term:
Li'l Wayne: I'll let you lick a lollipop.
Small Child: Really?!?

This shirt needs to be burned.

28 August 2012


It probably doesn't help anything that it's 10:30PM ... or that Blood Sugar Sex Magic is playing right now, but the above shirt makes abso-fucking-lutely no fucking sense.

Let's start with the easiest to explain: kitten in a box. Maybe your cat whored around the neighborhood and you ended up with a litter of kittens you don't need. So you're trying to give the kittens away. "Free kittens!" You might shout to passing cars from your driveway. (Because that wouldn't be weird or anything. I mean, what did people do before Craiglist?)

But you figure, while you're trying to discard unwanted pets in a way that ASPCA wouldn't send Sarah McLachlan to your door to protest, why not get rid of that German Shepherd head you had prepared by a taxidermist after Fluffy died -- because who wouldn't give their massive dog a frou-frou name; screw with conventions and upset others' expectations (my chihuahua's middle name is "Balls Deep").Why your taxidermist opted to give it a pre-recorded cat voice I couldn't tell you (a big Billy Bass fan?) but that shit just ups the value of that stuffed head. Shout to those honking cars louder, I say!

But you've got a challenge in the third box: a voice from the depths but no confirmation that your assumptions are correct. Your mind says "cat" but your heart thinks there could be something else in this box that will change the world. Do you offer this box to the world or pull it inside yourself and coo with joy?

Pander your goods to your heart's content, but when the shoppers come, how are you going to explain the words which form the theme of this fledgling market? I mean, there's no punctuation to guide you. What could it mean?!

FLY PAINTED FEATHERS! As in, hey those are some supafly feathers you have!

FLY, PAINTED FEATHERS! A poet who's trying too hard.

FLY-PAINTED FEATHERS I imagine these feathers are supaexpensive. Have they devised some way of training flies to paint things? Are there human artists that use flies in place of paintbrushes?

FLY: PAINTED FEATHERS! A repetition of the first idea, but that colon looks so fancy. (A phrase only used once before in a rapey colonoscopist's office.)

The only conclusions I can come to with the closing of this post are:
  • Emily needs caffeine (or sleep)
  •  I should have bought that crazy t-shirt

27 August 2012

Give me a W! Give me a T! Give me an F!

So I realize this shirt is pretty ordinary and there's really nothing humorous about it at all -- except for maybe the fact that it's heather gray which is in a totally different world than the "grey" I'm accustomed to. (Ambiguously pretentious?) What's humorous is the first thought to pop into my head (which is eternally*preserved in its file name on my phone):

But her team sucks; I cheer for the Southern Rapscallions.jpg

I can see her now: the cheer mom for NORTHERN HIGH screaming in the stands for the Rap's. That daughter is going to be emotionally stunted.

Okay, I get it. Here I am laughing at something that only makes sense in my own head.  I get it!


I guess you had to be there.

*eternity, in this case, equating to the few days it takes me to delete the photo from my phone

Keep on Truckin'

YouTube seems to be performing a mind drain today, but I am going to try to avoid its draw for a few minutes while I catch up on a couple entries. Not that you asked, but I played band wife last night and accompanied Mr. McHubberson to band practice and band gig. Long night, for sure. I was dozing off in Waffle House at 4AM if that tells you anything. But sometimes you just gotta...

I'm gonna go ahead and tap on into the next post while you think about songs that would be appropriate to have on an album with this title. (Bonus activity: Animate this still in your head, using your imagination to add these tunes to the movie score.)

25 August 2012

Who doesn't like a good how-to?

I was just saying the other day that criminals have it pretty rough.* I mean, they have to commit the crime and then evade the police. Phew! Help one out today by donning this amazing shirt. 

This image is located on the back of the shirt and is perfect viewing material for would-be muggers and rapists approaching from the rear. Not only do they get information on proper application of the technique; they also get a history lesson! I'm sure they'll thank your unconscious body (or corpse, depending "on the mood of the supplier") for the tips as they slink off into the night. 

  This shirt might be adapted for "Bro" wear aficionados -- just add some rhinestones and a gaudy design on the front panel. I admit that the technique may be difficult if the wearer suffers from Tree Trunk Neck syndrome, but surely it's worth the effort to thin the herd. #justsayin
*I never said this.

You have HOW MANY grandmothers?!?

If I've learned anything from Arnold Schwarzenegger and Michael Keaton*, it's that clones confuse everything. Enter THIS SHIRT, perfect for keeping up with your grandma clones.

Other possible interpretations: your grandma was born in 1910 (in which case, let's hope immortality runs in the family), your grandpa has been married 10 times, or your grandmother decided to enroll in the local university and graduated in 2010.

I still say the first option is most logical.

*If you need a review of how difficult keeping up with clones can be, watch Battlestar Galactica now. It'll be the best two weeks of your life (average time to watch the whole series, as it will quickly climb to the top of your list of priorities, overtaking your other interests/duties). The reboot is my drug of choice, but check out the original if you prefer.

23 August 2012

Gotta catch 'em all (or maybe just the snitch)

Short post tonight, as I worked a 14-hour day (in exchange for a third day off). Found this tee in Kokomo during a recent trip to visit friends and family.

I'm not quite sure why the people hosting the Quidditch benefit couldn't spring for a double-sided shirt so the sponsorship crap could be on the back rather than juxtaposed with the cool logo. Can't have everything, I suppose (unless you're writing Harry Potter fanfiction, in which case Harry can have Ginny and Cho and Hermione and Ron). 

Fun fact: According to the ever-credible HP-Wiki, Mr. Potter was born on July 31, 1980 (32?!?). Wonder how many little wizards he and Ginny have running around these days. Surely fanfiction.net can help you hypothesize (though wade in those waters carefully, lest you encounter some inexplicable swinging between thirty-somethings whose magical implements are more-often-than-not euphemisms for their naughty bits).

After sleeping in and having a greasy breakfast, I plan to stop by a thrift store or two. Hope to come back with more than I did at the Woodstock Goodwill (the most noteworthy thing I found was a Kanye West shirt, if that tells you anything). 

My extensive research (read: two minutes on Google) led me to Purdue University, the sponsor of this event. I see no indication that the benefit became an annual activity, but there is still a *.pdf if you want to register. Be sure to do so by April 16th so you secure yourself an awesome t-shirt (I wonder what that will look like)! 

I also found the IQA ... International Quidditch Association, "a 501(c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to governing the sport of quidditch and inspiring young people to lead physically active and socially engaged lives." Really?? Turns out there are tons of teams in existence and they have games and playoffs and tournaments...

Awesome! (For somebody. Meanwhile, my apathy remains.)

22 August 2012

No hay de que...no, EN SERIO.

I realize the picture is terrible but that's what you get with a DumbPhone (copyright pending). I like the happy little soloist (though I've yet to witness a mariachi open mic night) and am intrigued by the restaurant full of unvaried napkin rings...

I am curious as to what the guitarist was thanking us for -- looking at him? opening the napkin ring to access the napkin (to wipe salsa off our shirts -- sloppy gastronomists are we)? Surely it would make more sense for a mariachi guitarist's expression of gratitude (or ANYONE'S, for that matter) to occur *after* the action was completed and the bill paid.

I also want to know why the little guy (or, more accurately, Mr. Head-and-Torso) is serenading our napkins? Is there a thing going on with the paper products -- in which case, I am not sure I'm comfortable wiping my mouth with the napkin. Could my photo of the napkin ring be considered pornographic material? He lacks a bottom half which tells me that, by default, he is pantless! If there's one thing I like in my mariachi band, it's pants. (And mustaches.)

Finally, and of least importance (after all, that's what LAST means -- don't let those "last but not least" people fool you), that's a pretty crazy melisma for a two-syllable word. (Yes, GRAH-SYUSS is officially a two-syllable word, despite our silly American desires extend it to three. It's called a diphthong, people.) Well done, indie mariachi artist. (Oh God, please don't let that become the new hipster musical genre. I'm having a hard enough time with Foster the People.)

Running to _________

I almost passed over this shirt, having little desire to imagine a church-sponsored craft night involving fabric paint and tent-sized Hanes tees. Then for some reason or another I caught a glimpse of the other side of the shirt mid-slide down the metal closet rod:

What I had assumed to be a religious shirt was actually meant to inspire a pedestrian to kick up their speed! Maybe he was running a marathon and his personal goal was to keep up with his friend Jesús? Or maybe the shirt was intended to effect a Forrest-Gump moment (young Forrest breaks out of his braces with Jenny's urging) in a young Latino's life? 
I reserve the right to withhold any immigration-related quips, as I feel this post is racist enough.
It seems that I only started feeling comfortable making "off-colour" (I use the British spelling as it seems to make the compound adjective less pejorative, or maybe just classier) jokes when I married a half-Chilean and befriended black ATLians. Why is that? Have I been racist this whole time in my head and just now started voicing it? Am I laughing to avoid crying -- life is unfair and inequality runs rampant and ignoring its existence is unproductive and asinine? I suppose it's a combination of both; my grandparents (born in 1929) refer to those of African heritage as "blacks" (NOUN, not an adjective as I'm accustomed to using) and I grew up in predominantly white neighborhoods. I suppose you pick out what you're unaccustomed to... Maybe in moving to the more culturally diverse (that's the PC term, yes?) Atlanta-metro area, I'm assimilating the difference into myself in the way I've learned to process life in general: through jokes and laughter. Of course, who's to say that noticing differences makes a person racist (Hegel's discussions of the unity of differences stick with me always)? You'll pick out the white girl in a gospel choir or the pale-skinned dude playing the bass (here's to you, Mr. Pastorius). We like to categorize each other and make distinctions and when people and things stray from the patterns stamped onto our brain, we notice.
Oh, I don't know. Decide for yourself. If you must, judge me guilty. Then the decision falls to you: will you ban me from your company or be patient with my faults and help me to see the error of my ways and the errors of my [unconscious] indoctrination?
In other news, I'm not sure that I would advise someone to "run" to Jesus (Christ, that is). Not due to any religious affiliation of my own, but because it seems to me that people too often rush into things because they are what they're "supposed" to do rather than putting in the time and effort to learn about said things and make a conscious effort to pursue them. But I digress...

21 August 2012

Organ Joke

I should probably go ahead and let you know that my mind lives in the gutter. I attempted to prevent my brain water from draining into the sewer by focusing on academic pursuits, but this method only accelerated the growth of this part of my persona. (Biochemistry taught me the mechanics; English introduced me to new ways of extolling the act.) So skip this post if your prudery requires it, or stick around and laugh with the immature girl inside my head.

Among the racks of vinyls at your local thrift store, you'll find an assortment of penis jokes. (Unless some mysterious stranger cleans house before you get there -- church organist, perhaps?) I bring you a couple of my finds from Kokomo, Indiana.

Yes, there is actually a Kokomo in the contiguous United States. (Two in fact; the other's in Mississippi.) It's not nearly as exciting as the Beach Boys make it out to be, as I visited Goodwill three times in the span of two days while visiting family. I also saw lots of cornfields and very few hills.

(Interesting intersection of post and tangent: there are TWO organs in my parents' house in Kokomo. My mom has picked them up on thrifting trips of her own and I think we're all concerned with where she'll put the next one when she chooses to expand her collection. Okay, that's definitely enough discussion of organs when my parents are involved.)

Great Organ Hits sounds painful awesome. The album art guarantees that you'll be seeing stars hitting repeat after encountering Eddie Layton's penis instrument (It's "OUT OF THIS WORLD"!). Songs include: "Ain't Misbehavin'", "The Happy Organ", "The Dipsy Doodle" (which is most definitely NOT an entry from this book), and "When the Organ Played at Twilight". Check out the full cover on Amazon (link above) for a lesson on overcompensating.

Dear John Kiley, It's not the size of the organ but the technique used when tickling its keys (take a lesson from Eddie Layton). John Kiley Plays Big Pipe Organ feature greats like "If I Loved You", "This Can't Be Love", and "Button up Your Overcoat" (song titles that suggest Mr. K is no stranger to organ solos).

No picture, but I also found "Historical Organs of Italy" and couldn't help but think of Ezio. I realize he's a fictional character but he got a lot of action on the XBOX...

20 August 2012

Nitpicking is fun (and FAA approved)!

To the untrained eye, this is just a P.O.S. travel kit that will probably stay on this peghook at Big Lots until the plastic decomposes (long after the zombie apocalypse has killed or assimilated you and I) or until management gets sick of looking at it and just donates it to some charity or just throws it away. (At which point we'll either pollute the earth by putting into a landfill or by expending energy at the recycling plant to break it down. Not sure why I'm getting all "crunchy" with you; I am not actively looking to preserve the environment as I'm still young and have trouble looking into a future that doesn't include me. #justsayin) 

In reality, this item is intended for those with friends / family / acquaintances / that weird guy a few cubicles down who nibbles on his baby carrots like a rabbit and challenged Seinfeld's Elaine's dance moves at your last work "party". It's not a getaway kit that will allow YOU to stow your hygiene products in the carry-on luggage you're taking to some tropical destination. 

I repeat, THIS IS NOT a getaway kit. NO, it's a get [SPACE] away kit. This is what you shove into your friend's / family member's / acquaintance's / weird guy's hands just before you kick him out of your house / family reunion / baby shower / cubicle. Furthermore, the label on this product suggests that kicking the recipient out of the area is not enough; the packaging demands that the kit's owner get far enough away from the gift giver to require an airplane. Ha! 

I struggle to come up with the cartoon equivalent, though I'm sure you in your brilliance can offer a fictional character from the funnies that gets kicked out on his tuckus. (Consider the inherent humor in kicking an annoying houseguest out of your realm, friend. Homelessness is not funny, nor are bad hosts, generally. But revoking a bad guest's welcome is hilarious. Why is that?)

Alternatively, I suppose you could offer this beautiful (but, regrettably, environmentally-comatose) product to your getaway driver before your next bank heist. (Mentally Photoshop one of these babies into your favorite heist movie for hours of ROFLs.)

I should also note that the manufacturer chose to withhold the company name from this product's packaging. Perhaps someone at the factory realized how low-quality this product is and the erroneous label is meant as a command to the product itself. Maybe these little "get away" kits bankrupted the company (which, I should add, chose not to claim ownership by including their logo).

Ready, set...

If you're reading this, I'm either: 
  • related to you 
  • in your circle of friends
  • doing well enough with this blogging thing that you give a shit about who i am 
  • dead (has been known to do wonders for writers' careers)
 ...Though I suppose combinations of the above are possible.

You've now experienced the sardonic portion of my intro. Moving on...

I guess my love of window-shopping started in the library. I always left with towers of books and future acquisitions on the brain. As I grew older, I developed a love for thrift and antique shops and an eye for the unusual that I carry with me wherever I go (I could never bring myself to dig it out with a spoon, though it surely would have saved me loads of time and energy). There is some crazy shit out there to be discovered.
This writing thing is fun and maybe one day I'll make money with my words, allowing me to consummate the shopping process. Until then, I'll work to pay the bills and play by critiquing things I see on window-shopping excursions.

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