Q-tips Fine Print
I recently discovered the fine print on the back of a package of Q-tips Cotton Swabs.
I don't know if you've ever looked closely at the packaging for Q-tips. Probably not. That’s fine. But, it very clearly states that you should never use Q-tips inside your ear canal. Even though it seems like that’s exactly what they were originally designed for. Because, it turns out misuse of Q-tips poses a danger of rupturing your eardrum.
Fortunately, there are helpful, illustrated suggestions for other possible uses. For instance, you can use Q-tips to apply make-up... Or you can use them to swab a baby's nostrils... Or you can clean your computer keyboard...
And then, in very tiny (5-point type) pale blue letters, it reads:
Or you can go ahead and use them in your ears. Nobody's looking. It’s fine. I mean, who are we kidding, right? Let's not play these games.
Wait, are you seriously considering not use Q-tips in your ear canals? Have you ever used a Q-tip? It's like... I don't know how to say this. It's like… y'know when you've been wearing condoms for a couple of years, and then things start to get serious with someone, and you both decide to go on the pill and stop using a condom? It's fucking amazing! Oh my god, it just feels right. Like this is what we’re put on this Earth to do. It’s the same with Q-tips.
Not that we here at Q-tips’ parent corporation Unilever want you to stop using condoms. Keep using condoms, you guys. Especially any of you teenagers out there. Because that shit can ruin your life. No glove no love, kids.
But, you know, once you’ve been in a committed relationship for a while, and you’ve both gotten tested, and you both agree to what you’ll do if somebody gets pregnant…
Anyway, Q-tips---that's a low risk game for such a high level reward. Seriously, try this: Go a week without using a Q-tip, and then when you finally use one, try not to moan with pleasure. You can’t. You cannot not moan with pleasure. These for sure go in your ears.
We’re just saying that you shouldn’t be a doof about it. Don’t use Q-tips inside a commuter train bathroom. Or, don’t use them while walking through a revolving door. Or on a trampoline. But, you know, other than that, you should be fine.
So, yeah, go ahead. Ear city. Just don’t tell them FDA we told you to, because they’re about two complaints away from crawling up our asses on this one. It almost makes you want to vote Libertarian, if only those guys weren’t such weird gun freaks.
Q-tips: Like sex without a condom.
And, that’s exactly what it says in the fine print on the back Q-tips brand cotton swabs. You can go to the drugstore and see for yourself. Crazy right?
Light Bulb Question
How many French Canadians does it take to screw in a light bulb?
No seriously, how many? Because I’ve got about 380 light bulbs out in my Quebec convention center, and I want to know how many maintenance men or women I need to hire for short-term contract work.
I need these light bulbs changed in the next couple of hours, because an entire trainload of rabbis, priests, and imams will be arriving soon for an interfaith conference on urban redevelopment. If the main hall doesn’t have enough light, where am I supposed to have them wait---some bar somewhere? Can you imagine all those disparate holy men walking into a drinking establishment?
There’s a spacious fried chicken place across the road, but I doubt it meets dietary restriction laws.
Shoot, you know there are some people who can handle all this logistical stress much better than me. For instance, take my wife…
Party Planning Meeting
Um, hi you guys. This is my first time running a meeting, so bear with me.
How do I call this to order? Do I just say, “I call this meeting to order” or something? Wait, before I do that, is everybody here? Where’s Jimmy? There he is. Hi, Jimmy, how’m I doing so far? Ha ha, just kidding.
Let me just look over Robert’s Rules of Order quick to see how I call a meeting to … Alright, now somebody is handing me a note. That’s exciting! I don’t know why I’m narrating everything that’s happening. I think I’m just a little nervous.
Okay, well according to this note, party planning committee meetings do not need to run by parliamentary procedure, which is good, because that was making my stomach turn over with anxiety.
Speaking of which, I brought in bags of potato chips for everybody. I hope you guys like salt and vinegar style. They’re the giant bags from Costco, and I didn’t remember plates, so just pass them around. Sorry if they’re a little crushed from my backpack.
Beth, you’re not taking any potato chips? That’s not very team-player of you. There you go. Really dig around in their for some chips.
Alright, the first order of business is team-building exercises. At first, I thought the party planning committee could maybe go through a ropes course together, but I priced it out, and that would eat up our entire cake budget for the year. So, then I thought we could maybe do a backrub circle instead.
Everybody scoot your chairs into a circle, and we’ll all give each other backrubs. Don’t worry; it’s a circle. Nobody’s gonna get stuck not getting a backrub.
Pardon me? Yes, I guess our hands are a little greasy from the chips. In my rush to plan this planning meeting, I forgot to bring napkins. That’s on me. I had some panicky stomach issues this morning, and I don’t want to get into specifics, but let me say three words---broken softserve machine. That’s all I’ll say.
Wait, fourth word---explosive.
But, I take your point. No backrubs today. Somebody write down that we’re tabling the backrub circle until next month. Who’s our committee secretary? No one? Somebody write down that we need to elect a secretary at the next meeting.
Um…
Alright, great meeting, you guys! Really looking forward to more of these. If anybody thinks of any party or cake-related ideas, you can find me in my cubicle.
I hereby call this meeting officially dismissed to be adjourned.
Tired Today
A list of reasons as to why I might seem a little run down today:
- It’s raining, and I’m never my best when it rains.
- I had a weird dream last night about a staring contest with a goat. Very disturbing.
- There might be some slight anemia issues around my all-bagel diet.
- Last night, there was a marathon of some Sy Fy Network show from Canada. I don’t remember the name or storyline, but for some reason, I need to watch seven hours of it.
- After the marathon, I decided I should investigate starting a tumblr.
- There are a lot of tumblrs about cute puppies.
- My wife suffers from night pudgilism, which means she sits up and punches me like an old-timey boxer with a handlebar mustache.
- I drank four glasses of ice tea right before bed.
- A garbage truck idled outside my window at 5am. That shit is garbage.
- I had to get up early before somebody ate the last bagel. (Meaning me. I’m a sleep eater, which is very unsatisfying.)
- I didn’t get my cup of coffee this morning, because somebody broke the coffee pot. (Me.)
- The trains were really crowded, so I didn’t have room for my usual 8am nap.
- A bunch of other stupid reasons, which are stupid.
- Sorry, I’m a little grumpy from lack of sleep.
Goodnight, everybody. Oh wait, what? It’s only 5:37 pm? And, they’re showing Terminator 2: Judgement Day on AMC tonight at 11pm? Well, I guess I have to stay up for that.
Good luck, everyone who has to deal with me tomorrow. You poopbuttheads.
Madame Tussauds
Dear Madame Tussauds,
Good afternoon, or possibly good morning. I’m not sure when you’ll be reading this. I recently toured your world-famous wax museum in Times Squares, and I am writing to lodge a complaint.
For the most part, your wax museum is amazing, and its lifelike depictions of celebrities are unmatched. Your Justin Bieber, your Jennifer Lopez, your Robert Pattinson---they all look just exactly as primped and vacant as their real-life counterparts. I mean, my goodness, you can almost smell the desperate, ever-diminishing creativity coming off the Lady Gaga statue.
Historical figures, too. I have never personally met President Roosevelt, but if his sculpture is anywhere near as accurate as the booty on your Kim Kardashian … well, bravo.
That said, I must take umbrage [word of the day!] with your wax sculpture of supermodel/television hostess/national treasure Tyra Banks.
First off, where is the smizing? I don’t see any smizing. Do you even know what smizing is? Apparently not, because you failed to include Tyra Banks’ patented smize. It means “to smile with one’s eyes.” It’s her signature look, yet somehow you fell short of capturing it.
Also, the pose? Standard red carpet hand-on-hip? You clearly have never seen Tyra demonstrating her innovative “broken doll” poses to the contestants on her reality television show America’s Next Top Model. If you had, there is no possible way you would have chosen such a bland posture.
Not to say Tyra looks any less amazing on the red carpet than in a fashion shoot. Her hand-on-hip pose is still very impressive.
But, aside from these problems with the outward appearance of your Tyra wax figure, I feel you’ve failed to capture her true essence, her je ne sais quoi.
Where is the life? The charisma? Where are the millions of fans Tyra has helped with her daily talk show? You couldn’t have sculpted a few adoring women sitting at her feet, gazing up in admiration? The least you could have shown was a mound of fan mail thanking Tyra for her cellulite tips or her bravery in taking out her weave that one time.
What about Harvard paraphernalia? Tyra is attending Harvard Business School classes, which you would have known if you had watched the CBS Sunday Morning interview with her. Yet, I don’t see any mention of Harvard Business School in your sculpture. I’m sure Harvard Business School would be happy to mail you a Harvard branded t-shirt or tote bag, especially because this is certainly the real deal and not at all some sort of promotional stunt on the part of Harvard University. Why, I’ve never heard of them courting celebrity students before.
In summation, please create a new Tyra Banks statue from scratch. This time, with more attention to the true star power of its subject. Give it the kind of careful detail you’d give a head of state or an OT Level 3 scientologist. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Tyra Banks™
Advice On Writing
A lot of people will give you advice on writing.
Some say you must sit in the center of a perfectly quiet room wearing noise-canceling headphones and horse blinders to be a writer. Just you and your Royal Underwood typewriter and a maybe a cat missing one eye.
Others say you must stand in the middle of bustling Grand Central Station, nude except for a suit and tie and shoes, also underwear, shirt, and socks. They tell you you’ll need a number two Eberhard Faber Blackwing pencils and a standard 6” by 9” Steno pad. And, as a writer, you need to smoke a cigarette while eating a donut.
Still other people tell you you require only a laptop and a comfy four-poster bed. They tell you to drink green tea and listen to soothing music about our vaginas, surrounding yourself with photos of frolicking African children. At noon, take a break to do yoga and create abstract expressionistic pottery that represents your writer’s soul. Only then will you be a true writer.
Others tell you to go out into the world to find something to write about. They say you should fight forest fires and parachute into war zones and impregnate a Brazilian prostitute. Better yet, be that Brazilian prostitute who starts forest fires in protest of man’s futile nothingness. Only then will you be a writer.
Some say you need to be born a writer. Writing can’t be taught; it is a question struggling inside you, yearning to make its way out of your fingertips. What is that question? Probably some weird Freudian stuff about boobs and poop.
Others say a writer must drink his or her way into writing--be it wine or ale or absinthe. Preferably absinthe, because it will fuck you up. They say you need to expand your mind with drugs and spirit-animal walks and autoerotic asphyxiation. Then they raise their eyebrows suggestively and nod toward the room in back that smells like candles and leather. That’s when you notice they have a creepy mustache.
Others say a writer must be a performer. You must speak the words fire before you can understand them. Take improvisational comedy classes and perform at poetry slams. Find a group of like-minded writers and spend long hours screaming at each other for never having watched The Wire. Spend every waking moment going to shows and not writing. That is how you become a writer.
Some say to bare your soul, to reveal every tiny detail about your childhood and hopes and fears and dreams and past loves and past bosses and number of orgasms and religious crises and adventures abroad and teenage pranks and health scares and gameshow failures. They say that writing is truth, and truth is life, and we must share every detail in order to writer.
Some people say all that. People are assholes, though. So, I don’t know---do whatever you want. Personally, I think you should go back to school to be an insurance actuary. But, what do I know? I’m just your father who loves you and wants what’s best for you.
[sigh] Go ask your mother.
Wedding Gift Ideas
In honor of the royal wedding, I've decided to list off my favorite wedding gifts to give/receive.
Because, let’s face it, wedding registries are weird and transactional. That’s why you’re allowed up to a year from the day of the wedding to think of something awesome. At that point, of course, you can give up trying and just buy the one pickle fork and one corn-on-the-cob holder left on the registry.
But, that all changes right here and right now, goddamnit! Because, you’ve got me on your side. And, besides being the World’s Greatest Wedding Dancer, I’m also in the top ten wedding gifters. Fine, top twenty.
My favorite wedding gifts are:
An ice cream maker, which provides a helpful scapegoat to explain the post-wedding weight gain.
A large silver salad bowl. Have you ever eaten two pints of homemade ice cream out of a silver bowl? It makes you feel powerful.
Monogramed Slap Chop. Obviously.
An ornate picture frame to make any picture look beautiful, even the one of that doggy-looking flower girl. Jesus Christ, I hope she grows into those ears.
Some bullshit shaped like a heart. Honestly, this can be whatever.
A croquet set, unless the bride and groom are the kind of jerks who don’t like croquet, which are the worst kind of jerks.
A pet parrot! It’s the gift that keeps on giving. Responsibility. For eighty years.
Silver candlesticks. They’re not just for murder. You can use them to hold candles as well.
A KitchenAid mixer says to the couple, "Here's hoping that one day you'll have a kitchen big enough to store all this useless shit.”
A crystal vase. With proper pronunciation, please. We’re not animals.
A marble cheese tray. I take cheese far too seriously to serve it on some granite bullshit. Or wood, ugh.
Rosewood salad tongs. Salad-based gifts are like the life preserver you throw the couple during their post-wedding ice cream and cheese binges.
Ziplock baggies. C’mon, admit it---pretty useful.
Superglue. To repair that glass the groom accidentally stepped on at the end of the ceremony. I hope he wasn’t too embarrassed.
A gift certificate to a crib store. Thanks, Mom, we get it. WE GET IT ALREADY!
Matching aprons. Adorable! No wait, too adorable. Gross. Nevermind.
Something the groom might like. I'm just kidding.
Tapestry Return
Excuse me. Yes, I need to return this seventeenth century French tapestry I purchased earlier today from your auction house. It has a mustard stain on it.
Look, right here by the winged dog... gryphon, sure, I knew that. Right here by the gryphon’s tail, there's a big splotch of yellow mustard. At first I thought it was a pond reflecting the sunset or something. But, see, look closely. It’s still wet, and it smells like mustard. It’s definitely mustard.
I don't see how you could, in good conscience, sell such an expensive item with a flaw like that. Setting aside the piece’s historical significance, including the border-thingy you guys talked up during the sale. Strapwork cartouches, that’s right. Strapwork cartouches.
Yes, I am sure the mustard was there when I bought it! Why would I have paid $242,000 for a tapestry with mustard on it? That's a lot of money. I could buy 121,000 hot dogs for that. You know, at the hot dog cart right outside.
Or, I could have gotten 60,500 hot dog lunch specials that include a bag of potato chips and a can of ginger ale, which I think is a pretty good value for one’s money. Unlike this tapestry.
This is a travesty---not just for me, but for the tapestry, itself. Don't you people care about the historical significance of this ... I forget, is it French or Flemish? This French tapestry. Look, it’s got a lion and a deer sleeping beside each other. That’s a beautiful sentiment sullied by your incompetence. If only all lions and deer slept together, the world would be a better place.
Pardon me? Mustard on my tie? OH MAN!!! Your stupid tapestry got mustard on my tie! This is one of my favorite ties, and now you've gotten mustard all over it with your dumb, mustardy tapestry.
Do you know how much I paid for this tie? I don’t remember, but it was a lot. Especially at Filene’s Basement, where I normally find better deals on ties. But, I paid more for this one, because it had ducks on it.
This will not stand, sir. I demand that you return the check I wrote for this tapestry. It’s the one post-dated for next week, when I have a chance to move around some accounts. Not that the details of my personal injury claim money are any business of yours! Just give me back my check, and you can have your stained tapestry.
I'm washing my hands of this entire affair.
Seriously, do you have a bathroom where I can wash my hands? They're all sticky from relish.
In Your Pocket
Is that a golf pencil in your pocket, or are you just disappointed to see me?
Is that a packet of tissues in your pocket, or are you still thinking about Tiffani-Amber Thiessen?
Is that a pocket in your pocket? Are those jeans?
Is that a cell phone in your pocket, or is your dick playing Chamillionaire?
Is that a bindle of cocaine in your pocket, or did you not realize what a "chili party" was code for?
Is that an iPad in your pocket? That's a big pocket! Oh, it's a tote bag?
Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you very intimidating to me for some reason?
Is that your twelve-point business plan to start a chain of frozen yogurt stands in your pocket, or are you just a prospective investor?
Is that your uncle's hand in your pocket, or did you not want me to bring up bad memories?
Is that a chopstick in your pocket, or is your dinker oddly skinny? [Yeah, dinker. I said it. I'm not afraid to get all NSFW up in here.]
Is that a gavel in the pocket of your judicial robe, or what's going on in there, Justice Thomas?
Is that an engagement ring in your pocket, or have the last seven years been a complete waste, like my mother keeps saying?
Is that a Latin dictionary in your pocket, or do you arrigo, arrigere, arrigas?
Is that a chocolate eclair in your pocket? Me too.
Facebook Comments
Listen everyone, I want to thank all of you for your helpful, well-thought-out comments on my Facebook post. They were not at all weird or off-topic.
I mean, I guess I never did get an answer to my request for a restaurant recommendation, but there was a lot of good back-and-forth.
For instance, Brett's suggestion that "Eating out is for pussies. Bwwaaaa!" was super helpful. How's life, Brett? You’re wife had her baby, right?
The many comments discussing dining out versus buying into a farm share were certainly lively. Clearly there are a lot of strong feelings on both sides of the aisle. I hope nobody’s feelings were hurt. Especially by Dave’s anti-composting jokes. I’m sure it was all in jest. Dave, are you and Darcy talking again?
Thank you to Paul, who went to all the trouble of listing restaurants with poor health inspection grades. Scary stuff.
In a way, though, that was kind of the opposite of what I was asking. I wanted to know what restaurant I should go to, not which ones I shouldn’t. But still, a lot of food safety concerns to process there. Thanks.
Many of you “liked” my initial question but didn’t offer any restaurant recommendations. (For some reason, this was especially true amongst my former co-workers.) Did you think it was a hypothetical question or maybe mine was a philosophical craving? I really just wanted to know where to eat.
I do think we made a lot of progress on the Presidential birth certificate thing. As Samantha, the weird motivational speaker lady I met only once at a friend-of-a-friend's party pointed out, it's sad that the President had to address it.
And, while I understand Tariq’s point that words like “sad” and “unfortunate” serve to weaken the focus on this being an issue of race and power dynamics in modern America, I think we can all agree that we are all upset by it in line with whatever societal context we bring to our understanding of the issue.
So, thanks for all the feedback on my Facebook post this morning. 108 comments sure are a lot. Once again, though, does anybody know a place in midtown where Colleen and I can grab a sandwich after work?
Really try to stick to the theme of sandwiches for these future comments. Thanks.