Who is Buying All This Crap?
An example of a pure mood would be "absolute apathy".
Cable television and the Internet are inundated with low rent advertising for a wide variety of products that I simply cannot imagine being purchased by a human being. This isn't about me not liking the products either, there are plenty of things I don't like but that doesn't mean I can't imagine someone else buying it. I loathe Pokemon and any other screechy poorly animated cartoon sales pitch imported from Japan, but I can still comprehend why a bunch of kids and a handful of lonely nerds might be interested. It is within the realm of human comprehension that some twenty five year old just has to have a life-sized Pikachu for his Pokemon themed Christmas Manger Scene. I don't like it, in fact I think it's sad, but I understand that not everyone is as completely awesome and right-thinking as me.
Let's go back almost ten year to one of my favorite hated and mysteriously popular items; the "Pure Moods" series of CDs. Advertised on television these albums represent a peerless achievement in the realm of vacuous music. They were a musical and mass-marketed equivalent to hose hideous "whale songs" and "forest sounds" CDs that head shops play if you make the mistake of not ordering a bong off the Internet. The first disc in the series came JAM PACKED with the sort of music I can't picture any living being including animals listening to for pleasure. Oh shit, what's this?! A soothingly boring version of the already awful X-Files theme music RIGHT NEXT TO Tubular Bells!!!! At last my dream has been realized! Most albums only have a single track that makes me want to hang myself but the suicidal hits just won't quit on this bad boy.
More recently it was a TV ad for the single least desirable compilation disc I have ever heard of that floored me. It's called "Instrumental Inspirations" and it consists of instrumental tracks so completely innocuous that they almost cease to exist of their own volition. Most notable to all of me was the inclusion of the theme music from "Peanuts". You know the music if you grew up with the stupid holiday specials. You can hear that piano merrily bopping along in your head and it probably recalls the same intense boredom that grasped me whenever I had so little to do as a kid I actually sat down and watched one of the specials. Who buys a fucking CD to hear that? I can't even conceptualize people like this.
Impossible Wife: What's that music playing dear heart?
Impossible Husband: Why that's the "Instrumental Inspirations" compilation I purchased with my credit card from the television!
Impossible Wife: OH FUCK! IS THAT THE FUCKING PEANUTS THEME!? AWWWWWESOME! TURN THAT SHIT UP IT'S 'DA BOMB'!!
Impossible Husband: Rockin' it old school Charlie Brown! BOOYA!
Impossible Wife: FUCK YEAH, PUT THAT SHIT ON REPEAT AND LET THE BASS GO BUCK WILD!
These people cannot possibly exist. There has to be some sort of tax evasion scheme going on wherein Instrumental Inspirations is a subsidiary of Dow Corning and they are selling boxes containing chemical supplies to themselves as a tax shelter. There is no way someone is listening to the Peanuts theme right now and saying "Yes! I am so glad I finally have a CD of THAT!"
Yeah, here's a sweet sensation for you, try gargling molasses mixed with pubic hairs.
Returning back to my childhood I am reminded of something I had heard rumors of but had never seen until I walked into a seedy convenience store while on vacation in New Orleans. At the counter next to the antacid and gum was a prominent display of individually wrapped edible panties. In theory edible panties are a slightly weird but amusing erotic item to bring into the bedroom, but how many of you have actually seen edible panties? If you haven't, let me help you picture them; they are a fruit roll up. There is no difference. They are just a larger fruit roll up tied or somehow bonded at the sides to make holes for body parts to fit uncomfortably through. Once I realized this the mystique around edible panties quickly evaporated, but I continued to wonder who would be purchasing these in the first place. They've been around for two decades at least so there must be a return market of satisfied customers for edible panties.
I've handled enough fruit roll ups in my day to know that the idea of applying a giant one to my body is about as erotic as making pants out of ground beef. Eating a pair that's been jammed up the sweaty ass of anyone and has turned into a morass of artificial coloring and greasy fruit mush is not topping my list of taste sensations. The best I can manage for the kind of person buying this stuff is a serial rapist who looks like a shop teacher and wears a lot of gold plated medallions related to his birth sign (Sagittarius). He kidnaps sorority girls, chains them to a wall, and then subsists off eating their slimy edible panties every day.
Meanwhile, in the present, my biggest question is who the fuck are all of these people gambling on the Internet? I admit, I'm no high roller and the most gambling I've ever done is low stakes poker with friends, but I am completely baffled by the overwhelming popularity of Internet gambling. First of all, most of the advertising for online casinos consists of animated Flash ads that unleash a cacophony of bells and clinking coins whenever they load. Secondly, these ads appear almost exclusively on porn sites, warez sites, and peer to peer programs like Kazaa. It takes a moron to click on any banner or pop-up that's making noises and doubly so if you see that banner on a porn or warez site. Up to this point I still believe people exist who will do this. There are plenty of people dumb enough to move their mouse over and click on the shrieking and flashing "CLICK OK TO WIN JACKPOT" ad.
What I refuse to believe is that there are people stupid enough to spend real money gambling online. I realize that when you go into a Vegas casino you know you're probably going to walk away poorer, but to just feed your credit card number to play a game that may not even be a real game is too much to stomach. For all the players know they're pitted against a computer opponent that is programmed to automatically win nine tenths of the games it plays. There's no chance, no game going on, just the computer beating your hand nine times and then losing once. Hell, they could just alternate between two GIF files of cards face down and then the dealer hitting 21 and there's no way you'd be able to tell.
If you belong to this mysterious group of suckers gambling online you're probably saying "well if they cheated they would get shut down". Tell that to the file sharing networks that keep cropping up or the warez sites that disappear and reappear in the same half hour time span. Nothing can be truly shut down on the Internet without blowing up half the planet.
The Be-Dazzler: forcibly preserving chastity since 1982.
Before I forget, who in the name of all that is Holy bought the "Be-Dazzler"?! Those "As Seen on TV" style ads have hocked a lot of vile shit onto the American public in the past but even the most abhorrent fever dream of Ron Popeil is nothing compared to the Be-Dazzler. The fucking product might as well have been called "The Clothes Ruiner" because that was all it accomplished. Got a perfectly good t-shirt? Run the Be-Dazzler over it a few times and you can cover it with thousands of faux-metal stars that make your bloated torso look like the underside of a patriotic turtle. Jean Jacket not white trash enough? Cover that bitch up good in multicolored plastic beads. Hey check this out, I spelled my fucking name out on the back with "gems" and now people think I'm rich! Yeah, I've got a whole bank vault full of stupidity because I won the fucking moron lottery. Thank you Be-Dazzler for saving my sex life!
Another of my favorites is a much more recent innovation. I'm referring to those "ultra sonic" insect repellant boxes that you plug into an outlet and it drives away pests. This one is pure genius on the part of the makers because it's completely impossible to tell whether or not it's working. They probably took plug-in air fresheners and glued them together with some speakers left over from the ten million potato radios they failed to sell. The electricity from your outlet just flows into a live wire inside it and the speaker sits mute, emitting the ultra awesome sonics of absolutely nothing. Meanwhile, you and your slack jawed gullible friends sit around on your porch talking about how the bugs are gone even though your entire back is covered with a seething mass of gorging mosquitoes. This one isn't as bad as any of the others I've posted though, because at least it sounds plausible and being covered by bugs is an actual nuisance.
What isn't plausible is the entirety of Jeff Foxworthy's career. If you're genetically related to a spouse or unable to spell the word "a" I'll give you a pass on this one, but as for the rest of you what happened there guys? How did shit go that wrong before you all realized what you'd fucking done? His entire career is based on a single unfunny joke, yet somehow you dumb bastards convinced yourself that it would be a good idea when dressing in the morning to put on that "You Might Be a Redneck If…" shirt. Here's a tip in case you have to make that decision again: it wasn't a good idea the first hundred times and it's not getting any gooder.
I remember reading about a kid who got kicked out of school for being racially inflammatory because he was wearing a Jeff Foxworthy shirt. Kudos to those school board Nazis. Far be it for the government to mandate good taste but it gets to a point where our culture is so dangerously stupid the government needs to address it as a public health risk because people are about to start trying to walk upwards. They should have had quarantine camps set up where people were shown video tapes of Foxworthy's routines and electrocuted whenever they laughed. At the very least some after school specials explaining why enjoying Jeff Foxworthy is imperiling not just yourself but all of the United States.
Seriously, who is responsible for this?
Hey, if any of you are big Sponge Bob Square Pants fans over the age of ten why don't you drop me a line so I can come to your house and shred your face with my fingernails. I admit I've chuckled at the show myself, but I've never bought any merchandise for the show and someone sure as hell is. I see his grotesque big eyes bulging excitedly out at me from notebooks, hats, shirts, bed clothes, dolls, kites, and rugs. I shit you not there are pieces of cookware with Sponge Bob leering at you. You want to know how to remove any amusement from a character and then salt the earth that amusement grew on? Put it on a fucking toilet seat cover. Hi, Sponge Bob, how's it going there? Yeah, sorry about all that piss all over your face. Okay, I lied, I'm not.
You're thinking that the kids just really love Sponge Bob, and you'd be right, but they don't love him enough to justify a Sponge Bob toilet seat cover. That means some adult out there made the conscious interior decorating decision of "I think this bathroom would look better with a scary shrieking cartoon character theme". Sorry to break the news mystery shoppers, but I would rather spill a round of shots face down into the toilet of a burning crack house then have to wash my hands in a bathroom with Sponge Bob shower curtains.
Almost enough to take care of the rear left quarter of your Camaro's patriotic sticker needs.
If you think the words "American Flag" and either the word "sticker" or "magnet" go together well then explain to me why you aren't slowly decomposing in a drainage ditch right now. Seriously, I don't know who you guys are but I see you driving around all the time in your rusted out 80s Camaros that look like they are held together by adhesive patriotism. Guys it has to stop, sooner rather than later. Put a flag up at your house or stick one on your antenna if you absolutely have to carry a flag around with you. The only thing you're showing off by slathering the back end of your car in flag stickers is that you have poor willpower when waiting in line at the gas station. Reach for the gum next time because you can spit out the gum when it loses its flavor but those colors don't run on those flag stickers.
Similarly if you have ever bought clothing related to a current event you should immediately walk to the nearest door and slam your dick in it until it falls off. Answer me honestly here; when you look at that Operation Desert Shield shirt decaying like an isotope made out of your dignity in the back of the closet do you honestly feel glad you picked it up? If you're completely unashamed of your "Impeach Clinton" or "Read My Lips" shirts then there is a hot hateful place in hell reserved for you right next to whoever is being called Hitler these days. It's people like you that make me wish I could just hover like God around everyone and slap their hands away from their wallets at county fair t-shirt stands. At least your shirt boldly identifies you as the bottom rung of the breeding and achievement pool when you wear it around town. People can look at it and immediately recognize that the text "Osama Your [sic] Next" actually reads "Bad Job, No Future, Carrier of Chromosomal Birth Defects".
Why just celebrate your child's birthday when you can put your child inside your body through the magic of photo cake. ALSO WORKS WITH DEAD CHILDREN!
Finally, can any of you explain why a market exists for photographic cakes? Every fucking grocery store I go into these days has signs up saying "ask about our photo cakes". Well bakery sign, I would, but a)if I want to eat anyone's face I'll just do it the old fashioned way and b)I don't think your cake will fit very well into my scrap book.
I cannot even fathom heavily medicated grandmas buying into the "photo cake is good" concept and they're the most gullible demographic on the planet. They will order an entire thousand dollar set of dolls in glass boxes and random overpriced grandma geegaws to hang in their kitchen, but even they would balk at the idea of a photographic cake. I'm tempted to just take a picture of a cake and ask them to print it on the cake and then take a picture of that cake and get it printed on another cake and keep doing that to see how long I can do it before they arrest me. Either that or have all of Ansel Adam's photographs reproduced on cakes and then open an art gallery for this wonderfully delicious new medium that someone is apparently buying.