Drunken Recollection… Shopping At Target As A Morality Play

Seven seasons of septegenerian heaven

Seven seasons of septuagenarian heaven

If there’s anything I’ve learned in this life, it’s two things:

1) Don’t shop while hungry tipsy.

The second one I’ll share at the end.

Basically, I met up with some friends for a couple of drinks after work and opted to stop at Target because I needed a few things.  Those few things needed:

  • Laundry detergent
  • Vitamins and fish oil pills
  • Air conditioner air filters
  • Um… Charmin
  • And some food

On the way into the store, I noticed someone had left their headlights on.  I memorized the license plate and approached the cart guy outside the store.  He told me to head to the customer guest service desk, where this happened:

Me: Excuse me, but someone left their headlights on in the parking lot.
Worker: They’ll probably just turn off themselves.
Me: I don’t think so.  It’s an old green Escort parked in a handicapped spot.
Worker: I’ll get to it when the line is clear.
(I wandered off to look at the sales ad in case the worker wanted more information.)
Random lady (leaving): You were very nice for doing that.
Me: Well thank you.

Me Just Grim...

Me Just Grim...

Feeling victorious and uplifted, I made my way to the toy section first.  No real reason why, other than force of (forcive?) habit… of collecting.  Being in between a series of collectibles to search for, I’ve often eyed the animated Transformers toy line, and upon finally hearing the worker announce the Escort parked in a handicapped spot with its headlights on, I picked up a mini-Grimlock.  No essentials yet.  Just a small child’s toy.

I rounded the corner into the Lego aisle and what did I see?  Brand new Indiana Jones playsets.  Say what you will (and I have) about the last movie, the playsets from Raiders, Temple of Doom, and Last Crusade are pretty sweet, and in my hands in an instant (Ambush in Cairo almost made the cut).

Deflated and defeated, I put back everything but Grimlock and walked over to the electronics section.  Guess what I discovered there?

Every season of Golden Girls for $9 each!

I had a similar impulse a few weeks ago when the first four seasons of Saturday Night Live was on sale for $20 each, but this one I’d follow through.  Several weekends in September are about to be booked up.  Mjusayn.

I eventually gathered up my remaining essentials, plus a ton of food.  (Yay! Hard salami‘s back at Target!  For now…)  I put the bottle of Gain laundry detergent and a bottle of Liquid Plumr (‘cuz you never know) on the bottom of the cart, and a thought crossed my mind:

I wonder if someone will check the bottom of the cart…

At the checkout counter, the clerk brought something to everyone’s attention:

Somebody really must like Golden Girls.

I emptied the basket and pushed it forward to refill it with bagged items.  I noticed I had slipped the Gain and Liquid Plumr past the clerk.  I looked back into the eyes of the people that laughed at my must really liking Golden Girls, and a voice echoed in my head:

You were very nice for doing that.

I removed the two jugs from off the lower tray.  “I almost forgot something.”

After paying, I headed to my vehicle, past where an Escort with a dead battery could have been.  As I filled my trunk with purchases, the cart attendant approached to help.  I said thanks, and he nodded as he took the cart to add it to the returning basket train.

Finis.

Oh yeah, and the other thing I learned:

2) Don’t assume your friends ordered whatever beer was
on special, because it just might be regularly priced.

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JusWondering… What Would I Put On A Bucket List?

Who's the angel and who's the devil? I'll let you decide...

Who's the angel and who's the devil? I'll let you decide...

I have never seen Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman’s The Bucket List (or would it be director Rob Reiner’s?  Whatevs…)  Anymarryinghisgrandaughter (yikes Morgan!), the topic sort of came up the other day about what things would be put on a, uuum, things to do before you die list.  The following is my start:

  • I must go (play? participate in?) curling.  I’ve been (played? participated in?) duckpin bowling before over in Canada, plus I thoroughly enjoy hockey.  Curling is the next logical step, eh?
  • I want to see a platypus in person.  I realized I’ve been on this planet for a decent stretch of time, and I’ve never seen one, even at a zoo.  You know, because I just might run into one at the Electronic Music Festival
  • I want to host Saturday Night Live.  I’m not sure what the steps will be to get to do this.  I hope it involves being a successful blogger, because I’ve at least got the blogging part going.  I’m a big fan of sitting on my couch.
  • I want to be on Dancing with the Stars.  I’d like to learn how to dance in the classic style.  For free.  From above-average professionals.  And, oh yeah, to get paid to do so.  Perhaps this is a step in getting to host Saturday Night Live.
  • I will continue this list…
It's like a Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger!

It's like a Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger!

InASense, Lost… Furries (The If’s, And’s, & Yiff’s)

(UPDATE: Check out pic at the end.)

When I begin to investigate the nature of something which I do not initially understand, I take a deep breath, and prepare myself for the unexpected.  As is the case with the concept of furries, I took a deeper breath, and held onto it for dear life.  Who knew what I’d find.

To begin, allow me to share what prompted this study (via AOTS):

Whenever someone goes to painstaking lengths (I say painstaking because I’m lazy, you see) to create, um, a recreation of this calibre for no real reason, my curiosity is peaked.  Why would anybody make their own version of Dick in a Box for one?  For two – why as anthropomorphic animals?

Immediately, I went to the best source of all truth and accuracy on the web – Mr. Wikipedia himself.  And right off the bat, I was amazed to discover what I understood about furries was completely off.  I’ll get to that in a second.

My opinions had changed because my perception had been changed:

Originally, I had believed that all furries were sexual in nature and creepy in general, and my reaction to the above videos was not cast in a favorable light.  But according to Ms. Wikipedia (I changed my mind about the site’s gender as well, because she’s always right), I learned this:

Many members of the furry community feel that the overly sexual component gives the rest of them a bad name, and may use the derogatory term “furvert” to describe such people…

The term “yiff” is most commonly used to indicate sexual activity or sexual material within the fandom—this applies to sexual activity and interaction within the subculture whether online (in the form of cybersex) or offline…

Most furry fans claim that these media portrayals are misconceptions, while the recent coverage focuses on debunking myths and stereotypes that have come to be associated with the furry fandom…

So as it turns out, those videos aren’t sexual in nature.  They’re just creepy in general. 

(I’m kidding, of course, because who am I to judge.  Do you realize how difficult it is to type with paws?)

He should have been an Ewok.

He should have been an Ewok.

In My Brain While Sleeping… Baby Pac-Man All Grown Up!

Remember this iconic offspring? 

baby_pac_man

Born in 1982, Baby Pac-Man was the third game in a series that didn’t have much life left in it.  Not because of the slow advancements in processing technology or because the games themselves were repetitive (well maybe that’s exactly why video games died back in the day), but just as quickly as arcades burst on the scene, the movement was deemed a fad in 1983 and they went away.  (There were other reasons, too.  Check ’em out here.)

SIDENOTE: That’s why Nintendo dubbed their new console an Entertainment System in 1985.  “Video games” left a sour taste in many people’s mouths.

But that’s neither here nor there.  This is about a dream I had, and it’s about as odd as they get.  According to the Wikipedia entry, Baby Pac-Man was a he.  And he was born to Pac-Man and Mrs. Pac-Man.  But there is no Mrs. Pac-Man, only a Ms.  So for all intents and purposes (or is it intensive purposes?), in my subconscious state, the baby’s a she.  Pink bonnet anyone?

Well, basically, the dream happened to become the foundation for a feminist diatribe.  Baby Pac-Man had grown into a lovely Pac-Woman, but she could not get any respect in the workplace.  People kept calling her Ms. and Miss and that didn’t bother her as much as the fact they wouldn’t call her Pac-Woman rather than Pac-Man.  People also thought she got the job because of who her father was and not on her own merits.  Also, people kept offering her fruits and pretzels.

I don’t remember much else, but I’m sure it all ended swell.  But I do wish there was something about mazes or ghosts, though… 

"Why do I keep getting spam for power pellets?"

"Why do I keep getting spam for power pellets?"

 INGREDIENTS: Two different kinds of Powerade, a late night viewing of Saturday Night Live, and Little Debbie chocolate chip muffins.

If Only This Really Existed… (BTW Happy Mom’s Day, Mom!)

The plan for celebrating today, a.k.a. Mother’s Day, is this:

  • Finish this post.
  • Call Mom and tell her to check out this post.
  • During phone call, tell her I hope she likes the Forever Postage Stamps I bought her, and let her know that while the leftover pizza I took from her home was fine, the macaroni and cheese had some mold on it.  I ate it anyway, yesterday, and I’m still standing today, sooo… Yeah, I also finished a four-year old box of Cheerios this morning and no gastric problems, sooo…
  • So, yeah, Mom, if you’re reading this – HAPPY MOM’S DAY!  And if the product in the video below actually existed, I would have surely bought you one, probably without asking the other three to chip in.  Probably.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

 

Happy Find… Motherlover! (SNL Digital Short)

(Here is the legit video from Hulu.)

Ladies and germs, the moment you’ve all been waiting for!

Andy Samberg and Justin Timberlake’s return in their latest SNL Digital Short Dick in a Box Part 2! Motherlover!

Vodpod videos no longer available.  

Drunken Recollection… Return Of The Hangover

On the taxi ride from Tom’s Restaurant back to East Village, Steve passed out quickly, and not soon after, I followed suit.  Tim bid us farewell, and I remained awake for our ride back to Midtown.  The taxi that narrowly missed crashing into the backseat where I was sitting probably helped…

EPISODE VI
RETURN OF THE HANGOVER

Upon reaching our final destination without reaching the final destination, Steve decided he wanted some more food.  I think I agreed.  We remembered seeing a Taco Bell on our way to the pizzeria the day before, so we ambled forth in search of late night seasoned beef and cheese and tortillas and rice…

The next morning, after awakening in our dirty Snuggies, we tried recalling the run for the border.  We remembered that it was more like a regular deli that had a Taco Bell in the back.  The Taco Bell was closed, yet the front remained in business.  Weird.  Steve didn’t think he purchased any food, and I cannot confirm or deny that fact, but I do know he inquired about it.

Steve – “How much for pizza?”

Worker – “$3.50 a slice.”

Steve – “I’ll give you three for a half.”

The rest is fuzzy, and so was Steve.  He wasn’t feeling too hot on the morning of our ride home, whereas this time, I felt fine.  Upon learning of my faux pas regarding the hot dog joint/secret bar, we made the decision to seek it out properly before leaving.  We had to know if it truly did exist.

So on the way to the subway station at Times Square, we stopped at this place to get cupcakes:

"No doubt that bakery’s got all da bomb frostins/ I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling." RIP "The Notebook" Love

"No doubt that bakery’s got all da bomb frostins/ I love those cupcakes like McAdams loves Gosling." RIP "The Notebook" Love

While outside enjoying “da bomb frostins,” we bore witness to a scene straight out of Police Academy.  A short cop was surrounded by tall European women,  in their late teens to mid-twenties (with an elder or two over-seeing them), and he was posing for pictures with them. 

There were well over a dozen of them (a baker’s dozen?), and he had to make sure there was variety in his stylings.  When Steve and I walked into Magnolia, he was letting them put on his hat and hold his night stick.  When we were eating, he was fastening handcuffs on one of the girls.  I just imagined that if he was called for an emergency, he’d leave her behind locked up.

From there, we took the subway to Union Square, and met up with Tim and Mike again.  Tim was excited and had this to say:

I’ve finally made a union with someone at Union Square.

Anyhotdog, our final mission before leaving NYC was to locate this secret bar.  It was not far from our point of departure the night before, and here’s what we found:

Not too be confused with Mark's Place.

Not too be confused with Mark's Place.

Once inside, I stared at the counter of the narrow establishment seeking out the phone booth that would lead us to the bar called P.D.T. (Please Don’t Tell).  I turned left, and there it was:

Get Smart... or Superman?

Get Smart... or Superman?

I pushed open the door, and the guy behind the counter told me it didn’t open until six.  Bummer city.

Lift the receiver and wait for approval to enter the secret bar.

Lift the receiver and wait for approval to enter the secret bar.

We ordered some dogs.  I had mine made Seattle-style, in honor of this upcoming weekend’s trip.  (It’s cream cheese on a hot dog in a bun.)  From there, we made our way back to Madison Square Garden and Penn Station.  And from there back to Newark, and then back

toward 

home.

*sniff*