The People of Trader Joe’s

Browse through People of Walmart for a bit. Pretty scary stuff.

The universe needs balance, though. Enter the yuppies of Trader Joe’s, a force countering the grizzled mass that comprises Walmart’s patronage, not in looks, but in sheer pomposity.

Last Friday, I witnessed a 40-something male, clad in snug, halfway-down-the-quad navy blue short pants and a tight pastel plaid shirt, shaming an elderly woman that may have been his mother, lover—or through some sort of strange sci-fi twist, daughter—for suggesting that they buy frozen corn.

Picture that: unfettered fury, arising from the mere mention of produce stored below thirty two degrees Fahrenheit.

The situation played out like this:

Mother, daughter, or lover: “They have some corn in the freezer.”

Man, through gritted teeth, with a vein protruding from his forehead, talking very slowly: “What did……..I tell you……..about frozen…………………… products.”

Then he stood, glaring at her in silence, as a look of genuine terror overtook the woman’s face.

I feel like I should have intervened, but I got the vibe that this would have earned me a room temperature organic daikon radish stuffed into one of my many unfrozen orifices, courtesy of short pants.

 

Rebranding A Classic Feminine Product

Issue: you just don’t see funny tampon commercials.

Cause of issue: lack of innovation and creative stagnation in marketing this product stems from the lunar-like cyclicity of the feminine, ahem, time, which leads tampons to be designated as a need, not a want, causing top napkin producers to take sales for granted.

Solution: rebrand the product.

For this rebranding, our ideal situation would have been to land famed pitchman Billy Mays, but as we all know, it’s been seven years since he mainlined his last speedball of OxiClean, sending him screaming enthusiastically into the Great Void.

It’s okay, with the internet, we can find an impersonator.

Our Billy Mays impersonator

 

So then we move on to the name. The most obvious choice was to christen the product Tampon Daddy.

That probably needs an explanation.

Well I’ve got one.

The name adds a subtle masculine aspect to a product that has, historically, captured nearly 100% of its sales from a demographic of child-bearing age females. It’s time for tampons to break into a new market—a market that has the potential to double sales.

How are we going to sell Tampon Daddy to men? You make tampons sexy again.

And how do you do that? I……don’t know.

Oh yeah, back to the beginning: the issue was that tampon commercials aren’t funny.

So I guess come up with a tampon commercial featuring a Billy Mays impersonator that portrays the product in a very hilarious, sexy light, and somehow opens an educated discussion on why men aren’t using these things, all while not alienating women.

Boring tampon commercial problem solved.

Cleaning Out The Spam Queue

As a blogger, one of your responsibilities is to occasionally comb through the comment spam queue to be sure that no insightful contributions landed there by mistake. Today, I caught this important message from someone called Aksesoris Kalung Menara Eiffel:

“Nowadays there are many crops available in the market and you should go with
high quality products. On the other hand, the hair loss could be connected to the anti-depressants you are taking.
Everybody has to massage the hair because with the help of massage the blood
in our veins of the head circulate more fast and we have good growth of the hair.”

So, Aksesoris Kalung Menara Eiffel, if you are reading this, please know that you have been removed from the spam list, and we here at The Philosophunculist are massaging our hair, feeling the blood in our veins of the head circulating more fast.

Fun Game: Indie Band or Kentucky Derby Horse?

Topical humor time: I compiled a list of indie band names and monikers of horses that have participated in the Kentucky Derby over its 141 year run. It is up to you to guess whether each following group of words identifies a band, a horse, or a Band of Horses (that one is a band). Now, I present to you the list:

I Don’t Know If I Should Cry Or Fart

I Would Have No Problem Shooting A Kitten In The Face

Slovakian Bubble Bath

I Am A Horse That Has Raced In The Kentucky Derby

This One Is A Band Name

The Annexation Of Puerto Rico

Sentient Toilet

The Courtroom Doll That Is Used As A Device For People To Point Out Where The Bad Man Touched Them

Cassandra Morningfart

Why Is A Midget Slapping Me With A Stick

There you have it. Think you did well? Read on, and award yourself one point for each correct answer.

I Don’t Know If I Should Cry Or Fart—This one is neither a horse nor a band. My friend Ryan said it one time.

I Would Have No Problem Shooting A Kitten In The Face—Another trick question. My other friend Jeremy once said this.

Slovakian Bubble Bath—This also is not an animal or a group of humans. It is a despicable act my pal Brad made up, involving fellatio and flatulence in a tub filled with water!

I Am A Horse That Has Raced In The Kentucky Derby—The name implies this is a horse that has raced in the Kentucky Derby. In reality, it is just something I typed.

This One Is A Band Name—This one is NOT a band name. How many have you gotten right so far? I’m shooting 100 percent.

The Annexation Of Puerto Rico—This was a trick play used by football-playing children in the 1994 film Little Giants.

Sentient Toilet—Can you imagine if toilets became self-aware? Wouldn’t that be terrible? And getting back on track, also not equine or musical in nature.

The Courtroom Doll That Is Used As A Device For People To Point Out Where The Bad Man Touched Them—This is a doll that lawyers hold up to people and ask “Where did the bad man touch you? Point to the corresponding area on this doll,” not a horse or a band.

Cassandra Morningfart—This is what shows up on my cellular telephone when my girlfriend, Cassandra Morningfart, calls me.

Why Is A Midget Slapping Me With A Stick—This is something that horses in the Kentucky Derby wonder. There are also people in indie bands that ask themselves this question. Sometimes people in indie bands get slapped with sticks by midgets.

Now give yourself one point for each correct answer.

0-4 points: You don’t know shit about indie bands or the Kentucky Derby!

5-9 points: Impressive, but you are still not very good at knowing things about horses and bands.

10 points: You are me.

 

Pope Joan And Patriarchal Folly

Here is a legend:

During the Middle Ages, a learned woman named Joan may or may not have risen to the rank of pope by disguising herself as a man. Google Pope Joan if you like.

This brings us to the quote of the year, so far. In The Secrets of the Tarot: Origins, History, and Symbolism, Barbara G. Walker writes:

“Whether Pope Joan was legendary or not, a strange Vatican custom appeared after what the church insisted was not her reign. Candidates for the papacy seated themselves naked on an open stool, like a toilet seat, to be viewed through a hole in the floor by cardinals in a room below. The committee then had to render a formal verdict: Testiculos habet, et bene pendentes—-“He has testicles, and they hang all right.”

The men of the church would rather gaze up at an old guy’s scrotum than mistakenly allow a woman to assume power.

Well, I’ve Been Screwed Again

Many years ago, while enrolled in a prestigious technical college, I concocted a brew during my downtime between classes.

The Brew:

Part cappuccino, part energy drink. Named it ‘Enerchino.’ Tasted like liquid garbage, due to the experimental environment it was mixed in. Corporate funding, i.e. that of your Monster, Red Bull, etc., could have improved test versions. So I sent the recipe to a patent company. Never heard back.

Now, next time you’re in a gas station, take a stroll back to the beverage aisle, and a myriad of java-energy fusion drinks you will find. These conveniently achieved popularity about a year after I submitted my idea to that patent company.

There went my first million.

More recently, this past summer, I tried a new avenue of life-improving technology. You see, while still enrolled at the prestigious technical university mentioned above, I overheard fellow students discussing a mechanism called a ‘doob tube.’ It was simple: stuff an old toilet paper roll full of dryer sheets, then when marijuana drug smoke is blown through it, the scent is masked.

The New Invention:

Using dryer sheets and my own underpants, I attempted to create a garment that would cloak the aroma of flatulence, utilizing the same concept as the doob tube. It was impossible to fail. The one-person test group informed me that the odor of my wind was still very much noticeable. A request for the sheets to be sewn directly into the boxer shorts was denied, and the project was shelved. I knew I was on to something though.

A real picture from the Shreddies website.

A few weeks or days or months later, I see somebody post this on Facebook. That’s a link to a product called Shreddies. Shreddies. What kind of name is that. Guess what their product does. They make underwear that filters flatulence.

There goes another million.

So now, back at the drawing board, I sit here drinking a nearly undrinkable beverage that I just made, called CoffTea. It’s coffee and tea mixed together, and it’s revolting.

Here’s A Joke

It’s Saturday. Here’s a joke to tell at that house party, weenie roast, or fish fry you’re attending tonight:

Q/ What is black, white, red, and can’t think?

A\ A nun with a beet for a head.

Observations From Tonight’s Walmart Trip

……..i think i was the skinniest person there. that includes the children…..

……everyone seemed to have a smoker’s cough and knee problems. not one or the other. both. EVERYONE. that includes the children…..

……everyone seemed to have multiple loud children. that includes the children……..

………i think i saw not one, but two couples that were on a date………..and they weren’t like long-term couples either, they were having some real heart-felt first date ‘get-to-know-you’ conversations……….

………as the throbbing hordes coughed and limped around me, cursing their deteriorating knee cartilage, i was nearly swallowed by the gelatinous mass, almost sucked right in, to become one of them……but i made it out

What Halloween Means To Me

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!! Halloween is like, totally my favorite holiday. Pumpkin-infused booze. Tons of candy. And, you can dress like a total slut and it’s acceptable because it’s like, Halloween.

I didn’t always slut it up on Halloween. Throughout my teenage years, I dressed like a slut every day but Halloween. Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, birthday parties—so much sluttiness! Halloween was my time to get away from that.

I eventually learned that you gain a certain power by withholding something great, in this case my slutty wardrobe. People began to realize how much they missed the slutty me.

Throughout my twenties I really let it rip every October 31. A partial list of my costumes from that decade—slutty pumpkin, slutty Santa, slutty teacher, slutty doctor, slutty angel, slutty devil, slutty Philip K. Dick, slutty male nurse, slutty ghost, slutty maid, slutty Jason. I was so slutty, I made myself sick!

It was very fun, but now that I’m officially a ‘thirty-something,’ the evolution must continue.

A certain maturity is expected of me now. A slutty, grown-up maturity.

Q: So, what is the sluttiest costume possible?

A: A slut, you’re probably thinking.

You’re wrong, though. A slutty slut is the correct answer.

I will be so slutty, right down to the slutty mannerisms, slutty dress, and slutty psyche of an actual slut, that I will believe I am no longer myself, but a slut with such low self esteem that slutting myself out is the only escape from my slutty life. I will even cry in the shower as I prepare to go out for the night, and wonder why people only call me when they’ve been drinking.

Ah! I can’t wait!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

 

 

 

My New Catchphrase: “It’s Bath Time, Baby!”

“I’ve always told people that for each person there is a sentence—a series of words—which has the power to destroy him…….another sentence exists, another series of words, which will heal the person. If you’re lucky you will get the second; but you can be certain of getting the first: that is the way it works.” —Philip K. Dick, from his novel VALIS

I already know the series of words that can, and have destroyed me. There are a few, in fact. My destruction has materialized in the following forms, as well as subtle variations: “Hey, you can’t pee there,” or “Stop picking at it,” and “That was in the garbage, you know.”

So, then, what series of words would heal me? I sat down and did some soul-searching. I thought about what mine should be. Nothing came. I cogitated a while longer. Who am I? What have I become these last few years? This quotation by Mr. Christopher Wallace, aka Biggie Smalls, aka The Black Frank White, aka The Notorious B.I.G., aka Biggie Biggie Bay-Bay, the man with the sycamore style, that’s more sicka than yours, tells the complete story of where my life is right now:

“I’m flamin’ gats, aimin’ at, these fuckin’ maniacs who put my name in raps.”

For a few days, that was my catharsis. In a tight, easy-flowing package, my redemption was defined. I almost kept it. Then I thought some more. I realized that perhaps my healing verse should come not from without, but from within.

My series of rejuvenating words needed something that would really kick you in the crotch, then steal your wallet. I thought about things I say at parties that always give rise to joviality, things like “This puppy needs some chow. Woof!” I’ve ridden that one to deafening heights of laughter. But I’m more than that.

I once had a saying that went “First you dump it, then you pump it.” More good words to live by. They rhyme. But I recently realized they don’t mean anything.

Here’s something I like to say when things aren’t going to plan: “I’m not gonna let it pucker my panties.” That was so hard to let go. But then I realized I would have to be wearing panties like all the time for it to be applicable. So I moved on.

I almost gave up. This was a few Saturdays ago. And on Saturday, of course, comes bath night. As I let hot water fill my tub, I thought to myself, “It’s bath time, baby!”

I was so excited I didn’t even take a bath. That was my healing phrase, because at bath time, anything goes. I can pee, pick, eat, talk, and do anything else you can possibly imagine in there.

And that, my friends, is how I found my healing sentence.