That's Just The Booze Talking

Friday, September 16, 2005

Now We Are Six



It’s Friday and we’re busy, but we’d be remiss if we didn’t point you in this direction. In a sad and peculiar attempt at viral marketing, Nabisco is offering fans of its snack line a chance to toss some beanbags through what appears to be a toppled box of Ritz Chips that just so happens to have sprouted a darkly puckered anus. The name of the game: Cornhole.

Bwah.

It gets better. Apparently, some folks in the state that handed the 2004 presidential election to President Rain Man have invented a similar game and are looking to take it national. But the ridiculous name aside, we suppose that Cornhole’s no more ridiculous than soccer or the WNBA.




The uneasy alliance between corn chips and assholes reminds us of Frito-Lay’s experiment with Olestra, which culminated in a product called WOW! After just a handful of weeks on the market, it became apparent that WOW! was shorthand for WOW! I JUST SHIT MY PANTS! After a number of consumer complaints, the FDA ordered Frito-Lay to print the following warning on each package of its (literally) shitty chips: “This Product Contains Olestra. Olestra may cause abdominal cramping and loose stools. Olestra inhibits the absorption of some vitamins and other nutrients. Vitamins A, D, E, and K have been added.”

Turns out, in 2003 the FDA reversed its earlier decision and decided that Frito-Lay no longer had to print the warning, because the side effects were “mild and rare.”

In response, a concerned group of citizens called the Center for Science in the Public Interest had this to say: “Although underwear staining and anal leakage do not endanger consumers' physical health, those phenomena could cause psychological problems, including feelings of embarrassment and insecurity. Children and teenagers, especially, are likely to be disturbed about having dirty underwear, fearing embarrassment in front of friends and family. Snacking should be a pleasure undiluted with problems like dirty underwear.” [Emphasis ours.]

If that last bit isn’t in the Constitution, then the Founding Fathers were a bunch of short-sighted dickbags.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Even This Trusty Accomplice Gets Rusty



We’ve been unwell. A week-long bout of insomnia has broken us down to the point where we are not exaggerating in the slightest when we say that at present we resemble nothing so much as an anorexic panda. Earlier today a woman in the office offered us the use of her concealer to try and do something about the bags under our eyes and we very recently enjoyed a minor hallucination in the men’s room. (At least that’s what we hoped was going on: Honestly, there’s no chance that we actually just discovered human teeth in our stool, right?)

We’ve tried everything to nip this thing in the bud––cutting down on the Meth, packing a skull bong with a blend of high-resin Burmese hashish laced with finely ground Percodans and dusted with just a hint of the ashes of Robert Pershing Wadlow––but every night at about 4:00 in the ayem, our eyes fly open and we stare at the ceiling until dawn pokes her rosy fingers into our ribs. Short of a brisk round of joyless midnight fucking**, which always puts us under, we’re at a loss as to how to go about stemming the tide of unsolicited wakefulness.

In the meantime, this is the coolest thing we’ve seen on the Infobahn™ in forever. (Scroll down past whatever the hell is going on with the nekkid woman with the lobster on her crotch.) Sweet Blistery Jesus, they have the video for “T.V. Party” here. They have Johnny Thunders’ smacktastic “Chinese Rocks.” Plus: Iggy, Lou, MBV, a zillion Sonic Youth videos and that clip of “Town Called Malice “that MTV used to show all the time before someone decided that every song on the network had to be about Madonna’s Baloney Curtain.

**As we’re fresh out of chloroform, we’re shit out of luck on that score. And no, we don’t keep porn in the house, because we’re always afraid we’re going to go peace out like Hoon and our tiny sainted mother will have to go through our stuff and be confronted by magazines featuring pictures of people shoving trumpet valves up their asses. In a pinch, we’ve been known to get creative: We once utilized a box of Cap’n Crunch with a picture of Star Jones taped over the Crunchberry Beast’s face.

What.