Archive for August, 2009

Flying to Hawaii: A Love Story

August 27, 2009

This is going to be the first of several recounts of my trip to Hawaii earlier this month; I’d post them all at once, but I don’t want to inadvertently kill you with all the awesome.

Seriously, the whole effing state looks like a postcard.

Seriously, the whole effing state looks like a postcard.

I have a friend (who shall remain nameless, lest you all try to steal her from me) who invited me to come spend a week with her at her home on a Marine base in Hawaii. Believe it or not, I balked at first; I’m pasty white, I don’t fly well, and I’m not even getting into the amount of bikini grooming I haven’t done this summer.  Then she mentioned something about having access to 19-year-old Marines who were away from home for the first time in their lives, and I caved–I like them young and scared.

Not just for breakfast anymore.

Not just for breakfast anymore.

At the Atlanta airport, I did four a couple shots of Patrón at 9 a.m.  This made me even more amiable than usual, and I was loving everyone on that airplane, including the retired Chicago cop I was seated next to, who will be lovingly referred to as Flashback Joe for the remainder of the post.  By the time we were over Arkansas, Flashback had asked me to marry him, and I agreed to give him my phone number when we disembarked.  I gave him my freeze-dried meat product they served us, and he gave me his stale roll.  Mind you, this man was close to forty when I was born.  But I loved Flashback Joe, and he loved me.  And then the Patrón started to wear off, and as happens with all romantic affairs, I began to notice his flaws.  Like the fact that he was seventy years old and looked fourteen months pregnant.

Mmmm, Colorado-y.

Mmmm, Colorado-y.

When we were over Colorado, he accused me of having poor housekeeping skills and lusting after other men (I was totally doing that, since I was watching “Twilight” on my iPhone).  Just before California, I met his daughter, a petulant young woman seated three rows ahead of us who took an instant dislike to me.

I'd ship this to Flashback if I had his address

Somewhere over the Pacific, I’d had it; the attendants had served us some sort of cheese bread as a snack, and Flashback ate his with open-mouthed enthusiasm as he prodded me to discuss my cooking abilities. Short experiment: sit very close to someone who has trusted you up to this point. Wad up a piece of cheesy bread in your mouth and chew it a little; then turn to your trusting partner and say “fettuccine alfredo” a couple of times. If your formerly trusting friend is not covered in flecks of your wadded up ABC cheese roll, I’ll send you seven dollars. I sure as hell had Flashback Joe’s snack speckling the entire right side of my body and I was OVER IT.

I turned my body and pretended to look for Hawaii on the horizon, even though there was at least two hours of flight left.  This did not deter Flashback, who took to grabbing my arm every ten minutes or so to introduce me to another of an indeterminate number of his offspring who were scattered about the aircraft.  I was appalled to be engaged to such a man, and announced that I didn’t plan to remarry until I was in my fifties [and he was dead].  He assured me that I would change my mind, and when I rejected that theory, he spat (literally, he was a champion spitter) that I would be dried up when I was fifty.  I stuttered and blinked like Kristen Stewart trying to be dramatic, and then I had an IQ jump, an idea sure to definitively snuff out the dying embers of our relationship.

I pulled out Pocket Edward.

Edward welcomes you to Honolulu.

Edward welcomes you to Honolulu.

Yes I, a full grown woman on an airplane with 400 strangers, pulled out my miniature plastic vampire and started to pose him in various ways, some grotesque, some obscene.  I dangled him from my fold down tray.  I put him in the barf bag.  I tried to situate him in a meditation pose, airline peanut in each hand, but that motherfucker DOES NOT BEND.  By the time Pocket Edward humped my travel pillow, Flashback Joe was pretending he did not know me.  Indeed, he didn’t speak for the remainder of the trip, and when we landed, I don’t even think he retrieved his luggage, so eager he was to get away from me and my freaky toy fetish.  This knowledge I now impart to you:  pull out a tiny plastic dude on a flight, and no one will fuck with you.

Note:  While making sure I got my descriptions of Pocket Edward correct, I pulled up the Amazon product page for same.  I was shocked to find several errors, including the assertion that P.E. is fully poseable (I can attest that he is most certainly not) and a description of Edward Cullen as a “shining” vampire when he clearly does not shine, but sparkle (P.E. disappointingly does neither).  I nearly died when I read under “Choking Hazards” that Pocket Edward contains a small ball and/or a marble, and may have a balloon concealed on his tiny person; I am now obsessed with finding all three.


These ad agencies need to hire teenage boys

August 10, 2009

If ad agencies kept fifteen year old boys on their payroll, they’d immediately realize the problems inherent in this sort of ad campaign:

All I could think was “blue balls”.  I had to rewind the TiVo machine just to find out what product it was for.  Apparently they have a whole campaign around the blue balls.

You see how a teenage boy could have nipped this shit in the bud–the idea would have never made it past the white board stage, what with all the giggling and guffawing and Beavis-and-Buttheading that would have been going on.

Then there’s this, which blows my mind every time:

At least Hardee’s did it on purpose, though hearing that creepy guy say “Creamy Balls” and an old woman say “Happy Holes” has permanently altered my soul.  If you can handle Morgan Freeman’s doppelganger uttering the phrase, “The A-hole tastes funny”, click this link.