I made this because I could. And I also needed something to distract myself from looking at People of Walmart.
Oh! The humanity.
There are eight miniature cans of Coke Zero in my refrigerator. Eight tiny cans. Seven ounces in each can. Eight of them.
I don’t even like Coke Zero. It’s alright. I usually drink diet root beer if I drink any soft drink at all. Coke Zero tastes like its big brother enough, but it also tastes like what got me 50 pounds overweight and in trouble with my health. Enough. Although something about cold bubbles on a hot day.
But I didn’t even want Coke Zero. How I ended up with eight cans of it in my fridge is a lesson in how you can end up need something you didn’t even know you wanted. And also: apparently I will buy it if you make it smaller and cuter. I bet it wasn’t even my brain they were trying to reach, but reach they did: eight miniature cans of diet soda in my refrigerator.
(Apropos of nothing: I woke up in the middle of the night last night straight out of a nightmare and one very clear thought issued from my brain meats: “Fractal Vampire!” Whence upon immediately fell back to sleep.)
Insert rant about “ad wizards” here-like. EXCEPT IT DIDN’T EVEN REQUIRE AN AD TO OBTAIN ME AS A CUSTOMER.
Tiny cans, man: tiny fucking cans.
Look what my friends Zoe and Assaf got me.
There are two things you need to know about this. 1) Zoe and Assaf rock. And 2) That is not me in the photo up there. I would never wear a bowtie like that.
It’s just a hand when it’s all zipped up. You don’t want to wear it all zipped up: you’d just be a guy with a big white hand on his hoodie. That’s so dumb!
No. You want to wear it when it’s 65 degrees and you feel like you could be getting chilly but also you don’t wanna melt. You zip it down to a point just above the sternum, yo. At that point you begin to throw off Spock gang signs like crazy mad.
Just automatic-like. Representing the Spock.
Not the entire Navy, surely?
Today I was looking for information on douchebags, and I got more than I was looking for.
Specifically I was looking up dirt on American Apparel founder Dov Charney — a high-functioning sleazebucket, by all accounts — after an acquaintance mentioned on a mailing list that she had seen some AA shirts she liked on sale and couldn’t remember what the reason is nobody was supposed to like American Apparel anymore. So I sniffed around and found all kinds of good stuff that should make anybody think twice about giving money to that company.
And then I found mention of Charney in something called “Douche of the Decade” that Gawker ran with last December. And that looked promising, especially this description — “Dov Charney: American Apparel CEO. Famous perv. Hater of unattractive employees. Lover of naked employees. America’s skeeviest fashion executive. Dov Charney.” — but what really caught my eye was the mesmerizing mini-essay contained in the comments section.
Now, Gawker commenters are pretty much the worst people on the Internet, at least after YouTube commenters and people who pretend they don’t look at 4Chan, but this one… this one should be separated from the herd. And studied. This one made me forget about Dov Charney and float away, serenely, on a little fluffy cloud of douchey magic, for the next 20-30 minutes, approximately, until my attention span was consumed by bingy noises.
I give you RollsRoyce Revenge, and the Most Awesome Thing About Douchebags You Will Read Today:
From some damn thing called the Innernet.