Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Ten Things

One time, on this very blog, we did a list in which each of the ten things we talked about started with the same letter as it's position on the list.  I vaguely remember that it was kind of fun to do, so let's do it again. Only this time we are going to connect them in a sort of reasonable way.

1.) Oleo - Oleo is what people who are much older than I call margarine.  It was the first synthetic butter, and it came clear and you had to like mix a little color packet into it.  That is a lot of work for fake butter.  Was butter really all that bad?  I mean, really?  So bad that you had to drive across state lines (if you lived in certain states) and mix colors in to have something to put on your toast?  I have to mix coloring into the grout I use on my bathroom tile.  And it probably tastes roughly the same as that original Oleo, too.

2.)  Toast - It is where you put your Oleo.  And it is fantastic.  There are not a lot of foods that are quite as
good as toast.  There is just something about it.  Plus, the appliance that makes it is a brave cartoon.  It is what you eat when you are sick usually, and it is one of the few common foods that has inspired its own song. (Yeah Toast!)  Take that, risotto.

3.) Teeth - It is what you use to eat your toast, unless you like blend it up or made a lot of dirty movies in college and can do things with your throat.  George Washington had very famous wooden false teeth, and since you probably can't prove me wrong without using Google, Bing, or Yahoo! I am going to make the claim that they were made from the wood of the even more famous cherry tree.  I just put that on the Internet so now it is true.  Take that, history. 

4.)  Flouride - You know they put that shit in your water?  It is like they can't trust you to brush your own #3 all night.  Just kidding.  Number 4 is France - as in the country that was partly behind the French and Indian War.  Did you know that George Washington served in the British Army in the French and Indian War?  Boom, there is your connection.  Anyway, France, courtesy of their hatred of the British, would go on to be a big ally of an early America.  And now we can't even keep our crinkle cut deep fried potatoes named after them.  My how soon we forget.

5.)  Franklin - Do you know who LOVED France?  Benjamin Franklin.  He was there all the time when he wasn't flying kites or printing shit.  And he loved the French ladies.  It is pretty impressive for a man who ran around in a wig and short pants to get as much action as he did over there, although in all fairness back then smart phones hadn't been invented and being good at puns was enough to get you an invitation upstairs.

6.) Stamps - Benjamin Franklin is on a lot of stamps.  That is something that you did not know.  Or maybe you did, I don't know, Company.  It should be no surprise that BF was on all sorts of postage because a.) he was the first Postmaster General and b.) he did all sorts of cool stuff.  And if random sports could get on stamps, the guy who figured out electricity and weather damn well should be.  Right? 

7.)  Saliva - Not the band.  Settle down.  The stuff that comes out of your mouth.  When I was a kid this is what you used to make your Benjamin Franklin stamps stick to the envelope.  Now it is done with a sticker and I am honestly a little bit disappointed.  I loved licking them things because licking things is cool but it is apparently socially unacceptable to just go around licking random things.  So I had to lick stamps.

8.)  Envelopes - This is the next thing that we aren't going to be able to lick anymore.  What the hell am I going to lick then?  Maybe I can bite something instead.

9.)  Nails.  As in fingernails.  I already do this, and I am really bad about it.  Once I run out of nails to bite I bite the end of my fingers.  If I were like Marilyn Manson I would have my lower ribs removed so that I could bite my toenails since I am not really all that flexible.  There is something about seeing the white part of my fingernails that I just can't stand.  And plus they taste like butter a little bit.  But it is not butter.  It's...

10.)  Oleo - OLEO!  That is right, we have come full circle. Just like Benjamin Franklin! BAM!  I am just kidding, I don't know if he ever got laid in France.  But if I were there at that time, that pun would have totally got me some.  But have you noticed that Oleo doesn't start with "T" and ten doesn't start with "O."  HA!  I got you good.  That is better than a pun.  Number 10 is Toes - where you have another set of nails.  Toes are attached to your feet, which you use to go get some margarine.  Or Oleo, as they call it.  Now we have come full circle.  Take that, France.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Dead Man Walking

      Zombies are hot right now.  Almost vampire-hot. TV loves them. They are in Sprint commercialsThey are on AMC.  They are probably on the CW too, because I am sure tweens are into them.  And I think that there are probably some zombie-like creatures on a beach in France.  But for as often as you might see the living dead on your television, I think that it would be safe to say that most of us don't believe that there are dead people walking among us.  Except that there are.  In Ohio for example.
     In 1986 Donald Miller, Jr. left his rented home in northwest Ohio and didn't come back.  He wasn't dead - he had disappeared south in the midst of a tough time in his life - and started over there.  But the Ohio authorities couldn't find him, and in 1994 his ex-wife Robin asked a judge to proclaim him legally dead.  Donny Boy owed thousands of dollars in child support to his ex, and she wanted his Social Security death benefits to go to their children.  Makes sense.  The problem though - as we said above - is that Donald Miller, Jr. wasn't dead.
     At this point I am confusicus.  What we have is a dead guy who isn't dead but everyone thinks he is.  I have not been able to find anything about what Mr. Miller did during his time in Florida, Georgia, and wherever else he went to during his dead time.  And so, despite making the Unpaid Interns research the subject for hours and hours and hours at cramped desks in little rooms, I haven't been able to ascertain if he used his real name or used a pseudonym or what. I certainly hope that he did.  Because if he was being Donald Miller, Jr. down in Florida then the guys up in Ohio really did a cracker jack job of looking for him.
     I understand that Al Gore had not invented the Internet yet in 1994, or maybe he was in the process of inventing it while Sarah Palin stood on her porch and looked at Russia, but I would like to assume that there were telephone lines strung in succession from northwest Ohio to just about every part of Florida AND Georgia.  Hell, even Hazzard had phones, and I am pretty sure that there were at least telegraph lines connecting the country all the way back in Civil War times.  They couldn't make a phone call?  Like, they didn't have APB's back then?  I just have so many questions about everything.
     So let's assume that he was going under a different name, like Ronald Miller, Jr. or something.  Or Craig Smithton.  Let's go with Craig Smithton.  Time goes by, events occur, maybe it rains one day.  Somewhere along the way he makes the decision to go back to Ohio and resume his life that he left behind.  He comes back in 2005, almost twenty years after he left, at which time his parents inform him that he is dead.
      So Donald Miller, Jr. instantly becomes the living dead.  And that has to be just terrible.  Whenever I am having a shitty day and I think that things couldn't get much worse, I think of Donald Miller, Jr.  I mean, he is dead.  He has to walk around being not alive.  Except that he is.  And he wanted to restart his life.  So that is why he was in court last week, essentially asking for his life back. He was asking for a reversal of the death declaration so that his drivers license and Social Security number could be restored.  His ex-wife was in court asking for him to continue being dead because she didn't want to pay back the benefits.  And all of them were sitting and making arguments in front of Hancock County Probate Court Judge Allan Davis.
      The Honorable Allan Davis is a man of the law, but I also assume that he is a reasonable and logical person.  Unfortunately the law is not also always logical and reasonable.  And the Honorable Judge Davis has to rule by the law.  And he explained it to those in the courtroom and by proxy the rest of us in the world. (What he did not explain is how a man who is declared legally dead and whom no longer has a Social Security number or driver's license anymore files suit in court.)  "We've got the obvious here" states the Honorable Judge Davis. " A man sitting in the courtroom, he appears to be in good health."  But the Honorable Judge Davis is a man of the law, and Section 2121.05(D) of the Ohio Revised Code says that once you have been legally dead for three years you can't come back to life.  Or at least you can't have your old life restored.
     So Donald Miller, Jr. remains dead, despite the pesky fact that he is still alive.  And he walks among us for everyone to see.  Life really is stranger than fiction.   And the law doesn't always have a basis in reality.  That is how we got this very unique dead man walking.

Wednesday, October 02, 2013

An Open Letter To The Woman Who Is Pissing Me Off At My Non-Media Mogul Second Job

Dear Woman Who Is Pissing Me Off At My Non-Media Mogul Second Job,

     I have absolutely no respect for you anymore.  I did at one point, but now instead of dealing with me like a civilized adult, you have decided to go over my head in a way that is clearly meant to intimidate me.  So that leads me to say fuck off and die.  At first you were just nosy and annoying but now you have pissed me off.  This behavior - general assholishness - should not surprise me seeing as where you live.  And the attitude that you cop with me on the telephone - that you care so much about the environment with just a hint of patronization added in just for effect - could not be more misplaced.  You do not care one bit about the environment at large.  You never cared about the giant, fifty year old issue located a mile from your property for the other forty years that you and it have been co-existing so peacefully.  It was out of sight, so it was out of mind.  But now that something has changed.  A minor, insignificant change that actually betters the greater good of everyone in the whole area at the detriment of one tiny little section of the horizon of a lake on which you do not own property.  That is the most selfish thing that I have ever heard.
     So here is what is going to happen.  Even though I have easy access to your home address, as well as both your land line and cell phone numbers, I am not going to come to where you live.  No, I am going to waste one minute of me precious time hunting you down.  But you had better believe that each and every one of my Unpaid Interns are currently combing databases that even NCIS couldn't get access to in their wildest dreams to find a current photo of you.  And it will be burned into my memory, so that one day when we meet on the street I can lay into you with the fury of a thousand volcanic eruptions.
      I am not going to hit you.   I am not a monster.  My mother raised me right and I don't hit girls.  But I am definitely not above yelling at you a lot in public, in front of at least a dozen people.  And I mean screaming, in your face, with little bits of spittle flying into your face while you just stand there and listen to it.  You husband will probably try to stick his bony old neck in but that won't be a problem because I can punch him in the Adam's apple and he will crumple like a piece of Ikea furniture with only half of the half of the connectors that they supplied you used in the construction.  So then it is back to you.  I am not going to spare a single emotion.  I am going lay it on thick and fast right in front of everyone, and you can believe me when I tell you that I am not going to let you get a word in edgewise.
     When it is all done you will be kneeling on the sidewalk, crying the big, salty, nasty tears that come with having your true self exposed to you in a very public way, leaning over your husband as he frantically stabs at the button on his medic alert necklace.  You are a selfish, unrealistic, stupid, and conceited idiot.  Go to hell and suck on a lemon that is laced with cyanide.

I hope you get SARS,

Big Dave.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Rock, Paper, Scissors

Today here at Big Dave and Company, we examine three things that you use every day and probably take for granted: rock, paper, and scissors.

Rock 

Rock is a lot of things.  It is a genre of music.  It is a county in Wisconsin.  It is the choice in the game that
crushes scissors.  I am surprised that you didn't figure that one out for yourself.  That is the clever part of the title.  Anyway, rock is also really, really freaking hard earth and dirt.  It makes up the road that you drive on - because asphalt is really just rocks bound with tar and oil - and it makes up that road that you drive on when you go to the park that makes you feel all badass because it is gravel and it makes you feel like you really needed that four wheel drive SUV.   Rock is also a guy who used to play football and then was a wrestler and now is in movies and on TV.  Rock is hard.  Rock is versatile.  Rock it vitally important.  And remember, it always gets beat by paper.  Somehow.

Paper

Paper beats rock.  I have no idea how the hell that happens.  Yeah paper can cover a rock, but have you ever thrown a rock at a piece of paper? Goes right through last time I checked.  Unless there are like fifty pieces of paper put together.  Then it is a totally different scenario.  Have you ever thrown a rock at a phone book?  Yeah, I didn't think so.  Nobody does that.  But it you did you would find that it probably wouldn't go through.  That is the mystery of paper.  Well, part of the mystery.  Paper has this magic ability to make you seem a LOT busier than you really are.  Ever since that ancient Chinese guy tried to make wood alcohol and accidentally made paper, everything that is anything has had to be written down on paper.  It has created hundreds of millions of jobs - from loggers to people making roads for loggers (putting rock to use it should be noted) to legions of people in cubicles who shuffle papers from basket to basket.  And it has given me a wonderful new trick: When I want the Unpaid Interns to leave me alone, I just carry like six important looking folders around and look annoyed.  Works every time.  Oh, and it works great for wiping my ass.

Scissors

Sometimes, when I am carrying the folders and looking annoyed - and super handsome to boot because I
wear a suit at all times Barney Stinson style - and the Unpaid Interns are scurrying away, you could cut the tension in the Worldwide Headquarters with a knife.  But why would you do that when you could use a scissors?  Because scissors are just two knives connected and supplied with an ergonomic handle.  It is the only one in the game that I really trust because, quite frankly it is the one one that is truthful, except that rock can be used to sharpen scissors...but we won't get into that argument here.  Unless you want to.  The point here is that scissors are the shit.  Have you ever been to one of those Japanese restaurants where the chef is there with the grill right in front of you and does all that amazing shit with the two knives?  That is not really a specialty kind of restaurant.  That is a form of Japanese Amish where they are stuck at a time pre-scissors and the guy JUST WANTS TO CUT THAT FOOD but he can't because they aren't able to use the bolt technology and ergonomic handle that make scissors, well, scissors.  A scissors is two knives, and all that guy wants is to have them connected.  BAM!  Scissors.  And you get delicious Japanese food.  Take that rock and paper.

Monday, August 12, 2013

When In Rome...

     Let's take a moment to get into some hypotheticals, shall we, Company? 
     Situation #1:  Let's pretend that I come to the town where you live.  Then let's pretend that I come into a friendly local business that you work at.  I do not bother to wear shoes.  I remove my pants, I find the nearest pretty girl, and I have her ride around on my back like I am a horse.  Then, I go in my Captain America underwear out into the street where I am loud and very, very conspicuous.  Then I wonder why you get angry at me for acting that way.
     Situation #2:  I want to go to a friendly local business, but it is located on a major local highway with a bit of a sketchy parking situation.  So I drive there in my automobile, and I proceed to stop in the middle of the major highway and stare for like two minutes at the parking situation.  Then I turn down the side road and proceed to park in the parking lot for the competing business.  When I realize that this is not the place that I want to go, I back out into traffic on the side road without looking for any traffic or pedestrians.  I then stop again in the middle of the major highway to stare at the parking situation before making a VERY illegal U-turn and parking on the sidewalk.
     Situation #3:  I come to the town where you live YET AGAIN.  I go into your favorite grocery store, grab a cart, and proceed to wander around the store without looking around me because I am too busy staring at the roof trusses and brightly colored packages because I apparently have never seen an f-ing grocery store before.  I then go to the liquor portion and buy sixteen packs of booze and jump in line in front of you.  In the process, I give you a dirty look even though you are just trying to buy bread, grapes, and a box of Tuna Helper.
     Situation #4:  I think that is enough hypothetical situations for one day, isn't it?
     Anyway, the top three situations happened to me within the last week and a half.  It is the height of the summer tourism season, Company, and with the Worldwide Headquarters being located here, there are naturally a ton of tourists who come to where I live.  And a pretty lively tourism infrastructure has sprung up to serve them.  So as you can imagine I see a lot of tourists as I go about my day.  Observing them has led me to develop one major piece of advice for everyone who cares to travel and go on vacation:

IF IT NOT OKAY FOR YOU TO DO AT HOME IT IS NOT OKAY FOR YOU TO DO ON VACATION!

     People tend to forget this important social tenet, which causes them to act like a-holes.  If I came to any other town and did any of the above things, most people would be disgusted.  Most of the people whom I saw doing those things would be disgusted, or at least annoyed.   Yet all of them did that when they were on vacation.  They have forgotten the first rule: see above.  The old adage is 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do."  And that is true, because you should do what the locals do.  Because they would never do that shit in their hometown.  But the Romans were also crazy a-holes.  I think it should be more like this: "When in Rome, do as you would do when you are wherever the fuck you came from."

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Your Google Hangout

     Let's talk about who is in the Google Hangout that is being featured in the television commercial that is on my television RIGHT NOW!

1.)  The first participant is an attractive 25 year old woman who is wearing skinny jeans, some sort of beret or something, and she is in a giant, sunny apartment with an amazing view of the San Francisco skyline.  This apartment would - in real life - cost an obscene amount of money to rent even though this person doesn't seem to have a job because it is the middle of a day on a weekday and she is in a Google hangout instead of - you know - working.  Unless of course she is a "Certified Google Hangout Co-ordinator," which is a job that only exists on a Google campus.

2.)  The second participant is across town in San Francisco, which is the only thing that this Google Hangout has in common with any in reality.  Yes, the fact that two people are on Google Hangout who could easily just be talking face to face is the only thing that the ideal commercial Google Hangout has in common with yours.  Anyway, the dude is there across town, or maybe across the Bay in Berkeley, and he is sitting outside at a cafe.  It is not an Internet cafe because out there every cafe is an Internet cafe, and he has his laptop open.  It is beautiful day outside, and he seems to be doing a good job sucking down coffee.  He is some sort of computer programmer, or more likely an aspiring writer who just sits around all day in cafes doing Google hangouts but is in his mind "trying to have real life experiences that will make the characters in my novel be more real and well rounded."  He is also wearing skinny jeans.

3.)  The third member of the commercial hangout lives in New York, because apparently no one in the middle of the country uses computers or Google.  There might be one guy in Denver who is always right in front of the mountains when he uses Google (or any Apple product) but he is not at this particular hangout.  The third guy is a minority, or more likely some sort of half minority that is just like one shade away from being a white dude.  He has dark Buddy Holly-style glasses and hair that looks a lot like Adam Duritz's.  He is wearing a blue and white flannel patterned shirt and he is in some sort of trendy looking exposed brick ex-industrial loft space.  He is an artist of some sort but he is too busy being in Google Hangout with the other attractive folks to make any art.  Except for the art of conversation.  BAZINGA!

Those are the only three people in the commercial Google Hangout, because there is only time for three people in a thirty second commercial.  But notice how there are no unattractive people in the Google Hangout and there are no unsuccessful people - despite the fact that they don't seem to have money earning jobs.  So now let's take a look at who is in your Google Hangout, shall we?

First of all, it is evening.  You and your friends don't do Google Hangout in the daytime because - well, you have jobs. And the clientele is a little bit different than the commercial hangout:

1.)  You are there.  And I am not going to get into you.  You know all about you.  But I will tell you that you are either at a kitchen table with a laptop or at a PC in a spare bedroom with a ton of shit cluttering the room behind you.  There is a two liter of Mountain Dew somewhere on the table or desk.

2-4.)  These are three of your friends.  They are pretty much just like you.  They are the same sex as you.  They are the same race as you. They like all of the same things, and they are also either at the kitchen table or at the family computer.  Unless one of your friends is my buddy Hardcore, in which case he is on a $2500 desktop computer in the living room of an apartment that is furnished with only a folding chair and a 56" television.  Anyway, all of them have Mountain Dew and all of them live within a ten minute drive of your house and/or apartment.

5.)  This is the one person who was in your group who was of the opposite sex.  I am going to assume that you are a dude, so this is the girl who hung out with you and the above three guys, and who all of you secretly wanted, but who went off to live somewhere else but still does Google Hangout with out because you are all really good friends.  None of you live on the coast.  Everyone lives in St. Joseph, MO except this person - they live in Dallas or something.  Maybe Louisville, KY or Knoxville, TN.  She is in an apartment with some cool looking posters in the background, and is probably using a tablet.  There is a dog lying in the background.  She is now like in her shorts and a t-shirt, but earlier in the day she had skinny jeans on. 

Tuesday, June 04, 2013

If Day

    Way back in the day we used to get - beamed into the Wordwide Headquarters from the Great White North - the CBC.  Now for those of you who are not hip and young and into abbreviations that is the Canadian Broadcasting Company.  And one day as I was flipping channels there was some sort of show on the CBC geared towards teens, and the reporter was out and about asking Canadian teenagers what city they would most and least like to live in.  Now, the cities they wanted to live in were pretty varied - Toronto, Vancouver, there was even an Edmonton in there (for God's sake why I don't know) - but one city came up over and over on the list of places the Canadian youth would not want to live: Winnipeg. 
     Situated at the confluence of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers, Winnipeg has always been a location that has been more strategic and effective than it is good.  While the city is pleasant enough, it is mostly flat farm county around the area, and it is noted for it frigid, windswept qualities.  Not the kind of place that gets a great rap as being a place where people want to go.  So when I heard that on February 19, 1942 the leaders and citizens of Winnipeg held an event called "If Day" that simulated a Nazi invasion of the city, I thought "That was a waste of time."
     If Day was really just a stunt to raise war awareness and help sell war bonds during World War II.  And in that way it was spectacularly successful, so much so that many other Canadian cities and locations held similar events.  Over eleventy billion dollars worth of war bonds were sold (that is an estimated amount, or course) and everyone had a nice time.  But there is one problem.  One major problem.  Everybody knows that the Nazis would never invade Winnipeg.
     If the Canadians don't really want to be there all that much - or at least so it seems - what would make one think that the Nazis would?  There is no reason why they would expend the time and resources to take the city.  Why would they? To cut off all that American commerce flowing north from Pembina?  To float lazily down the Red River of the North in the finest of German innertubes?  For that Golden Boy statue on top of the Manitoba capitol?  No.  For none of the above.  The Nazis would take Toronto because it is Toronto, Ottawa because it is the capital, maybe Montreal for the baguettes, Calgary for the oil for sure, and I would guess Vancouver for the port.  And the Canucks.  But Winnipeg?  Really?  No.  They wouldn't waste their time.
     The Germans were pretty smart.  In early 1942 they were racing into the Soviet Union at a pretty rapid rate, and hadn't yet learned about how awful it is to invade cold, flat, agricultural areas in the middle of huge continents, but I still don't think they would have made a move on Winnipeg.  I am sure that the Luftwaffe would have dropped some bombs on the city on its way past, but I am not thinking that there would have been a large scale invasion of the city by German troops.
     "But what if the Nazis took the country and set up a new government there?  Wouldn't If Day have been a good preparedness activity for that?" I can hear no one asking.  I suppose that you can make that point, but I wouldn't.  I don't think that Canada was ever in danger of being invaded by the Germans.  The Japanese maybe, since they did invade Alaska and had this hard on for conquering the Pacific Ocean, but the Germans didn't care about Canada.  Just like they don't really care about it today.
     What the folks in Winnipeg should have been preparing for was an invasion by America.  I am sure that the United States would be happy to have Winnipeg.  Hell, we would be happy to have all of southern Manitoba.  They could have made everyone listen to Brooklyn Dodger games and put up posters of Uncle Sam all over the place.  That would have been a more productive use of their time and resources.  Then again, so would have been building a wall to the north to keep out the cold Arctic air or installing some hills around town.  Instead they rounded up their own leaders and wrote the newspaper in German.  Oh silly Winnipeg.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Stop Wineing

     There was a time not too long ago when I used to go out a lot.  When I was in college, and for a few years thereafter, I used to frequent bars with all sorts of other boys and girls in their 20s trying to do...well, what most boys and girls in their 20s are trying to do at the bar.  Well, I am not in my 20s anymore, Company, and that is okay, but it is a little skeezy for me to be hanging around at the bars scoping out all the girls in their 20s every night.  But even though I am a media mogul, I still like to scope out girls in their 20s, and so in order to be less creepy and to stay in touch with the masses, I usually spend my summer moonlighting as a bartender, and I notice the same trends.  The fact is this, Company: somewhere along the way in life we abandon beer and liquor and get into the wine.  We all become winos.
      Well not all of us.  It happens to a few guys here and there, but it definitely a largely female phenomena.  In their 20s, boys and girls are out at bars and parties sucking down beer after beer after beer, and often times sending it back out the way it came in gross bathrooms, behind dumpsters, etc.  And it was equal for the most part.  Boys would drink liquor from time to time, usually easy mixers, and girls would drink liquor drinks that required a mixer (like a margarita or daquiri) or had to have special names.  I am looking at you Long Island Iced Tea.  But that was how it worked, and still works, when you are in your 20s.
     But now I am in my 30s, and I look around at all those girls that are suddenly in their 30s as well, girls that used to suck down beers with the best of them, and now here they are on The FB with gigantic glasses of wine in their hands.  When the hell did that happen?  Somewhere along the way the bottles in the background stopped being brown and 12 oz in size to being green and one liter.  Or litre if you are in Canada.  It happens all the time at the bar.  I don't pour wine for anyone under 30.  And girls over 30 don't generally drink beer, with the exception of a couple of craft beers.
      Now, I am not saying that the boys and men of the world are immune to the alcohol change, we are not.  There are always a few guys who start wineing, but I believe that it tends to happen a little later in life.  First we go through this sort of phase where we still drink beer and liquor but we drink a little bit nicer liquor and beer, or maybe light or lite beer instead, depending on the brand.  With exception, of course, of that one beer that is awful but that we still drink for nostalgia's sake.
     It does not matter what class you are, or how much you make either.  For every fifty or five hundred dollar bottle of wine there is a ten dollar bottle of wine, and those gigantic wine glasses that sit on every other shelf at Pier 1 will hold your Zuko Delicious Red box wine just as well as it will hold that 1990 Chateau Cos d'Estournal St. Estephe Bourdeaux the chick who cut you off in the Escalade will be drinking.  The wineing takes people of all types.
     Just think about it, Company.  Yeah you might have a bunch of beer in your fridge, or God willing a fridge in the basement or garage just for beer, but I would bet that you have a wine rack in your house somewhere.  When did that happen?  And I am sure you have some wine glasses in a cabinet somewhere too.  I bet those moved in at the same time.  The wineing has come.  And there is no way to stop it.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

An Open Letter to Augusta National Golf Club

Dear Augusta National Golf Club,

     The annual golf tournament that spotlights all that you are is in full swing this week with the actual golf part starting today, and as such a lot of your little quirks are being exposed to the world, or at least exposed as much as you allow them to be.  A lot is made of the fact that you are all the things that the golf courses that the rest of the world plays on (read, public courses) are not.  You are meticulously groomed.  You have 1.4 million rules, approximately half of which are unwritten.  You are covered with Jim Nantz's special sauce.  And mostly you are super exclusive.  I can't tell you how many times this week I have had to hear about how to wear one of your awful and pretentious green jackets you have to be rich as hell, how you don't admit people who come asking, how you only have thirty members, etc, etc. How the amount of tickets to watch your events are even incredibly scarce.  There was even an article on Yahoo! about how your food is affordable precisely because you don't need the money.  The point of all of this is to make it clear to me, and to 99.99999999999999999999999999999% of America, not to mention the rest of the world, that you simply don't care about us.  And that is just fine.  But here is the deal Augusta National Golf Club, I am just writing this open letter to you in order to let you know in front of everybody that I don't care about you.
      In fact, it goes a little deeper than that.  I don't give a shit about you.  Not one bit.  I don't even hate you.  I have nothing against you.  But I have no special feelings towards you.  I am totally ambivilent about your policies, practices, positions, members, etc.  I just simply do not care.  Aside from this week when CBS takes you and force feeds you to me, I do not devote a single moment of time to thinking about you ever.  The only exception would be if I were in Augusta and driving by I might mention to whomever is in the car that we were passing Augusta National, but other than that you don't even register a blip on my radar.
      I know that this doesn't matter to you.  Except that I also know that is a lie.  Just like it is a lie when I tell you that I don't care.  I obviously care because I am taking the time to write this letter and leave it open for everyone to read.  And you obviously care because you allow everyone to know just how exclusive you are.  That is why you - as rumor has it but if it were true it wouldn't surprise me one bit - you held up Bill Gates' membership for a couple of extra years.  Because he said that he wanted to be in.  And you don't respond to people who want to be in.  You make them wait and come to them.  You play very hard to get, because you desperately want to be wanted.  Scratch that, you desperately want to be needed.  Just like me.  Just like Mike-a-licious.  And just like Jean Pearson of Cascade Locks, OR.  We all need to be needed.  And so do you.  So very badly.
    The sad thing though is that it won't matter.  So many people fall victim to your little game.  So many people desperately want to be in.  So many want your hideous green jacket.  It just feeds your ego and strokes your..well, we will leave that to the imagination.  But I am not going to fall into the trap.  I am not going to play your game.  I DO NOT WANT TO BE A MEMBER OF AUGUSTA NATIONAL GOLF CLUB.  I just don't.  So there.  Go focus on everyone else.  I am not interested.  You have been given notice.  And truth be told, if you were to send me an invitation I would not accept it.  So don't bother.  Enjoy your taste of your own medicine.  I will just sit back and wait for my invitation to come in the mail.

Bite My Swimsuit Area,

Big Dave

Sunday, March 03, 2013

Read, Kitty, Read.

     So, Company, I know that it has been an awfully long time since I have posted something here, but February was a pretty busy month.  It is also the shortest month of the year, which means that by the time I finally finished putting up all those Valentine's Day decorations all around the expansive Worldwide Headquarters, the month was over and it was time for the Unpaid Interns to take them down.  Anyway, I was going to start off March strong with yet another post complaining about people's personalized license plates, but I decided that maybe we should be a little more socially aware.  In my last post, we looked at the dangers posed by trains, which apparently are more of a problem than I ever could have imagined.  In that spirit today I would like to tackle an even more daunting problem plaguing most of our major cities today: feline illiteracy. 
     After cruising Facebook and the rest of the Internet for approximately four minutes, I was able to tell that feline illiteracy is rapidly becoming pandemic around the globe.  So I am going to take some time and space here today in order to help these cats and kittens to read, spell, and speak in a more grammatically correct manner.  So to speak.  Excuse the pun.  So what you will see now are some cats using language incorrectly and underneath I will gently correct them.  Sound good?  Sounds good.

Can I have a cheeseburger?

Banker Cat does not approve your loan.  That was almost correct.  Good job.

Can I please have a cheeseburger?  We just went over this one.  It is spelled c-h-e-e-s-e-b-u-r-g-e-r, and there is no such word as "haz."

All people can have cheeseburgers.  What the hell? CHEESEBURGERS!  I just f-ing told you how to spell it.  TWICE!  Pay attention.


BITE MY ASS CAT!  You aren't even trying.  I just told you how to spell "cheeseburger" like four times.  If you can't get it by now you never will.  And you will never, ever get a cheeseburger with that attitude.  You can only have it if you can spell it.  Dumbass.  I'm done.

Apparently feline illiteracy is incurable.  I tried.  Bitch ass cats don't want to learn.

Friday, February 08, 2013

Two Radio Ads

I heard two PSA/advertisements on the radio this morning; let's take a paragraph or so to look at each of them.

One

     How messed up has our world become that we have to advertise tap water?  I am going to pause for a minute to let that sink in.

...

Yeah, that's pretty messed up, isn't it?  But our federal government apparently couldn't stand the success of the bottled water industry anymore, because there is was on my car radio this morning.  An adversitement touting the qualitites of tap water.  Apparently is it the best thing since sliced bread.  I question a little bit the strategy of spending money advertising something that over 60% of Americans have in their homes by law, but hey, who am I to know anything?  I am also wondering why the tap water industry has to be so greedy.  I mean, they already have the toilet flushing, showering, and car washing industries all to themselves.

Two

     Apparently there is a dangerous serial killer on the loose in the United States, and the authorities have taken to the airwaves in order to alert the public.  Trains.  They are on the loose and I am willing to bet there is even one in your community RIGHT NOW!  And it is coming for you.  Apparently, people have become too stupid to be able to stay out of the way of trains: thousand ton, giant, loud machines that shake the ground and who can only follow a predetermined path that is laid out on the ground for you to see.  Wow.  So now we have ads on the radio telling people to stay off the train tracks.  So sad.  My view: if you can't stay out of the way of the train, then maybe you deserve to be run over.  The only exception to that rule: the damsel in distress in the old Westerns who always seems to be tied to the train tracks be the evil villain.  That's not her fault.

Thursday, January 31, 2013

Cherry Orchard

So here I sit on a Thursday morning, having some breakfast in the Worldwide Headquarters, and I am sort of pissed off.  I am pissed off about why my breakfast feels the need to lie to me.  The apple was pretty honest, although it wasn't as good as it appeared to be from the outside, but I can live with that.  It is the yogurt that is being two-faced.  I am not going to call out the manufacturer, but the flavor is called "cherry orchard;" it does not taste like a cherry orchard.

It does taste like cherries, I will give it that much.  It is cherry flavored yogurt with little bits of cherry in it.  If "cherry flavored yogurt with little bits of cherry in it" is too long to fit on the container, then maybe "double cherry" would have been a better name.  But not "cherry orchard."

This is what my breakfast should taste like
See, a cherry orchard is more than just cherries.  To truly be representative of what a cherry orchard tastes like, this yogurt should have bits of cherries for sure, but also some leves and stems and twigs, a little dirt or maybe a tractor or two.  Because that is what the orchard would taste like.  If you called up Dr. Doofenschmirz and had him big-a-size you, then you went on a rampage across some random American city and stopped to have a break and some lunch and decided to eat a cherry orchard for dessert, you would get all those flavors I talked about above and more.  You would probably get some houses or buildings, and maybe some flowers if they were around.  And if the cherry blossoms were out and the orchard was anything like Washington, D.C., then you would probably get a bunch of tourists and their iPhones as well.

I am not asking a lot out of you, yogurt. I am asking you to at least sort of taste like your name.  I don't care if you don't hit it exactly, okay?  Like when your blueberry pie yogurt doesn't taste like real blueberry pie but it sort of does if you stretch your imagination.  That is okay with me.  But I didn't even stretch the imagination all that much and I was quickly far away from what the yogurt company thought a cherry orchard would taste like.  And I couldn't be more disappointed.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Staff Additions

Well, it has been an exciting start to 2013 here at Big Dave and Company, what with all the fire alarms and that unfortunate incident where the Unpaid Intern stuck his tongue in the oscillating fan.  But I digress...the most exciting part of the year is about to happen.  I would like to take this opportunity to announce a new addition to the Big Dave and Company writing staff.  Not just another run-of-the-mill crop of Unpaid Interns, all wide eyed and bushy tailed.  This is easily the most grizzled veteran in the history of life.  Beginning sometime after right now, please welcome Pins McGee to the staff here in the Worldwide Headquarters.  Look for all sorts of stuff from him.  And maybe a little from me.

Thursday, January 03, 2013

Close the "-gate"

     Right along the Potomac River in the Foggy Bottom neighborhood of Washington, D.C., there lies a complex of buildings that sort of look like cruise boats sitting on the land.  Without the part that goes under the water, of course.  And one looks like a cruise boat on land without the underwater part that is shaped like a doughnut.  Go ahead, take a look and prove me wrong.
Looks like The Love Boat without the boat part...so I guess this is what love looks like.  If you don't see this image when you look at your wife, husband, or child, then you don't love them.  Sorry.
      So anyway, this sort of awful looking example of 1960s narrow-tie-and-horned-rim-glasses awful architecture is on the National Register of Historic Places mostly because it is the infamous Watergate Complex.  Begun in August 1963, and not completed until January 1971, the Watergate Complex is a group of five - count 'em five - buildings that break down thusly: one office building, three apartment buildings, and an hotel/office building.  It was this last building, the hotel/office one, that in 1972 housed the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee on the sixth floor.  It was this office that was burglarized, the act that led to the eventual resignation of President Richard M. Nixon.  And that's the only time that has EVER happened.  And it made Gerald Ford president.  And caused Chevy Chase to get famous on Saturday Night Live for impersonating Gerald Ford.  And it led the awesome movie Dick to be made.  But I digress.  The worst thing that came out of that break-in was that the complex led its name to the overall scandal, so that the whole affair is called the Watergate Scandal, or just Watergate.
Teapot Dome, which neither looks like a teapot or a dome.
     Why is this bad?  Well fuck me running.  Sorry, I just always wanted to say that.  The reason that is bad is because it was the biggest national scandal since Teapot Dome.  So now, the media - who are assplows - have decided to tack the suffix "-gate" (which is not a real suffix by the way) onto the end of every long running news story or scandal.  So the New Orleans Saints bounty scandal became "Bountygate," the firing of eleven Republican U.S. Attorneys by President George W. Bush became "Lawyergate," President Bill Clinton had four "-gates" -  "Pardongate," the very politically incorrectly named "Wampumgate," "Filegate," and "Travelgate."  President Reagan had something called "Sewergate" which sounds like something that if you open it lets sewage out into your backyard, and "Debategate" which rhymes so isn't so bad.  Then there was "Koreagate" and "Bonusgate" and three separate "Troopergates."  But it goes beyond politics.  There was "Closetgate,""Nipplegate,""Climategate," something called "Slutgate" that should have been more interesting than it really was, "Bladegate,""Grannygate,""Sonicsgate," and of course "Tollalagate," which involved buying expensive towels. There have been so many things labeled with the term "-gate" that there is actually a Wikipedia page entitled "List of scandals with '-gate' suffix" that I wish I would have found before I went out and found all of those examples on my own.
    If you spend even one moment looking through that list, you will agree with me that this is out of fucking hand, Company.  You have to agree.  What is shows is a severe and crippling lack of creativity from just about every news outlet in America.  Do you want to know what the largest modern political scandal in Italy was called?  Tangentopoli.  Which means approximately "Bribe City."  Brilliant.  Meanwhile we are stuck with something called "Spygate" which happened not once, but twice, and did not involve a single spy in the traditional, James Bond sense.
    Now I am not suggesting that we give a new an unique name for each scandal that happens around the world.  Our news media are not smart enough for that, and they have way too short of an attention span anyway.  But the least they could do is change things up, and I submit that we look to Teapot Dome as inspiration.  There was also a scandal known as "Operation Plunder Dome" which sounds pretty cool, doesn't it?  I think that "Sonicdome" sounds a lot cooler than "Sonicgate."  Ditto "Slutdome" and "Nippledome."  My, I think that gave me an erection.  I would be riveted to both of those scandals, and the gentleman's clubs that go by those names will appreciate the free advertising I am sure.
     Just think about it, because something has to change.  I can't take any more "-gates."  I just can't.  It is on the verge of becoming an endemic problem, which as things currently stand, would have to be called "Gategate," and that would cause a rip in the space/time continuum.  We might as well just cross the streams.  Or, we could just get creative and close the "-gate."  Yeah, let's just close the "-gate."