I bet you didn’t even have to watch the video to figure out where this happened.  You started reading the title and before I could get all the way through ‘soc–’ you were like “Florida!”

Thus why you are the bomb.  And my favorite reader. (It’s been awhile since I did any shameless pandering so enjoy it, maggots)

So a very secretive man with low self-esteem or under the influence of bath salts ordered a 20 piece chicken McNugget meal.  I know he recorded some ‘dead rat soccer’ match’ (where he gave up at least one goal) but let’s focus here people.  What sort of debauched savage orders a 20 piece for himself?  And the way he says it:

“As I place an order for 20 piece, I see the four employees corner the rat, one of the employees step on it, kill it and they start kicking it across the floor like it’s a soccer ball,

Makes me sick to my stomach!  Who says things like that all nonchalantly?  “Ayo, homedog, gimme a 20 piece.”  Tell me this man’s not on bath salts.  Even the guy who was on bath salts (but wasn’t actually on bath salts) wouldn’t eat a 20 piece.  That’s why he was eating that guy’s face.  C’mon folks, it’s painfully obvious.  20 piece or hobo’s face?  It’s no contest.

Anyway, while this guy is probably filling his pockets with dipping sauces, the McDonalds crew keeps their eye on the prize:

“At that point, everyone gets a little angry that I’m doing that. They swept the rat underneath my feet, and then they took the broom and started shouting at me, ‘stop filming’ and put the broom in my face,” the man said.

He didn’t sweep it under your feet.  He scored.  You said so yourself.  They were playing soccer and your tubby diabetes filled secret agent ass can’t make a save.  Get your head in the game!

So what does the man who shall be named later do?  He’s going to sue.  Guy gets scored on and somebody touches him with a broom that may or may not have touched some vermin and now we gotta bring in the lawyers.  Oh my god, I saw a rat in a McDonalds!  My rights have been violated!  My right to not have a spontaneous dead rat soccer match start up when I’m trying to inhale 20 mechanically separated chicken flavored food pucks.  It’s the 28th amendment.  Right after the right not to be offended.

Sorry, Mister-I’m-super-privacy-guy-but-going-to-contact-a-news-station-because-I’m-not-that-private-and-I-know-a-opportunity-when-I-see-one-and-this-is-a-grand-opportunity-to-acquire-many-McNuggets-so-I’m-going-to-run-with-it-guy:  Dead rat soccer matches happen.  Maybe if you weren’t so busy eating disgusting amounts of McNuggets you’d know that.

People nowadays.  Gah!  And hit the gym once in a while, would ya?  Rotund motherfucker.

[NBC-Miami]

/

At some probably inebriated point I signed up for monthly emails from The Institute for Legal Reform, an advocacy offshoot of the US Chamber of Commerce.  Roughly every three weeks or so they send me an email asking me to vote for the “Most Ridiculous Lawsuit” of the month.  May’s offering looked like this:

The ILR’s main focus is tort reform (they are aggressively pro-defendant which in the case of tort reform generally means pro-business; shocking for a group sprouted from the Chamber of Commerce).  Somehow via Kony2012-like slacktivism voodoo my anonymous internet vote is transubstantiated into “hundreds of thousands of supporters” that a lobbyist somewhere will attempt to use as leverage on a congressman.

I don’t think I’m really who they want these emails going to.  I find the stories awesome. And they give me ideas…

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Listening to the radio and reading the papers you’d think self checkout machines at the grocery store are replacing employees.  But I found out, it’s just the opposite.

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You’d like to put something like this as your cover letter/intro email:

Yeah, hi.  Look just give me the fucking job.  I’m not interested in coming in for an interview.  They’re a waste of your time and mine. They are solely to ascertain whether I have average personal hygiene and to make sure I don’t have lifeless shark eyes (I don’t).  You don’t want another {insert pain in the ass at your current workplace–call her Barbara} at the office.  Actually, if you’re lucky, I won’t get along with Barbara and then we can work out a “hostile work environment” scheme to get her fired. Then after umpteen write-ups because {insert mildly lazy, obliviously douchy stickler for meaningless details boss’s name here–call him Bruce} wants to do everything by the book which means documenting Barbara for leaving a used tampon on the counter in the women’s restroom not once, not twice, but three times.

You know I can do the job because you saw the resume and if I can’t do it you can term me within 90 days.  No harm, no foul.  The fact that you are considering an interview means I meet some base requirement so save us both some feigned professionalism where you ask me about my biggest weakness and I pretend there isn’t Mocha-chino dribble on your collar.

Basically it comes down to this: Do you want to continue to find used tampons at work or not?  If I don’t receive a job offer within 24 hours I will assume you are some sort of tampon sniffing fetishist.  Then I’ll call Bruce and tell him all about it while I interview for your job, pervert.

Warmest Regards,

Himbokal

But you won’t.  Because you’re a pussy.

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Mad Men has returned although there is no way you didn’t already know that.  When I went to throw out the recycling the other night, the homeless guy peeing in the corner was like, “18 months?  18 fucking months?  That’s awfully presumptuous if you ask me.”

“You’re getting piss all over your shoes.”  I said.  Then I started The Homeless Timer.  Tick, tick, tick….

“Hey, you paying attention?  They just assume you’ll wait that long.  Entitled little shits over there at AMC.”  He did not bother to zip up.

Tick, tick, tick…

“You got any change on you?”  Light up the backboard, this is over.

So it’s back making everyone wish they were in advertising in the sixties because it was just so sexy and cool and manly and smoky and Roger Sterling’s zinging the hell out of people and Don is making even the most mundane piece of 60′s hoo-haa The Key to your eternal happiness (I have never wanted a Kodak Carousel so much in my life!).  Oh, advertising!  Light of my loins!  Why can’t I be an ad-man?

Now I’d like you to watch something:

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Farmland brand bacon comes in 12 oz. packages.  Or at least I buy it in 12 oz. packages.  You are free to do as you wish.  That’s what people refer to as “American Exceptionalism”.  You can buy packages of bacon in units of 12 oz or 24 oz or if you are Mor-Mon or Mexican or Catholic, then you get the family size 136 oz because you be fuckin’.  They’ll need ID for that shit though.  So be prepared.  Except if you are hungover and plan on  just housing bacon for the day.  Housing bacon for an entire day makes you an American.  It says so right on the Statue of Liberty.  The last line reads:

And now that ye art American, I say to you, imbibe dramastic amounts of bacon or produce mammaries.  Failing that, GTFO.”

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