If you search Reddit for “Flo Progressive Insurance” you will get 15 results.  Eight of these have to do with a (usually shameful) desire to bang Flo.  “Inexplicable” and “weird” are the two most common words used in these titles.  Here’s a picture of Flo in case you haven’t seen any television since Bear Stearns was fine:

“I’m perky as shit which makes you sorta want to bang me…but also hate me…which is confusing for your dong.”

Flo’s actual name is Stephanie Courtney and she’s been doing these commercials since 2008.  When she’s not schilling insurance in a vaguely heaven-like setting she’s a standup comedienne.  Seriously, she is.  You can watch a clip here.  Not particularly funny.  Lotta energy though.  Lots of energy.  I feel like “Lots of energy” is the comedy equivalent of telling somebody a girl has a “great personality” when they ask if she’s hot.

You: So she’s pretty funny?
Dude: [long pause-eyes search room] She’s got a lot of energy. [exhale]
You: Oh, Jesus. Is she worse than Dane Cook?  You didn’t buy tickets yet did you?”

I’m just kidding. Nobody is as unfunny as Dane Cook.  Nobody.

Anyway, Flo is incredibly popular.  Her Facebook page has 3,186,550 likes on it.  Which is just a scant 3,186,544 more than the SomethingAuthorly page on Facebook.  I’ll let that hint settle in for a moment.  Go ahead, open another tab.  I’ll wait.  Yup, just go over, hit the like button. Yup, just right there.  Go ahead.  Also feel free to click on one of these banners while your here.  In fact click it a bunch of times.  You totally should learn Spanish or take some classes at ITT tech or whatever it is telling you to do right now.

I suppose there are so many of these conflicted crushes on Flo because her Facebook page has some rules about vulgarity or some such fuckshit.  I don’t know. I lost interest once I saw: 1.) The number of fairly hot chicks posting pictures of themselves dressed as Flo and 2.) The number of comments that involved a play on her name and that of Flo Rida nee Tramar Dillard.  He of the apple bottomed jeans, the boots with the fur, et al.  First of all, it’s spelled exactly like the state people.  Only with a space so as to communicate that he’s actually riding a “flow” in addition to hailing from the worst state in the country.  It isn’t Flow-ridah or Flo rider.  You sound white when you fuck it up like that.

Since one can’t be vulgar on her fan page one is forced to take it to Reddit and unburden yourself of your unnatural longings for fictitious insurance mascots.  And, sorry to break it to you all, but she’s married as well. 

Let’s watch one of her commercials:

She is cute and perky but these commercials are horrible. First, this has to be worst store ever created.  It’s like somebody took the design for an Apple Store and said, “Whoa, way too much going on in here.  Any way we can make this blander and brighter?”  The shelves all have the same box on them and there doesn’t seem to be any walls.  The store just goes on to infinity.  Sometimes they have a checkout counter where Flo is ringing the customer up but then what?  There doesn’t seem to be any way to actually leave the Progressive store. Which, I guess, could be seen as a metaphor for the ubiquitous nature of these commercials.  In the commercials, you can never leave the Progressive store and in real life you can never watch cable television without running into one of these commercials.

And once you are in that store.  You are in.  Sure, you might check out.  Flo rings you up and gives you a peppy smile and a wink (the wink seems flirty but in a superficial stripper sort of way) and you start walking.  And walking.  The shelves are shrinking in the distance behind you but nothing is rising in the distance in front of you.  It’s just white.  You think back to the door you came in.  Where the hell was that?  It was only like 30 seconds after you came in that Flo was in your face, all crimson lips and name-your-own-price-guns.  After awhile you can barely make out the shelves in the distance nearly disappearing into the white background.  You’re a little worried because it’s just white out there now and the wind is picking up.  Was it windy when you came in?  You don’t think so.  You check your cellphone, no service.  Above the wind you hear the tinkling of cheery but generic piano Muzak. You stop and turn all the way around and it’s white in every direction.  Which way were you going?  It all looks the same. Then you see something.  A line maybe.  A smudge of color way off in the distance.  It looks like maybe an exit sign.  You start to jog.  It’s getting closer.  Shapes are appearing.  Rectangles.  It’s got to be something, yes, it is, it looks like people!  They must have come in the same door as you!  They’ll know how to get out!  Ha-ha!  Your cute but sexless charms can’t trap me Flo!  The Muzak is louder.  The wind dies down. The shelves rise up.  You can make out a the check out counter.  And it’s still the storeroom.  And that red exit sign was really Flo’s lipstick and she’s smiling at you with roughly the same smile as those Animatronic puppets at Chuck E. Cheese and now she wants to sell you boat insurance.  And you can never, ever leave.

Have an infinite weekend.

/

I had hoped to have this week devoted to interesting things about Bessemer, Alabama where my parents reside.  I’d thought there would be some interesting factoids and stuff about this town.  After all they had a state dinner for a chicken that did magic tricks.  After a thorough search of the interwebs (ed. note: 3 minutes) I found the second most interesting thing about Bessemer:

The letters are small but that is Hitler’s typewriter.  Yes that Hitler.  Is there another one famous enough that his typewriter (which he may not have used) is the most popular display at a museum?  In fact there are loads of Hitler stuff out there.  Let’s take a little tour:

Hitler’s Teacup and Saucer:

Swear to God.  This is it.  It was auctioned off in 2006. You can read the lot listing here.  Pretty fruity if I do say so myself (ed. note: as opposed to?).  I guess I would have expected something more evil and to be honest I expected it to be black and have like a sweet iron cross on the plate and metal spike sticking out of the center of the teacup to spear any wayward Hebrews in the schnozz as they tried to take a sip.  Alas it looks like something my Grandma Yvonne might have painted.

Hitler’s Matchbox:

 I guess this is one of those things that people used to have 30′s and 40′s.  Who the hell gets a cover for a book of matches?  Doesn’t it come with it’s own storage device?  That’s the book part right?  It must have been so much easier to sell shit to people back then:

Salesman: Eliminate the worry of defective boxes compromising the fire-abilitize of your matches! You can’t fight for the Fuhrer if you can’t light your smoke!

Soldier: [takes hat off and squishes it nervously] Golly mister, the matches already come with their own box.  Are you sure I need buy a separate case to protect them?

Salesman: Son, do you have gonorrhea of the mind?  You sound like a real jelly bean asking questions like that. Just that flimsy paper between you and a flame?  That’s like getting togged to the bricks on a trip for biscuits!

Soldier: Well, I don’t know sir.  I just get the feeling you’re tryin’ to chisel a soldier and that ain’t right.

Salesman: Hey, hey kid, don’t blow your wig.  I ain’t flimflamming you. I’m trying to help.  Here look at this poster if you don’t believe me:

Soldier: Gee Mister, I didn’t realize venereal disease was worse the Hitler and the Japs.

Salesman: Well, it is son.  Mr. Rinky Dink might crash a plane into your ship and Der Fuhrer will cook you in a stove but having a ring a ding with a dame can cause your penis to explode like a V2 rocket.  Now whaddya say about buying one these matchbook covers?

Soldier: My penis is going to explode?

Salesman: Let’s not get sidetracked here, kid.

Hitler’s Whole GD Bathroom:

This is the worst showcase showdown ever.  I’ll bid $13,500. The bid is in Deutschmarks? Son of a bitch.

Well, you can’t exactly buy the bathroom altogether.  I assume it’s some sort of museum or something now but here’s the Fuhrer’s bathroom in Munich.  As you can see behind the nude woman are the most evil soap dishes ever created.  There’s the evil shower rug with evil boots.  To the left you’ll see the satanic sink.  To the right is the evilest vanity ever created.  On top of which sits an evil statue.  And just in case the energy in the room didn’t already make you want to systematically wipe out whole swaths of the population, there’s a photo of Hitler on the tub sill. To help you relax.  And by relax I mean rage and gesture wildly.

And that’s just a sampling of Hitler’s crap.  Only six months ago, Hitler’s desk set went on auction in San Diego. Hitler’s globe was auctioned off for 15 to 20 thousand dollars.  Bessemer definitely does not have the market cornered on dictator-bilia by any means.  They just have his typewriter.  Which he may or may not have used.  I think I’m just going to say something was Hitler’s and sell it on Craigslist.  I bet I could say it has not been authenticated and he may not have used it and I’d still get 50% more than it’s worth.  In fact I’m going to go carve AH into the Soloflex my parents have gathering dust in the basement.  Hitler’s Soloflex for sale.  The most evil weightlifting system ever!

 Have a dictatorial weekend.

/

I was sitting around with my Dad the other day and we got on the subject of blue laws, specifically that in the early 80′s in North Dakota you could not buy mayonnaise on Sunday. A quick primer: Blue Laws are laws, usually religious in origin, that forbade certain activities usually with the intent of keeping the Sabbath holy. Booze was the main target, but auto sales were a close second.  In fact, most commercial operations were limited on Sundays with the exception of pharmacies. It’s all due to the 3rd commandment.  You know it. Say it with me:

“Thou shalt remember the Sabbath and keep it holy, but if thou needeth to purchaseth statins or insulin or anti-psychotics because thou didn’t plan ahead and instead thou got loaded offeth Wild Turkey whilst watching a Jersey Shore marathon, then thou shalt be allowed to purchase victuals and potions for the purpose of keeping thou’s heart beating and brain from becoming nutty and convinced that thou’s neighbors are purposely blowing their lawn clippings all over your driveway particularly when they saw you out there on frickin’ Friday hosing it off and thus made comments about water conservation in a loud way that was obviously directed at you but ostensibly was said to a rotund sister or aunt who wears sweatpants in patterns that can only be described as novelty. Amen.”

C’mon sun!  C’mon sun!

There you go lil’Jebfus, ya stick it in yer craw and then ya git ta twanging for the good Lord.

You’ve no doubt already heard about Steve Jobs stepping down as CEO of Apple.  If you haven’t I don’t know how you found this website because you obviously do not have Teh Internets.  It’s all over the place. Most people seem have a positive outlook about Apple’s future. To which I say, blah, blah, blah.  Who gives a shit?

I’m thinking of something terse and idiosyncratic.

I am not an Apple Fanboy and I’m not convinced it’s a sinister cabal taking over consumer electronics with its scrubbed and sterile version of technology. The only thing that interests me about Apple is Steve Jobs and what a weird fucking guy he is.  There are hundreds of stories about him (see here, also here, and here, and if you have time here).  They range from cult leader to computer nerd who drives too fast in the Apple parking lot.  I’m sure there are folks that know even more odd stories about the guy (If you do leave them in comments) but here are my favorites:

Knock Up Chick; Claim To Be Sterile:  This is a bold move. When he was twenty-three Jobs impregnated an SF artist and then denied he was the father on the grounds of being sterile.  Was he hoping she’d never heard of a paternity test? What exactly was the long term plan here?

He’s Very Concerned About Logos Apparently: NPR has a post regarding a Jobs attention to detail.
It’s the sort of story that gives CEO’s and business book authors huge boners. Basically he called one of the higher ups at Google because the O on the logo on his iPhone looked off. On a Sunday morning. He left an urgent message. That thing that was urgent?  The shade of yellow.

The spin is: Jobs is so detail oriented and passionate that things us mere mortals would consider trivial (because, like, they fucking are) is instead a sign of superhuman engagement.  What a leader! I think the whole thing was done for effect. To add to the Jobs aesthetic mystique. One: you are the CEO, you have people for that. Two: it can wait till Monday. Three: I know it’s supposed to send “a message” but it mostly means you are a creepy micro-manager with warped priorities.  I put this solidly in the SMLLIDS category.  That stands for : Stuff to Make it Look Like I’m Doing Stuff. If your CEO is checking the color palette of another company that means he’s not doing something at his own company (like figuring out why his phone drops calls when you do stuff like hold it).  Never confuse anal retention and fussiness for leadership.

He Dated Joan Baez; Apparently Because She’d Banged Bob Dylan: Was he trying to harness the singer/songwriter power of Bob Dylan via Baez’ vagina?  Lyricism isn’t herpes, homeboy.      

The Whole Email Thing: There are tons of places you can go to see his terse emails back to people.  This was one of the things that makes him interesting to me in that he seems irritated with his own idiot customers.  It’s like he thought, “I have done a bunch of LSD and and built a multi-billion dollar company.  Screw you if you don’t like our stuff. Don’t buy it. Also, there’s a bunch of I’s in visionary so in your face!”

The Outfit: 

The goddamned outfit.

He’s Read 1984 Way Too Many Times: Another aspect of his personality that came up in a lot of articles was something CNN referred to as the “hero-shithead rollercoaster”. Things are all or nothing for Stevie. One day he loves something and then a month later he hates it. Or vice versa. This wouldn’t be that odd but he also conveniently forgets that he ever hated/loved the thing in the first place.  Kind of like in 1984 when the governments would re-write history when the present changed so that the way things are now was how they had always been.  You are Stevan Paul Jobs.  You can damned well change your mind if you want to.  Why pretend you haven’t? I’m sure there’s some corporate psychobabble about leadership qualities or some such bullshit but it undermines your credibility. And makes you seem crazy.

He Refuses To Put A License Plate On His Car: With a rebel yell, he cried “I won’t put any plates on my car!” And he doesn’t. And he hasn’t been pulled over for it in the last four years. If you see a silver Mercedes SL55 in and around Palo Alto/Cupertino, chances are Stevie’s at the wheel looking for the nearest handicap spot to park in.

All this adds up to an odd fellow. It also makes for an interesting guy too. Much more so than his fellow American CEOs who seem to be variations on one theme: Fat Cat. I’m bummed to see him go. Of course it means I might also buy an Apple product now because that prick is gone.  God my feelings about Stevie are so jumbled up!  I don’t know if I’m coming or going!

 Have a terse weekend.

/

One of the nice things about Mexico is that there are not really any regulations here.  You wanna drive an ATV through barely explored jungle then jump into a small hole in the ground, fall twenty feet and land in an underground freshwater pool?  Done.  You wanna do all that drunk?  Done.  You want to shoot fireworks at your friend while he does all this?  20 pesos more.  Fork it over.  Fork it! 

A bat flew into your head?  They do that sometimes.

This means some stuff takes a long time and some stuff takes way less time than you think it safely should.  For instance: putting in a pool.  I’ve been here four months and I’ve seen two built.  I’m not talking, they started digging the holes the week I came down and just put the finishing touches on them yesterday.  I mean from germ of idea, whatever part of people’s brain where neurons fire and they go, “Hmmm, clear all this shit outta here, we need us a pool.”  I know what you are thinking.  Mountains of paperwork; inspectors up the ying-yang, fees, bribes, etc.

Nope.  Here’s literally what happened:

Neuron fired->Desire for pool spoken->4 dudes with shovels show up->one month->swim in new pool.

Ah Mexico.  Isn’t it great when there aren’t really any rules?  Ordinarily I’d say yes.  But there’s the toast predicament.  The toast predicament is that the knobs on the toaster have absolutely no bearing on how light or dark the toast is when it comes out.  And this isn’t just one toaster.  I’ve used no less than 10 of the toasters on property and it goes for all of them.  One day, toast knob is on 3.  Toast cooks for 6 microseconds.  It is so fast that the bread (I refuse to even grant it the quiet dignity of being called toast) actually hits my fingers before I’ve pulled them away from toaster.  I push the button down again.  Same setting.  Same toaster.  Sits for three hours.  I had time to make this handy graph illustrating toasting times:

As you can clearly see: Z represents the amount of latent moisture in the air at initial heating of toaster coils and X represents Bernoulli’s First Law.  Thus….wait, I didn’t even see the Y.  Son of a bitch. This is all wrong.

I’ve tried everything.  Setting is on 1.  Setting is on 6. Not looking at the toaster.  Staring at the toaster.  Leaving the room. No matter.  Sometimes it comes out like a square hockey puck.  Sometimes the toaster attempts to tell me it fully toasted the bread instantaneously.  Which got me thinking: Who tests toasters anyway?  I’ll tell you who does in the US: The Underwriters Laboratory.  They test all types of stuff for the government.  Probably so it doesn’t burn down your house.  I think that’s number one on their corporate mission statement.  And I’m sure they’re testing everything.  Put a dog’s paw in there to see what happens.  Just in case ol’ Mr. Zeke gets up on the counter again like at Christmas.  In Mexico I figure it goes something like this:  Guy plugs in toaster.  Nothing instantly blows up or catches fire or electrocutes anybody.  Gold Seal slapped on toaster.  Next product. 

While I was trying to figure out who tests toasters, Google saw fit to inform me that there was a patent on toast.  All around dick face Terrance Lenehan of Marrietta, GA filed his patent in 1999.  It was approved in 2000.  You can read it here. I say dick face because only a man whose face resembles a dong would file a patent for a “method of refreshing bread products”.  He’s also a dick face because his company, Fourdel Industries (owners of high tech secrets regarding toast) had the audacity to sell the good people at Fan Fare, Inc a spray painter that could not be used to paint fans.  I know what you’re thinking:  Fan Fare only makes fans, Himbokal.  What the fuck else are they going to paint?  I know, I know. It is a trajustice.

After reading through the patent my eyes were bleeding.  Here’s a scintillating excerpt regarding one unlucky muffin:

It is believed that by subjecting the muffin half 42 to a controlled burst of electromagnetic radiation, with peak flux rate in the wavelength range of approximately 1.2-3.4 microns, for a period, between 3 and 90 seconds, causes a three-way beneficial reaction.

It’s one of those sentences where if  you scan it, you go, hmm, hmm, wait 3 way?  I didn’t realize patents were so sexy. Now this is what I call inventing!  Oh.  Never mind.

Another thing I learned?  While I’m wasting away my life in the Dark Ages of bread refreshment, somebody in England created a toaster that could toast weather predictions on each piece. Sunny or cloudy only, but holy shit!  If that doesn’t prove that white people have way too much free time, then this song does:

 Have an egregious weekend.

/ 

About two weeks ago Borders Bookstores was forced to shuffle off their mortal corporate coil and liquidate their remaining 399 stores, down from a peak of 1200(ed.note: What the fuck? Talk about market saturation.  For perspective: there are 992 TGI Friday’s. And you can’t download a Jack Daniel’s Ribeye to your kitchen for $4.99 ).  For somebody who spent about $50 a month here (and who aspires to sell books)  I am profoundly indifferent.

Let me get the anti-corporate ranting out of the way:  Borders was a big box bookseller that priced out many great locally owned bookstores; filled every stand within 50 yards of the door with vampire/wizardry/celeb/politi-screech books; and hid mid list authors and novels older than 07′ in shelves just below the timberline.  Which would be fine. They did provide those nifty little rolling balsa wood IKEA hand-me-down ladders.  You know the ones.  You slid them as you walked by even if you weren’t going to use them.  They were there in case you needed to summit the goddamn Half Dome of the Fiction section.

Or actually not you. A sales associate (aka team member) would get all the fun of climbing because right at eye level was that black plastic placard with white writing:

Fuck that and fuck you team member.  I’d rather skip down the center aisle of Borders singing, “I am a colossal pussy, please, please kick my ass” over and over until a red vest tackled me. No thank you. I do my own climbing book dorks.

I’d do a shifty side to side glance usually reserved for Part I of a racist joke.  No red vests in sight. I’d start my ascent.  8 to 10 hours after leaving base camp I’ve got the supplementary oxygen out while I flip through Madame Bovary.  Yup, it’s French.  I reach for another book but bats fly out from behind it.  A couple of shelves higher I see a slab of ice with a perfectly preserved sales associate inside.  Her hands are up, eyeballs frozen, forever telling someone there’s no cash back on gift certificates.  No cash back indeed.  For eternity.

There’s a lot of collateral damage in the wake of Borders’ implosion.  For instance, musicians will take a hit.  Who’s going to book bands like this groove-tastic quartet: