Saturday, July 24, 2010

Ready for my massage!

For months I have been walking by this spa in my neighborhood and they always post weekly specials in their window. Well a few weeks ago they had a poster up for a deal on a couples massage, naturally I was intrigued. The obvious fact about this is that it was going to be a tricky situation to bring up with the little lady. So I went about this very carefully first asking her if she had ever heard of a couples massage, if she ever knew of anyone that had one, and if she thought she would ever be interested. To my surprise she had nothing but great things to say about it so I just let it all out and told her I signed up for one. Man was she excited. I got hugs and kisses and she said that I was the greatest husband ever. I was so freaking pumped I wanted to go right then, and man do I have a kick ass wife! Two days later I walked over to the spa and walked in ready for the best hour of my life. Immediately I saw two people dressed in all black standing behind the counter and just assumed these were the two people that were about to change the way I felt about massages forever.
“Hi, Adam Miller here for my couples massage”. “Ok sir where is the other party that will be joining you today”? “Oh no, just me and my couple. Having some else there would be weird.” “Sir, I believe you don’t know how this works. See a couples massage is when you come in with your wife and you both get a massage at the same time.”

What the shit? How the hell is this worth double a regular massage? So I have to be in the same room with my wife while Helga, the hot blonde Swedish massage lady, rubs me down all while Hanz, the 6’6” German body builder gets all handsy with my wife? Hell no! What happened to the good old days when a couples massage was a couple of hot Europeans doing a four handed dance on my hot oiled body? What is this world coming to? So I called them liars and told them the sig should say “massage FOR couples”.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Suck it Magic 8 Ball

It isn’t a Magic Eight Ball, it’s The Mystic Orb with Future Predicting Prowess, and I am bringing it back! I was torn with this decision while standing in Wal-Mart last week, buy the Magic Eight Ball for $20 or The Mystic Orb with Future Predicting Prowess for $5? I ended up with the Mystic Orb, and let me tell you why…I am a cheap as bastard. Ok, that is part of the reason, but the main reason is I feel like if this Magic Eight Ball was really magic it would retail for more than $20. Instead The Mystic Orb makes such lower level promises I can buy into it’s value as a product to help me make better choices in life. First, it’s only mystical and not magical. Mystical I can believe, magic just seems like smoke and mirrors (see Angel the mind freak and other ‘street people’). Second the product isn’t so self absorbed that it actually believes it can predict the future, but rather give me a inkling of hope that it will leverage it’s mysticism in such a way that it will narrow down all the possible outcome into one scenario that is most likely. And if it doesn’t know, it will tell me…so The Orb is honest and I can get behind that. Three, the Orb isn’t pretending to be something it’s not. They don’t call it the Mystical Kickball, or softball, it stays true to itself and just says ‘hey I’m just an Orb that is here to help you out’. It’s “magical” brethren tries to fancy up as if taking advice from a fake billiard accessory has some advantage. So for me, it’s the Mystical Orb with Future Predicting Prowess.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Your Mom Loves NYC

“I Love (heart) NY”. I don’t really understand the fascination with these shirts. My assumption is that 99% of the people I seeing wearing these shirts are not from New York, which means that these shirts are being worn by people who have simply visited the city. These people had such a great time they wanted to buy something to remember the trip/ brag about the fact they travel. What this purchase really tells me about you is you completely missed all of the class the NYC has to offer and instead probably went to FAO Schwartz, The Statue of liberty, and had a slice of pizza from Sabarro.

So what am I to think when I am walking the streets of Chicago and see some prick wearing an “I Love NY” shirt? I think this ass clown is basically walking around saying “your city sucks”. Well screw you buddy! If you think NYC is so cool why don’t you freaking move there? “Oh well it’s really not the right city for me, too busy and expensive”. So then you really don’t love it do you? So here are my two suggestions for these people.

1. Buy a shirt that says “I (heart) long weekend trips to NYC”.
2. Buy a shirt that says “I (heart) here” and move the f**K to New York!

Either way I don’t really care, just please stop pretending like you and New York have some special bond, that the city has a special place in your heart that will never be matched by another city. Or, lastly that the best way to declare you undying love for a city is to buy some tourist trap bull shit shirt that was made in India and then not live there.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Urinal Cake Nightmare

In a change from my normal dialog, I am going to try and have a constructive dialog with a real person in hopes of actually solving one of the world’s great injustices. Oh who am I kidding, I am just going to end up yelling and ranting anyway so let’s just start there and get it over with…

I hate you licorice scented urinal cake inventor. Damn that feels good.

First I hate you because you are filthy rich ‘swimming’ in urinal cake money. Second, I hate you for somehow managing to figure out a way to make a nasty old men’s room smell worse than shit and piss. As much I disliked ‘traditional urine cake odor’ it at least was enough to block out the plethora of wafting odors coming from the three hundred pound man in the Taco Bell stall. But this licorice crap is so bad that I have to turn my head while taking a piss to avoid the memories of late night Sambuca shots and my nightmares of Willy Wonka as a child. Now I am stuck in some back and forth head bob between the wretched stench of two day old turds (btw Microsoft Word does not recognize this word and suggests I change it, get with the program Bill Gates ‘turds’ is here to stay you uppity prick) and your confectioner inspired urinal cake. Picture the scene from the guy standing in the stall next to me as my head spins around, mouth wide open trying to avoid breathing with my nose, pee going all over the place cause I am not looking where I am aiming as I mutter ‘oh God make it go away’. (ps he asked for my number before he left. I didn’t give it to him of course…he didn’t wash his hands, weirdo.)