Our Culture Will Soon Drive Me Insane

I'm still alive, I promise.  I've just been writing paper after paper the past week, so I haven't had much time to blog.  However, I am currently finished with most of the papers (only 2 left), so I figured I'd take a break from writing to...write...some...more...  If I weren't me, I'd kick my butt.

Anyway, as you probably already know, I work in a chain pharmacy.  As part of a promotion, the front end of the store was giving away free Gogo's Crazy Bones.  Yeah, I had a, "What the..." moment as well.  Apparently they are the next Silly Bandz.  Whatever possesses our children to go absolutely bat-freaking-loco for these worthless rubber bands is beyond me.  On a side note, as I was looking at the Silly Bandz website while researching this post, I saw that they have testimonials.


These are not exercise bikes, computer parts, or workout tapes: they're freaking RUBBER BANDS!


Nevertheless, I can kind of understand why little children want them, because they're colorful and shaped like animals and such.  But what I can not understand is what type of parent spends outrageous sums of money (during the height of the craze I saw a 10-pack for $14 at a Rite-Aid) for rubber glorified office supplies.  I can go to Staples and buy a bag of rubber bands that weighs a full pound for $5.49.  That's about 7.3 billion rubber bands for less than half of what they paid for 10, simply because they're colored and shaped a certain way.

I rant against Silly Bandz because it angers me.  But this Crazy Bones crap absolutely infuriates me.  The soulless Gorgon who came up with these is simultaneously the most brilliant person on the planet and the most loathsome.  Let's look at this scam and you'll see why:

The single packs of Crazy Bones sell for $2.99 at Walgreens.  That's for one little plastic toy about the size of a quarter.  These things are seriously worthless.  Like, I'd be disappointed if I got a Crazy Bones as a Happy Meal toy.  But, if you can make the kids think they're cool, they'll all want one.  But this is nothing new.  What is truly brilliant/amoral is the fact that there are hundreds of different styles and they are all sold in a pouch that you can not see through, so you have no idea which one you are buying.

I'll let that sink in for a minute.

If these guys actually pull this off, they will have successfully created a nigh-limitless gold mine by combining baseball cards with beanie babies.

"I want the green dude with the star on him, cause Billy has that one, and it's his favorite."

"How much do they cost, Johnny?"

"Only $2.99, Mom."

"Oh, that's not too bad.  Let's go get you one."

As Johnny and Helen (that's Johnny's Mom.  Shut up, it's my story and I get to name them what I want) show up to buy the green one with a star on it, Johnny's mother realizes that they have no clue which Crazy Bones they are purchasing.  And with a few hundred possibilities this could get expensive.

"Johnny, I'm not going to keep buying them until you get the one you want.  But you can get three of them today and maybe you'll get the green one."

Hope springs eternal and Johnny spends 20 minutes agonizing over his decision, rummaging through the bin, smelling each one to determine which smells the most "green with a starish."  Johnny does not get the green one with a star.  However, he gets an orange one with a zipper for a mouth.  That's pretty cool, so he's not completely disappointed.  But the plot doesn't end here...

As Johnny feverishly tears open the pouches to access his treasure, he sees that they also include a sticker of another Crazy Bones character which looks so cool that he must have it (this one looks suspiciously like a Pokemon, but who are we to cry copyright infringement?).  This ever-increasing cycle soon consumes Johnny's life.  He must have more Crazy Bones.  He gets a part-time job cleaning the bathrooms at Wal-Mart (that way he can use his employee discount to buy more Crazy Bones) and withdraws from his friends.  Every night he goes to sleep atop his growing mountain of Crazy Bones, and every morning he pulls a Scrooge McDuck before heading off to clean up people's bio-hazardous waste so that he can increase his hoarde.

One day, the unthinkable happens: he gets the green one with a star.  This long awaited moment, which he had anticipated to be similar to Nirvana, is underwhelming; especially do to the fact that he was on a break at work when he bought the Crazy Bones and has four minutes before he must return to shoveling poo.

Fortunately, Johnny is not long in his disappointment.

A coalition of starving third-world countries invade America and beat us all to death with our Wii controllers.

The Crazy Bones are all melted down and molded into a gargantuan statue of a ham sandwich.  If only Johnny (and his millions of countrymen) had not wasted their time and money on MEANINGLESS CRAP and spent it on something worthwhile, the Ethiopian Alliance might not have hated them with such passion.  There's something infuriating about seeing kids spend hundreds of dollars on plastic toys,because they're cool, when you have to set traps for mice so you can eat.

Dear Sarah Mclachlan,

Dear Sarah Mclachlan,

I refuse to send you money to save a couple cats.  I prefer to send my money to other organizations who deserve it.  I am astounded at the ignorance and triviality of the groups such as the ASPCA and PETA who spend millions of dollars trying to stop me from eating at Chick-fil-a instead of doing something useful, like fighting AIDS or feeding the hungry.

This is not to say I don't like animals.  I do.  I have two dogs, and my wife and I spoil them terribly.  But, if forced to choose between their lives and a human being, even a complete stranger, the dogs would be out of luck.  Because they're dogs.

I'm Probably the Meanest Person Ever (On Accident)

Well, I have another story about how I am a cold-hearted, mean person, but not on purpose, really.

Twice a week, the pharmacy where I work receives a warehouse shipment of drugs that are boxed up in plastic totes.  We're a smaller store, so we generally get about a dozen totes, each containing about 40-60 bottles on average.  One important thing to note is the fact that the front of the store gets shipments from the same warehouse, in the same totes, which are apparently tossed into a communal pile upon return, with the totes from the front freely co-mingling with the pharmacy ones.

Moving the medicine from the totes to the shelves is on my top ten "Bane of My Existence" list, so I was already less than thrilled.  As I opened one of the totes today, it was apparent that it had been previously used in some sort of animal sacrifice, or possibly as a visual aid in potty-training a bus of diarrheal llamas.  It was splattered in some sort of unidentifiable brown-red substance and had about a quarter inch of honest-to-God dirt in the bottom, upon which perched the medicine bottles, like dodo eggs from a former era.  I was less than thrilled, and made the comment, "Man, what bunch of retards packed this?"

As the unloading continued and we found another tote that should have mandated a call to FEMA, my comments only grew worse.  I brought up the probably inbreeding, excess chromosomes, and brain damage of the workers who packed the tote.  I completely admit I was out of line, but I did not know how far out of line until my boss pointed out a simple fact:

Whom the Warehouse Hires

Yeah, I felt a little bad.

On a completely unrelated note, here is a text a friend of mine sent me that made me laugh out loud in the middle of class:

"We should joust sometime to prove who's cooler.  Ill ride a steel unicorn with laser eyes and you can be on a Manticore composed of flames and children's tears."

I am the best essay writer in the history of essayism...

Here is a verbatim short-answer I wrote for my drama class.  I got 4 out of 6 points, by the way.  The question was -

"Describe one of the following traits of Greek Drama introduced by Aristotle in his work Poetics: Hamartia, Peripeteia, Anagnorisis."

My answer was -

"Unfortunately, I have no bloody clue.  Apparently I spent too much time reading the actual literary works and their influence on other forms of drama rather than studying some random Greek words that attempt to describe said plays.  I figured the plays were the important part.  However, because I am required to choose one, I'll pick "anagnorisis."

Anagnorisis is a painful, itching skin disease, somewhat similar to eczema.  There is no known cure for anagnorisis, but the symptoms can be reduced through the use of topical corticosteroids such as hydrocortisone or triamcinolone.

Anagnorisis was named after a distant relative of the African rhinoceros, the Agnorhino, mainly due to the scarred, leathery skin left behind after the disease runs its course.  Anagnorisis is a fairly common disease, effecting 29 in every 1000 people (+- 4%).  The prognosis is good, due to the relatively benign nature of the disease, and there have been no recorded deaths due to anagnorisis.

</humor>"

It is a testament to the awesomeness of my professor that I got partial credit for this mountainous pile of complete bullcrap.  She said that my creativity deserved some credit.

Anagnorisis actually means "recognition or discovery," in case you give a crap.  I sure don't.

How Unfortunate

I have absolutely nothing to say.  I am bored out of my mind, hopped up on caffeine and phenylephrine, unable to sleep, and I have nothing to say.  Nevertheless, I have a blog to update, so here ya go, a few random thoughts that've been floating around my sleep-deprived brain:

1. I love the ellipsis.  I love it a lot...  A whole lot.........  I feel that the length of the pause should be signified by the number of periods in the ellipsis.  That could be my addition to the English language that makes me notable, like Dickinson's annoying little dashes, and Heinlein coming up with the word "grok."  Every time you see an ellipsis, think of me.

2.  I sometimes read while sitting at stop lights.  This tends to cause the drivers around me to give me strange looks, generally somewhere between "Woah, this guy is crazy because he's reading while driving," and "Woah, this guy is crazy because he's reading."

3. I have poor time-management skills (evidenced by the fact that I am typing on a bloody blog at 1:30 in the morning).  Even worse is my ability to remember things of importance.  I can sing you 4 out of 5 songs on any station of the radio, but I have no clue when my next Chaucer paper is due.  It seems that my brain loves interesting-yet-worthless facts but eschews day-to-day necessities.  It's a good thing that my wife excels at organization, or we'd have our power cut off every few days.

4.  I enjoy Payday candy bars more than I enjoy every other Friday that is my payday.  But the first is completely reliant on the second, so I guess I like paydays more than Paydays.  But the only reason I like paydays more is because they allow me to have Paydays.  So, in actuality, I like Paydays more than paydays, which I, in turn, like more than Paydays.  My favorite is enjoying a Payday on payday.  It's just awesome.

5.  B-B-B-Bored...............................................(long freakin' pause).......................

6.  McAlister's has the best pickles, and I don't know how they get them that good.  I have tried all the brands and none of them stack up.  I wonder if they have some sort of mystical pickle farm in the back next to their enchanted sugar-cookie tree and the Manticore/Oompa Loompa hybrid that brews their sweet tea.

7. Geoffrey Chaucer really should have died a lot sooner than he did.  Preferably the day after he completed The Canterbury Tales.  In fact, he should have never written anything other than that, because the rest of his bollocks (see, when insulting the English it's best to use words they know, or else they get their knickers in a bunch over tea and crumpets, sitting under Big Ben while listening to The Clash) makes me want to shove a fork in my eye.  Especially The Parliament of Fowles.  If you want to simulate the experience, just whack yourself on the head with a ball-peen hammer for four hours.

8.  I sometimes wish I had superpowers, but then I realize that I'd eventually get sick of having to run out and save people.  "I'm trying to watch the World Cup!  Can't you please stop blowing crap up for a couple hours?!?"  I would imagine Superman got fed up with us stupid earthlings after a while.  Maybe, if he hadn't been so selfish he wouldn't have take up horseback riding (too soon?).

That's all I got.  Rambling and pointless, I know, but hopefully you were able to make some sense of the raving lunacy that is me forcing myself to write even though I have no clue what to write about.

Post-Midterms Twofer (Part 2): RCYSN - Expiration Dates are Important

My boss stumbled upon a "deal" today: a bunch of Good Humor Strawberry Shortcake Bars on clearance for $0.27 each.  His reaction was what you would assume - "holy crap on a keyboard, that's AWESOME!"  He bought them and brought some to the pharmacy to share his good fortune, 'cause he's cool like that (read: I want a raise).  He opened one and took a bite.

Now, when you bite into a Strawberry Shortcake Bar, the general reaction is akin to that of a puppy on heroine having sex with a Cadbury Cream Egg.  You get that goofy, happy look on your face as you taste the cake coating, which only intensifies as your taste buds register the strawberry ice cream.

His reaction was somewhat more subdued.  In fact, his facial expression reminded me of the time in fourth grade when I was playing soccer, tripped, and fell face first on the cow pasture we used as a pitch.  Something was horribly, horribly wrong.  There's something excruciating about the incongruity you experience when you expect to taste something rapturous but actually receive a chilled turd.

Needless to say, it was expired.  This was probably why they were on clearance.  We looked on the packaging, but it had no expiration date.  Because he's kind of obsessive, my boss called Good Humor customer service to see if they could help him find the expiration date, but after a 45 minute hold time they told him that the expiration date was on the box, not the individual bars.  How unfortunate.

However, we were able to come up with a bit of evidence for our theory that they were expired.  At the time these bars were created, Good Humor was running some sort of sweepstakes, and the basic rules were printed on the wrapper.  The aforementioned rules stated that the sweepstakes would officially end in January.  Of 2010.  He ate a milk based product that was obviously past its expiration date by more than a year.  I hope he doesn't die.

PS.  Don't forget to read the post just below this one - it's a Post-Midterms Twofer, and you don't want to miss out on my near-death experience!

Post-Midterms Twofer (Part 1): I Almost Drowned Today

So, as I have mentioned before, I work in a retail pharmacy.  We're a relatively slow store, but we are one of the very few stores that offer compounded medications.  For instance, we can make Phenergan Gel that you can rub on your wrists.  If you're projectile vomiting, it's somewhat difficult to keep a pill down, and most people tend to shy away from inserting any objects in their butt.  It's just unpleasant...er...I mean...um......I've heard from...um...other people....that it's...um...............YES I'M AWESOME!

Ahem.

Anyway, one of the things we make is Boric Acid vaginal suppositories.  We were running low, so I decided to make a batch while we were slow.  It's pretty easy, just time consuming.  You have to measure out a couple ingredients, melt one down, and mix the others into it, then pour the entire concoction into some molds.  Simple stuff.  Unless you get attacked by the Silica Gel.

Silica Gel is an interesting monster.  It's a nearly weightless solid (not a gel, interestingly enough) that acts like a powder (read: floats in the air) until it gets wet.  Once it comes into contact with any type of moisture, however, it sucks it up and expands.  Somehow the container got slightly pressurized.  Maybe because someone left it under the heating vent.  Just a thought.

However it happened, I unscrewed the lid and it puffed up into my face.  Fortunately I was breathing out, because if I had inhaled a bunch of it I could have become the first person in the history of history to dry drown.  There are several other nasty side effects to inhaling this crap that I would like to avoid.  While managing to drown in the middle of a pharmacy would make an interesting obituary, I'd prefer to remain boring yet alive than spectacularly dead.