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Thursday, January 29, 2004

Zombie's Got a Dirty Secret

Yes, yes I do. And I'll tell you what it is...

I can't stop watching...

...American Idol.

I know, I know. But let me explain.

I LOVE watching the audition shows. So I guess I should say 'I can't stop watching the first couple weeks of each American Idol season.'

For some reason, watching people make complete asses of themselves on national television just really makes me chirpy.

I love when people come on in stupid costumes, thinking that will give them an edge. I love when people sing ridiculous songs. I love when people sing things in a style that's completely wrong for American Idol. I love when people get angry at the judges for telling them they suck. I love it all.

I love it so much, I dug up some video clips for you all to see. So you know what I'm talking about.

Here's William Hung. William is adorable, and the audition is perhaps one of the funniest things I've ever seen. This is from the current season.

This guy is so bad, I nearly pissed my pants laughing. It's from a few seasons ago, but I had to put it up here.

And here and here, you can see some random comments from the judges.

Another part of the show I love is when the people get turned down and then go out into the hallway, screaming and crying about how the judges don't know anything and are assholes. Righty-o.

The best example of that is the dude that threw water at Simon Cowell, because Simon told him he sucked. I looked for a clip of that, but couldn't find one.

Anyway, enjoy the funnies. I'm going to bed.

link | posted by Zombie at 10:18 PM | 0 comments

Saturday, January 17, 2004

Ford, you rule, my friend.

link | posted by Zombie at 3:45 PM | 0 comments

Thursday, January 15, 2004

Further Proof that Canadians Are Really Weird

Spawnie took a trip to Windsor the other day, and on his way back, took advantage of the duty free shop and got us a carton of smokes for el cheap-o. Turns out all they had were Canadian Camels. I confess to being a bit skeptical about smoking Canadian Camels, especially when confronted by the large image of some cancer ridden lungs on the box and the proclamation, 'SMOKING CAUSES LUNG CANCER.'

Well, duh.

I had heard about these adverts in Canada, but hadn't seen them first hand. Inside the carton, each individual pack of Camels, while also being all in French, is graced with smaller pictures of disease ridden lungs and the same warnings. Now every time I go to light up, I am able to see some cancer on the pack. Great.

Apparently, this is supposed to deter us from smoking. I think it's just funny.

I took it upon myself to hunt down some more of these ads. Here were a few of my favorites:

Not the most effective way of getting rid of obnoxious brats like these ones, I must confess. So please, don't poison the children by smoking, guys. Use arsenic instead.

Dear lord! Impotent! If I ever find a limp cigarette like that in my happy pack of Camels, I'm going to be upset. I was also going to add a cute joke about smoking and lessening the ability to get an erection and the boyf having lots of them to begin with and wondering what would happen if he stopped smoking, et cetera, et cetera, but I didn't want to cheapen the tone of the blog. Noooo.

The other two were funny, yes, but this one is my favorite. If I had known that my measly pack a day habit was killing the equivalent of a small city every year, I'd be smoking more. Furthermore, I'd be encouraging EVERYONE to smoke. Thinning out the population, if you will. I'm a great humanitarian like that.

Anyway, those crack me up, but what cracked me up more was that some apparently now defunct website ( was making covers for the cigarette packs, to mask the silly ads with the diseased lungs and rotten teeth and limp cigarettes and stupid mouth-breathing kids, and cover them up with cute things like this one:


If this ever happens in America, I'm definitely blaming Canada.

It's just so ridiculous. If I want to smoke, I'm going to smoke. It's not the government's problem or business. They're already taxing us to death with the cigarettes. Do I have to be treated like a child, too? 'Don't touch that. Don't do that. Don't smoke that.'

It's enough that in the States, we're already assaulted with incredibly banal television adverts, with little kids begging their parents not to smoke and die, and parents sitting down for a nice heart to heart with their teen about the dangers of tobacco, and then a nice fade, cut to the kid walking with some friends and getting offered a cigarette and saying 'No thanks!' Mom and Dad will be so proud, gee.

It's the same with the marijuana commercials. Me buying a pinner apparently contributed to the World Trade Center nonsense. Joe 'The Investigator' Dad has a drug free teenage girl, because he 'asks all the right questions.' Like 'Where are you going? Who are you going to be with? When are you coming home?' This apparently keeps kids from smoking pot.

Right, on Mars, maybe. Imagine the following scenarios, if you will:

(open on Dad and Fresh Faced Teenager [forever after referred to as FFT, for the sake of brevity] sitting at the kitchen table in TVLand, having a nice cuppa cocoa)

Dad: So, son, where are you going tonight?

FFT: Well, Dad, I'm going over to Billy's house.

Dad: Who will be there?

FFT: Billy, Joey, Suzy, and Billy's mom and dad.

Dad: When will you be back?

FFT: At ten o'clock sharp!

Dad: That's great, son.

(FFT leaves, Dad sits smiling at the kitchen table, secure in the knowledge that his son won't do drugs EVER, especially not EVIL MARIJUANA, and grow up to be PRESIDENT, and not a DRUG-ADDICTED FREAK THAT SUCKS DICK FOR CRACK MONEY OUT BEHIND THE DAIRY MART.)

Now, we all know that's a bit silly, but that's what the adverts want you to think will happen.

Here's what would really happen:

(Same scene as before, in the kitchen with Dad and the FFT)

Dad: So, son, where are you going tonight?

FFT: Out.

Dad: Who will be there?

FFT: None of your fucking business.

Dad: When will you be back?


(FFT storms out, and Dad gets up and pours a shot of Scotch, secure in the knowledge that he has a normal teenager that hates his guts)

Now, one more little scene to consider. A scene where the kid answers truthfully, if you will.

(Once more in the kitchen)

Dad: So, son, where are you going tonight?

FFT: Over to Billy's house for a party.

Dad: Who will be there?

FFT: Billy, Joey, Suzy, Billy's Mom, you know, the whore, and Billy's dad, the crazy alcoholic. Billy's dad is buying the keg tonight. Some chicks from school are coming, too, and I hear if you get 'em drunk enough, they'll give blowjobs to anyone that comes within five feet of them, and they'll do cool lesbian stuff right there on the coffee table. We're probably also going to smoke a few joints with Johnny the Spaceman (he's the local weed dealer, you know), and maybe do a couple lines of coke, and shoot some heroin. Golly, I hope there'll be some crack!

Dad: When will you be back?

FFT: I dunno. Whenever I wake up from passing out face down, naked, in a puddle of my own vomit, I guess.

(FFT leaves for a night of good clean fun, and Dad sits back at the table, smiling, wishing he was going to the party, too...)

You know what I'm saying here. These adverts are just stupid.

Thank you, and good night.

link | posted by Zombie at 8:42 PM | 0 comments

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

When I was talking about poets before, I forgot, for some reason, to include Donald Hall, who has been one of the most influential writers, for me.

Here is a poem from his book 'Without,' which is about his wife, the poet Jane Kenyon, and her long battle with leukemia and subsequent death. Read it slowly. It's worth savoring.

If you're further interested in Mr. Hall (and you should be!), here's an excellent article about him and Jane Kenyon.

link | posted by Zombie at 8:13 PM | 0 comments

Caution: Rudeness Ahead

Well, hello there. Welcome to another installment of 'Life in Zombistan' where you can catch up to the minute reports on what's currently pissing Zombie off and other random shit no one cares about. Shall we proceed?

I have several things to complain about today. Let's get started.

1) Snow. Okay, don't get me wrong. I like snow. For about five minutes. I also like to watch the snow fall from safely inside my (not-so) insulated and (not-so) warm apartment, preferably curled up by the boyf and snoogling a blanket.

However, today I ventured forth into the snow to acquire some cold meds. We're having a winter weather warning/advisory thing today. Snow's been bucketing down since early this morning. And I went a-trudging. My ears froze off after about 5 minutes of walking, so I made a point to grab one of those ear warmy headband things when I arrived at Wally-World. Riding the bus in the snow so sucks. Everything inside the bus is wet, people fling snow all over you when they get on the bus, everyone's coughing and hacking all over you, and all the college kids look fresh-faced and cheerful. Anyway, after lots of walking in the snow and bus riding in the snow, I hate snow, today.

2) People Commenting on the Obvious. 'Sure is cold out.' 'You must be cold.' 'Hey, you're not wearing a coat.' Okay, folks. I realize I'm not wearing a coat. I don't OWN a coat, and I haven't owned one for years. Nothing to be done about that, shut the fuck up, leave me alone.

3) Wally-World. Okay, I take that back. I do own a jacket now, but I went through hell to get it. While I was looking for an ear warmy headband thing, I saw a cute jacket. Fake leather thing, you know, fitted. Cute jacket. I grabbed it off the rack and it was my size. Sweet. I looked for a tag, expecting it to be a lot. There was no tag. At all. I looked around for more of the same jackets, so I could see how much it was. No more. This was the last one. After ten minutes of prowling the overcrowded redneck smelling aisles of that bastion of retail centers known as Wally-World, I finally discover, shock of shocks and miracle of miracles, a person that actually works in the store. I flag her down and explain my lack of tags problem. She stares blankly and says, 'This isn't my department.'

'Okay, fine. Find me someone who does work in this department. Please.'

She grumbles at me but wanders off to find another employee. Turns out they're all congregating at the fitting rooms, hiding from the customers. Can't say as I blame them, but still.

Anyway, I am handed over to a woman that does work in the women's clothing section, or whatever. I explain to her my lack of tags on the jacket dilemma. She says she can't let me have it.

I ask how that works. An item hanging on the rack, in a store, presumably a store that sells things...and I can't have it? She says since there's no tags, she could get in trouble if she sells it to me for less than it's supposed to be for. She wanders off with the jacket. I fume. I stroll around for a bit, still fuming, until I spy a manager type person. You know, button down, tie, nametag on the hip, radio thing.

I flag him down, and explain I'm pissed about the no tags jacket and how the employee handled my problem. After much hemming and hawing, we get the jacket back from the woman with no brain, and he says I can have it for 15 bucks. Good. I know it's worth more than that, and thusly, I am pleased. He tells me to tell the cashier at checkout to ring it up under department 34, for 15 dollars.

Skip to Zombie Waiting in Line:

I finally get to the register, and explain to yet another braindead Wally employee what the manager guy said. Department 34, for 15 dollars. She looks at me blankly. That seems to be a recurring theme today in Wally-Land.

Anyway, I say, 'No, really. It was the last one, with no tags. Some manager dude said I could have it for 15 bucks. Department 34. Go on. I want to get out of here.'

She says, 'My manager is female,' in this tone of voice like she thought I was trying to lie or something. 'We'll just have to see about this. I don't know why anyone would tell you something like that. It's not how we handle things.'

I said, 'Fine, maybe he wasn't a manager. Whoever he was, he had a nice white shirt and a tie and a nametag on his hip and he was yammering into a little radio like your manager type people carry around to communicate with each other, and he mentioned he was going to his office. He has brown hair, a moustache, and a slight southern accent. If he's not, in fact, a manager at this store, or some other form of higher up, I suggest you alert the authorities to the fact that you have some asshole masquerading as a higher up in the grand scheme of Wal-Mart, parading around with a phony name tag and selling items to angry women with snow all over them at less than cost.'

(that was the gist of it, anyway)

She stared for a minute, then started calling people. Every time someone came over, I said 'That's not the guy.' After this happened five times, I said, 'Look, either find the guy with the moustache and the southern accent, or give me the goddamned jacket. I want out of here now.'

Eventually, some woman with big hair arrived and she said, 'Oh, yeah, I was told about this. Edward the manager approved it.'


The dumb cow at the register stared some more. She began ringing up the jacket. Moustache Man wanders by, and I say loudly, 'LOOK, THAT'S THE GUY.'

He looks over, says 'Everything going okay with the jacket?'

Gee, I dunno. Ask the freak working the register. Christ.

Anyway, now I have a nice new black jacket for probably half of what it was worth. I also got a cute burgundy shirt and black skirt so I have something nice to wear to the interview for this job at U of M I'm going for. Wish me luck on that one. I won't look like a total incompetent, because I have a new shirt.

Thanks to you know who for helping out with that one. Love you, dollface. =)

4) Poets. I write poetry. Most of you know that. It's maybe not good, but it's maybe not terrible. I like to read poetry, too. I've some favorite poets, like Margaret Atwood, Pablo Neruda, Rainer Maria Rilke, Matsuo Basho, et cetera, et cetera.

Unfortunately, so much poetry out there is such utter crap, it gives poetry itself a bad name. Why do people insist on writing poetry? I think it's because most people think it's easy. Writing a good poem is not easy. Throwing 85 random words together in random chopped up lines so you think you look profound is not poetry. Whining incessantly about how alone you are, how much everyone hates you, how mean your parents are, how bleak and dark your life is, how black the blacky black night is, how deep your deepy deep despair is, how dirty your dirty dirty soul is, how much you loathe the fat kid sitting next to you in Spanish class because one time he spit on your shoe, or how exquisitely excruciating the dark darky dark pit of despair, woe, death, and destruction that is your worthless life not poetry.

Please have a little consideration for your fellow man, people that write crap like this. Please, I beg of you. Actually, what prompted this is that I came across this blog and had a hard time not wrenching my eyeballs from their very sockets. I'm presuming the kid is probably only 15 or so, he's got that Teen Angst, I Must Rhyme Everything in Sight groove thing going on, but even so.

I admit to writing Teen Angst Rhyming Nonsense when I was 13 or so, but I grew up after that. And I did not show it to anyone. And I especially did not post it on the internet every day to potentially assault millions of people all over the world with my trite shit.

So you see my pain. My dark darky dark woeful pain.


I think I'm done for now...stay tuned.

link | posted by Zombie at 3:43 PM | 0 comments

Sunday, January 11, 2004

There's something that's been bothering me for a long time.

You see, when I was young, I was a big Muppet Show fan. And I remember my mother buying me Swedish Chef cereal.

Unfortunately, I seem to be the only person on the planet that remembers this cereal. It was really good cereal, star shaped and cinnamon flavored. I've asked lots of people if they too remember this cereal goodness, and no one ever has. I began to think it was just a figment of my imagination, something my brain made up, due to my love for Swedish Chef and the Muppet Show in general.

Today, however, I have been vindicated:

See? It does exist. Or rather, it did exist. In 1988, to be exact. You can't read the words very well in that pic, but the box says such things as 'Live! From the Muppet Test Kitchens!" and "No Batteries Necessary." The box also includes games and eating directions. Further research confirms that it also says "It's cinnamonominy!" on the box. I love it.

I KNEW I didn't make it up. Does anyone else remember this cereal?

Croonchy Stars. Damn right.

link | posted by Zombie at 11:55 AM | 0 comments

Saturday, January 10, 2004

PPS- You can also buy the aforementioned Action Jesus here.

There's more Jesus Fun here.

Don't say I never gave you nothin.'

link | posted by Zombie at 1:03 PM | 0 comments

PS- If anyone's in the market for a belated Xmas present for the Zombie, or perhaps an early birthday present, I totally need one of these.

And one of these.

Thank you. Drive through.

link | posted by Zombie at 1:01 PM | 0 comments