As a Public Service and a personal means of making mischief, I'm presenting to you a range of products which will undoubtedly enhance your enjoyment of life, make you healthier, more attractive and possibly bring you a little good luck. As you may have heretofore been unaware of these necessities, I've kindly left the web site addresses of the advertisers plainly visible so that you may, if you so choose, purchase them from their esteemed vendors.
These items were carefully culled from "The Emporium" pages of The Atlantic, a notoriously leftist rag which I study studiously each month. And now, I present the crème de la crème of the lot.
Let's begin with a light dinner: You may be tempted by this, but I have multiple objections, one being sudden death by Anaphylactic shock. My allergy to shellfish toxin would do me in withing the hour. I have another nagging fear here. Is this stuff delivered to your door packed in dry ice? Contact the company for more information. Suggest to them that they send me a commission cheque.
I find this one particularly amusing, since my exhaustive research has uncovered no convincing evidence that human pheromones even exist, let alone that they provide any useful advantages in the love game: I have two further comments on Dr. Cutler's magic potion. The first is, if you used this product, would you be willing to admit it? Could it go something like this:
MAN: Honey, I have something I need to tell you. I've been using human pheromones to attract you to me.
WOMAN: Well, that explains a lot, you [EXPLETIVE DELETED] !
I direct my second comment to Lee of WA. Lee, I am very sad for you. You have my deepest condolences.
Okay, okay, I have to admit that this one looks like fun: However, my dignity suffers sufficiently from the big stogie sticking out of my mouth. Hey, remember, Freud said, "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."
For the waistline challenged I present: Is it just me or does that thing look dangerous. Would you let your children play with it? Of course this begs the question whether you are ignorant enough to believe that four minutes of exercise a day is going to do anything but give you a sudden violent heart attack the next time you try to tango with your sweetie. Seriously, folks. I'm going to make a million with MadDog's Foolproof Weight Loss Diet at US100 a pop. It will consist of a postcard delivered to the client's house with one sentence written on the back. - "Stop stuffing food into your gob all day!"
You know, I'd actually buy this (bit of a hat fetish here) if I actually believed that I could roll it up and it would look okay after I unroll it:
But, US$75 bucks? Hey, I didn't come in on a load of pumpkins! It's made in Ecuador, for pity's sake. Those people get paid in bananas. No way I'm going to enrich the capitalist exploiters of the sweaty masses. On the other hand, if you want to send me one for testing purposes . . .
Hey, something just popped into the little round space in my head that I use for a mind. What if the people who buy this stuff are simply lonely? Isn't that sad? Maybe the UPS guy is their only contact with normal humans. We could be dealing with some very disconcerting stuff here. Somebody should write a chick-flick screen play. Hey, maybe I will. Any producers out there sniffing around for a hot property?
I'm actually grateful for the enlightenment by which I was enlightened by the simple reading of this ad: I had no idea that the US Library of Congress had thiry official, registered, supremely pompous, gloriously elegant and powerful yet dignified Eagle designs just sitting there waiting for somebody to come along and commercialise. Wonders do exist! Who knows what other wonders lie neglected on dusty shelves which can be converted into ready cash. And, it so patriotic! Still, I'll pass.
You know, I've been thinking green a lot lately. I've discovered that
being poor is a marvelous way of reducing my carbon footprint. I'm
seriously considering becoming destitute. Maybe my footprint will
become so small that I'll simply float up into the air and live in the
clouds. And, today I discovered another essential device to hasten the
day when I'll be flat broke and wondering how all my precious moolah
went up in smoke:
I particularly appreciate the "self extinguishing brass base". Until now, I laboured under the delusion that brass doesn't burn, except, of course, under the most intense heat - and I'm not sure about that. Furthermore this device is very chummy with the environment, having raped only the bees for their abodes, won't poison me or give me cancer and, thank you so much, doesn't drip. Man I hate those candle drips! It takes hours to pick them all off and feed them back into the little puddle of molten paraffin.
Manufacturers of the world, we implore you. Please, in the name of Mercy, give us more useless crap!