Monthly Archives for August 2012

Paramarketing

Show Love to the Fan

I was recently swimming through waves of Internet pages, searching for things that measure minuscule energy fluctuations. I think I’m going to replicate some of Dr. Duncan MacDougall’s experiments, but that’s another story. On that note, does anyone have any small animals that are not doing well?

Anyway, I come across this New Age site that offers EMF detectors. You know, the ones the ghost hunters wave around near electrical outlets in old houses before going, “Hey, did you hear that?” And I notice a huge selection of links. Light therapy, detoxification, biofeedback, stuff like that.

They have a listing for a sleep pillow. Hmm, I already have one of those. I suppose with specialization, niche markets, and granular economic taxonomies at work, people now have separate pillows for each quantified function. A fighting pillow. A smother-your-mother-in-law pillow. A dog-humping pillow (our lab has sent more than one of our pillows to the washing machine). At any rate, I have that covered.

There’s a listing for relaxing with CD’s. I’ve got my Manson, Lennon, and Hugo Rock.

There’s a listing for Awakening Through Sound. It’s $69.95. My alarm clock cost 7 bucks. And it has a snooze button.

There’s a Self-Hypnosis Home Study course. I think I’ve already ordered and taken this. I’m not sure, though. I’ll just buy another one to make sure.

There’s a Space Sounds 10 CD Set. This is when I get really suspicious. I’ve never really figured out the whole tree in the forest thing, but I know from high school that there are no sounds in space. Nice try. My momma didn’t raise no fool. And I’m an only child. I mean, just in case you were thinking she might have raised another fool, like I had brothers and sisters or something. What I’m saying is it doesn’t matter to me. Six and a half one way, a dozen the other.

There’s a stress thermometer. I wasn’t aware that my temperature fluctuated when I stress. I guess this makes sense. When I have a temperature of 103, I’m pretty stressed. And they have a Biofeedback Stress Eraser. So . . . I could hook this up to the stress thermometer and voila, I’ve just cured pneumonia.

There’s a white noise machine which sounds like 500 librarians telling you to hush, all at once. I can just record 500 librarians doing this myself. I just have to get 500 – wait – ahh, the genius of it. They’ve done all the work there. Touché.

They have a Healing at the Speed of Sound book. Sound travels at 1,126 fps. That means that if I get a two inch cut on my forearm, I will heal in D = RT or T = D/R . . . so,  T = 2/12 / 1,126, = 1/6756 = .00014 seconds. That’s quicker than Wolverine. Hell yeah.

There’s a New History Generator CD, which I guess, as you’re playing it, is by default creating new history. An event horizon for forward moving reality. These guys are probably physicists.

Then, under Behavior Modification, they have a listing for a Happy for no Reason Paraliminal CD. Again, I’m no expert on cause and effect, but if you listen to the CD and then become happy, isn’t the CD the reason for your happiness? The only way to effectively market this product would therefore be to not sell it, and see if it still worked. And there’s that word I don’t understand. Paraliminal. So I looked it up on WordWeb. And the Wiktionary. And Wikipedia. And WordWeb online. And Google. Turns out there are no definitions. Because it’s a made-up word. Like flinginburl. Or scrudulous. I did find another site that explained it. Para means beyond, and they give use paraliminal instead of me that nasty blow word a subliminal job. The sub means below. So one is below the threshold of consciousness and the other is beyond the threshold of consciousness. See the difference? So instead of learning Spanish while you sleep, Paraliminal is based on two, separate voices talking into each ear, one spouting logical things and the other saying creative things. Listen to poetry in one ear and learn sin and cosine in the other. Completely scrudulous, if you ask me. I can just visit someone’s grandparents. Problem solved.

They also state that “You may be pleased to know that there are no subliminal messages on Paraliminal recordings.” They also state that “You may be pleased to know that there are no subliminal messages on Paraliminal recordings.” They also state that “You may be pleased to know that there are no subliminal messages on Paraliminal recordings.”

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They also sell EMF protection devices. I imagine this thing would have warned me before I tried to dig out that piece of torn bread from the toaster with a butter knife. That would have definitely been worth the $119.

They have a bottle of pills called Brain Lightening. I would assume you don’t want to give this to an epileptic.

I’m not really sure what I’m going to buy. I’ll let you know.

Dick-Fil-A

John_Martin_-_Sodom_and_Gomorrah

 

I usually don’t write about politics. Or things that have been beat to death in the media. Or things in politics that have been beat to death in the media. Or religion. Or religious things that have . . . you get the idea. Actually, I usually only write about things that affect me personally. Very egocentric writing. I’m an only child.

 

And this has affected me personally. Mainly, my chicken sandwich. I like Dick-fil-a’s chicken sandwich. Spread on two packets of mayonnaise, get a couple extra pickles thrown on there, and boom, you’re in business. The only problem I’ve ever had with Dick-fil-a was based on my inability to remember things. They’re closed on Sundays. I know this. I’ve known this for years. But I will still occasionally turn my car in that direction on a Sunday. And when I get close by, I think dammit! Why did I do this again? I mumbled to myself, half joking, half not, “Crazy Fundamentalists.” This was long before the newest debacle. How many other chains deny me my nasty, eating-out habits on Sunday? I can’t think of any. Look, just hire atheists to work on Sundays. It’s that simple.

 

And politics really shouldn’t squirm its way between my buttery buns. As a matter of fact, no views from owners or CEOs should ever affect what you eat. If it did, you wouldn’t eat anywhere. Have you ever spent time around or read articles on people who are billionaire heads of companies? Read Jon Ronson’s The Psychopath Test and tell me you disagree with the findings. Most of these people, Steve Jobs included, probably belong in a special ward with padded walls. Know an outlier who defies the rule? Let me know. Most of the superrich are disconnected from society and the day to day grind. For that fact, and you can see this on the Boob Tube, most of them are disconnected from reality. They are lunatics, and if they succeed at what they are doing, we laud them and call them eccentric. You catch your boss staring in a mirror while practicing how to be intimidating, and he’s just a prick.

 

So when I hear that the owner of Dick-fil-a really is a tight-ass fundamentalist, I’m suddenly torn. He doesn’t just passively extol himself for being self-righteous like most of them, he gives money to people who are trying to do away with people’s rights. That puts him in the political arena. That puts his company in the political arena. This has nothing to do, by the way, with free speech. He was free to open his big, Southern Baptist mouth, and insert his sanctimonious foot. If you are surfing that warped metaphor of subliminal bizzaro anti-logical schizophrenic reasoning, I don’t know what to tell you, except maybe, go back and get your GED.

 

If I go get a sandwich, am I saying what he did was okay? Am I saying I’m on his side? No. But I am contributing, ever so slightly, to his massive stacks of Holier-than-thou money, which will then be used to make the world a little less diverse. A little narrower in its views. A little less tolerant.

 

So how bad do I want that sumptuous chicken, tender yet crispy, resting delicately on a perfectly toasted bun? I’m fat, so I can’t promise you anything. But if I do give in, you can bet that while I’m washing it down, I’ll be mumbling to my hypocritical self, “Crazy Fundamentalists.”

Volkswagen Bitch!

Volkswagen Bug

 

My family and I are driving down Airport Road, having a conversation about – “Volkswagen Bitch!” my daughter screams, and I feel a sharp slap across my cheek and ear. It forms a belly-buster of an echo in the car. My wife, sitting next to me, winces, the left side of her face screwed up in a seizure-like, frozen explosion of expectance. Pow!

 

“Hey now,” my wife exclaims. My son is ducking and moving side to side like a beach crab in the UFC. He senses her mad excitement, her complete lack of motor control, and her gloves-are-off (legally, I might add) attitude.

 

“If you don’t let me get you now, you can’t get me later,” she warns. He does not give in. There is silence in the car for about thirty seconds, then, Pow! She has feigned disinterest.

 

“Hey!” my son yells, and like all pillow fights after the first three minutes, shit just got real.

 

What started this madness? My daughter and I were riding in the car one day and I said, “Hey, what if we took this whole Punch Buggy thing to the next level?” She weighed in and, before you know it, Volkswagen Bitch! was born. Let me go over some rules on this next level enhancement to an oldie but goodie.

 

First, it has to be a bug. Yes, we experimented with calling it on all VW’s, but then it was harder to get validation. Trust me, there are plenty enough bugs out there to get a car full of compadres red-faced before their destination.   Next is validation. You can’t absentmindedly call VB’s and then claim them to be just out of sight. Some people, like me, will turn the car around, even if we’re running late, and go back to validate said VB! If you are lying, or if you have accidentally, in a fit of anxiousness, erroneously called VB! Then you have uttered a False Volkswagen. The penalty here is that everyone in the car gets to slap you. And keep in mind that the people who will be slapping you have just been wrongly violated by your palm. Their reprisals will rank high on the Pimp Scale.

 

And so, after calling VB! and said validation, comes the pot of Bitch Slap at the end of the German-made rainbow. The Connection. It must be open handed. And preferably, consist of 75% fingers. Too much palm can lead to things ‘getting real’ in a high speed vehicle. And absolutely no backhand. Real pimp slaps are not for VB! If all players can keep it at a moderate 6 to 7 on the Pimp Scale, everyone’s masochistic tendencies are usually satisfied by the end of the trip. Oh, and make sure to get permission from new passengers before playing, as new recruits are often caught entirely unawares and may veer sharply from the observed rules once initiated.

 

More rules: You can’t call VB! on bugs in car lots. This only leads to a car full of manic, auctioneer sounding, stuttering lunatics who flail wildly and without clarity of purpose. You can only call VB! when everybody is inside the vehicle. An impromptu game in Denny’s can draw unwanted attention and drama to your family’s breakfast. You can’t call duplicate VB’s, e.g. you can’t call it on a bug in a parking lot, then drive by 30 minutes later and call it on the same one. This is not a False Volkswagen, but is frowned upon. If you can’t reach the other players in the vehicle, for safety reasons, you may save up VB’s and use them on passengers once you have exited your vehicle. But once you are back inside the vehicle, even if you had 8 or 10 saved up, you can no longer use them. Exiting a vehicle and returning to it erase all saved VB’s.

 

So the next time the kids are bored on a long trip, put away those Nintendo’s and that scavenger hunt piece of paper, and bring a little something to the table that will keep everybody wide awake and hyper-aware on that endless road. Volkswagen Bitches!

 

We are currently working on another next-level game called Po Po Mutherfucker! After a trial session, we are letting our bruises and lesions heal. When we are talking to each other again, I will give you an update.