Persistence is Futile

"Hitting the Wall"

2005-09-14T15:06:00.000-04:00

I'm all too familiar with "hitting the wall," and I don't mean the 22 mile marker in a marathon. I mean actually beating my head against the wall until I see stars and stop hearing voices. This blog has truly hit the skids. My life is boring. My job is boring. Even my dreams are boring, except for the one where I'm a knife-wielding maniac. I just can't bring myself to start commenting on the hurricane...nothing good will come of that, I swear. I got whipped up in the choppy froth of Blogstorm 2005. From now on it's mandatory radio silence until ze Germans have gone. Adieu, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodnight!

Paws For Concern

2005-08-29T16:09:00.000-04:00

Last summer was a tough one for yours truly. I was going through PBR withdrawal and two of our three family pets succumbed to the cruel wraths of both time and nature. Sadie, our eldest pug, died first. She’d been on her last leg for a long time, but led a full life of eating, sleeping and getting what she wanted. At the end of the summer, our chow, Tuffy, followed. Tuffy was my Christmas present in 4th grade. He waltzed in the front door on Christmas Eve, a little white furry poof with a plaid ribbon around his neck. If it weren’t for the ribbon, I probably couldn’t have discerned which end was which. So, enough of the tear-jerking rememberances. Let’s take a left from Memory Lane onto the much eerier Pet Cemetery Avenue.

A friend of a friend sent me this link. As you can see, it’s for “pet preservations.” Also known as freeze-dry taxidermy. Some of the photos are truly alarming/captivating, but pale in comparison to the owner testimonials:

I was not prepared for her arrival in a box yesterday. I was home alone and afraid to open it but I finally got the courage to do so. I can't describe the realm of emotions that overwhelmed me, from spooky to a sense of peace and love. I shed as many tears yesterday as I did the day she drowned. I couldn't take my eyes off of her. After a couple of hours I began to brush her and talk to her like I used to.

I’m not one to give unsolicited advice, but c’mon, lady…get a new dog or go pay for a male hooker. I loved my dogs, but I just don’t see anything good coming out of using Tuffy as the base for a coffee table or Sadie as a decorative flourish for the book case. The last thing I need is another set of reproachful eyes while I watch “The Surreal Life” in my underwear.

H to O

2005-08-26T16:20:00.000-04:00

I'm glad someone brought up Hall & Oates. There's something that's been bothering me about their music career for quite some time. And no, it's not the "Private Eyes" video. Their 1983 greatest hits album is called "Rock 'n Soul, Part 1." Yet, as of 12 years later there is no part 2. When you name something "part 1," doesn't that naturally assume at least a part 2? They've released a bunch of albums since '83, so it's not like there's no more music. Granted, there haven't been any "hits" in a long time, but they've at least got some song fodder.

I was watching TV on a Delta flight about a year ago and there was a short feature on Hall & Oates playing at some "Jeep Festival." I would have thought more like John Mellancamp or Brooks & Dunn, but Hall & Oates...why not? I know I always have "Rich Girl" blaring when I'm in my Jeep, rolling over boulders in the wilds of Arizona or getting spit out of a volcano in the Mexican rainforest. Then again, I think I probably have heart some H&O blaring from all the ragtop Jeeps criusing around midtown, if you catch my drift. So my point is that their careers aren't exactly in full bloom, and a greatest hits (part deux) would seem like a great idea to generate a little revenue/buzz. But no...there's still just "part 1."

They could have just released a first greatest hits album called "Rock 'n Soul." No one would have scoffed. Then, when the time was right again, they could release "Rock 'N Soul, part 2." That way, if they fizzled after the first one, there'd be no "part 1" dangling out there like your grandpa's nuts when he wears shorts. Did they overestimate their staying power? Was there pressure from the recording company to name it? I want, nay...I NEED answers! In fact, I might just drive right over to casino where they're playing next and ask 'em myself.

Here are two more album covers I found while looking for the first one. No comments, necessary, really.

Huey Baby

2005-08-25T13:30:00.000-04:00

Do you ever wonder how your life would have changed if Huey Lewis hadn't participated in the making of Back to the Future? I do.

Antiques Road House

2005-08-24T16:34:00.000-04:00

...with your shirtless host, Patrick Swayze, and your expert appraiser, Sam Elliot.

Okay, so Antiques Roadshow and the movie Road House will probably never mingle. But just what if? I was watching an episode of Antiques Roadshow the other night...partly because I like the show and partly because I just did some ads for it at school (shout out to the rockin' AD, Puff Nitti).

It's interesting to hear the whole history and provenance of these objects, but I find it far more interesting to watch the owners. As the expert slowly builds anticipation to a palpable cresecendo, the owners of these objects become more and more exasperated and wild-eyed. It's as if you can see the lemons, cherries and sevens of a Vegas slot machine spinning furiously behind their fitful gaze. And when the machine finally stops, and the expert spits out a dollar range, the expressions range from anger to relief to stupified joy. My favorite line is "Oh yes, we'll definitely keep this in the family." So, your sewing table is worth $55,000 and from the looks of it, you can barely afford your fanny pack and oversized Looney Tunes t-shirt. Sounds more like someone's going to insure it, then "lose" it.

Hopefully something interesting will happen to me soon...before I start writing entries about MTV's Laguna Beach.

Right Power!

2005-08-18T11:03:00.000-04:00

There must be something in the water...or in the heavens. A friend sent me a link to a website for this religious-minded book on abortion. It looks to be rediculously terrible for reasons many-fold. My favorite part, though, was the "Right Wing Blog" icon found on the page's lower left. And I promise this will be the last religion entry for awhile...it's taking its toll on my enternal soul.

Christians Do It Worse

2005-08-17T17:50:00.000-04:00

Blog comment spam: we hates it! However, a recent spamtastic comment relating to "cheap Christian t-shirts" has left me bemused and betickled. The website that it sends you to reads, in big red letters:

How Would You Like To Receive One Of The Most Creative Evangelistic Tools On The Planet? How Would You Like To Reach Friends And Loved Ones That Do Not Know Jesus?

Hmmm. Well, I'll have to admit that my curiosity is piqued. Throw in the words "creative" and "tool" and you've got me. But what could this breakthrough in evangelism be!? A bobble-head Billy Graham, a Jesus paperweight that heals your tax forms, The King James Bible rewritten by Rick James? Nay. The answer is...wait for it...wait for it...

A fucking t-shirt!

Unbelievable. And not only that, but what's actually on the shirt sucks. If you want to talk about evangelizing via t-shirt, I sadly think that Madonna's Kabbalaware has set the mark rather high. Just take a celebrity, add a dash of titties, a sprinkle of pretension and a dram of ignorance...and you've got your lead apostle. Something tells me, again, that the great forces at work do not find pleasure in any of this. I, however, do.

Big Wheels Keep on Turnin'

2005-08-16T14:50:00.000-04:00

Now, I know that bicycles are supposed to ride on the street and obey the same traffic laws as cars (however, I think they should make a sidewalk-friendly exception for going in low gear up a steep incline, because getting stuck behind a bicyclist going 1.3mph is just not fun for anyone). But what about wheelchairs? In downtown Atlanta, it's apparently an unwritten law that they, too, must share the streets with automobiles. The law must also plainly state that weaving dangerously back and forth within the lane while brandishing your schnapps-filled hand at passers-by is greatly encouraged. Two wheels and a joystick do not a street-worthy vehicle make.

A picture...

2005-08-16T14:45:00.000-04:00

...says a thousand words. This one must say "homosexual bodybuilding" 500 times.

If the cancer don't get ya, the GTA will.

2005-08-11T15:42:00.000-04:00

Yo, yo. Peep dis. A South Korean guy died from playing video games over the internet. Super interesting article!!!.

Here's how I think the machines will rise against us. It all starts with video games, then on to rebellious factory equipment, finally manifesting itself in a wholly integrated and deadly network of automated military machinery. "No, officer...I have not seen Edward Furlong." For now I will just cross my fingers and hope that epilepsy, celibacy and hairy palms remain the only side effects of blogging.

Which leads to another question...can they arrest the internet? I sure as hell hope not, because then who's going to help me find out which episode of Highlander, the TV series that Fine Young Cannibal's front man made guest appearances in.

ps-This confirms my long-standing suspicion that John Madden has been trying to kill me.

New Digs

2005-08-11T13:35:00.000-04:00

As you might have noticed, I have taken the time to learn a little more HTML. This is because of what we (in the biz) like to call "down time." Hope you enjoy the changes. If you like the way the old template looked better, please click here.

Ads are funny...

2005-08-10T17:18:00.000-04:00

I love most kinds of advertising...especially bad advertising. However, I positively despise mediocre ads. You know, ads that don't even pretend to be compelling or humorous. They're kind of like your fat uncle Wayne who sits at home and collects diability...no shamefullness, no hopes of something more...just there, just one hair below "evident." You know what else I don't like? That whole Jesus Footprints story/poster/framed nick-nack thing. If I need to be carried, I'll buzz Medic-Alert. Spiritual healing and renewal...now there's a job for JC! Metaphoricals aside, I think even JC takes offense to this beach-going distillation of his ultimate role in Christianity: "You mean I walked through the desert, battled Satan and conquered death for this whole beach schpiel. Oh, hell no!"

But anyway, back to ads. Using logic (a dangerous tool, indeed!), my distaste for mediocrity would mean I hate 99% of what I do. Luckily, I have found a loop hole. It is called "aspiration." And "aspiration" has a friend called "binge drinking." We'll leave it at that.

This posting on McSweeney's is a good take on most pharmaceutical advertising. Did I mention that I love most kinds of advertising?

Take me out...

2005-08-10T11:37:00.000-04:00

We all try to break free of certain habits—habits that limit our horizons and contribute to the same modicum of misery. For me, I’m talking about staying within my comfort zone. Now, I like to “experiment,” if you know what I mean…but 3-ways and Vietnamese food (not necessarily together) don’t quite constitute the leap of faith that I speak of. So let’s say that not trying new social activities is a “habit.” Then mix in a tinge of xenophobia. Let’s also say that “playing a sport you have absolutely no experience with, while surrounded by many strangers” is a good way to break out. Which brings us to last Thursday.

Billy Earl, aka Captain ROM, comes looking for some extra players to round out the softball roster. What he really needs is an extra girl, so that they don’t have to play a person short (yes…even in softball, we reap the bitter fruit of Title IX). What he gets, though, is a gawky douchebag who looks a whole hell of a lot like me…plus one of our female interns whom I convince to attend.

So let’s just cut to the chase. I sub in for Billy Earl halfway through…playing left field and batting in the 6-slot, what Peter Gammons might call “the lineups’ offensive black hole.” Only one tragedy occurred in left field. And it wasn’t getting beaned in the face by a poorly judged pop-fly, as I had envisioned. I took 5 steps in on a fly ball that landed 15 feet from the fence. Had I been wearing an eye patch or have glaucoma, this might have been excuseable. Only a couple runs scored on that one, and I comforted/convinced myself that even with the proper jump, I wouldn’t have gotten it.

Batting was another story. As I stood in the on-deck circle and grasped a bat for the first time in 12 years, I was hoping my sub-par Little League skills would kick back in. Unfortunately, they did. Took a couple of rank ass pitches, then swung at something high and a little inside. High and inside then became high and left as it traveled about 30 feet vertically and 30 feet horizontally down the third base line. My grandmother (who does have glaucoma and cataracts) could have caught it barehanded.

After the first AB, my Sith Master, Darth Will, drops some knowledge. Like “when a girl bats behind you, she gets to walk when you do.” In other words, “Don’t be a dick, so just take the crappy pitches because there’s no way you’re going to do any better by actually hitting the ball.”

The game’s tied up at its regulation end, which means extra innings and extra chances to make myself the bane of total strangers’ existence. With my next “extra-innings” AB, I take Darth Will’s advice to heart by taking two balls then swinging at the exact same pitch I swung at three innings ago (a pitch I would later discover has name: "the 2-finger ego beater"). Oddly enough, it produced the exact same result. So the other team wins. No fingers were pointed, unless you count unenthusiastically high-fiving me while rolling your eyes as “finger pointing.”

Needless to say that barring some horrible depletion of the male softball talent pool or a sex-change operation, I will not be grabbing a softball bat anytime soon. Thanks for the chance, anyway, Captain ROM. Maybe after some work in the cages, I’ll come back with a prayer. In the meantime, I’ll stick to golf and beer pong--where my skillz is sick.

More like "my chaps have fallen"

2005-08-09T08:24:00.000-04:00

As I continue my 48 hour quest to avoid doing any marker comps until the very last moment, I will present one of the most whimsical sentences ever scripted in an e-mail. I get a word-a-day e-mail every morning...which I highly recommend if for no other reason than the usage sentences. Because, try as they might, "chrestomathy" will never be anything but a large speed bump on the road to understanding. Today's word is "chapfallen," meaning dejected or dispirited. Apparently the word also has connotations of having a coif and crooning to 30 year-old former teeny boppers.

"Jon Bon Jovi, the New Jersey rock 'n' roller, says he's chapfallen
and desolate over rumors that his band is about to break up."
Chris Reidy; Bon Jovi's Funk; Boston Globe; Aug 7, 1990.

I hope this is the sentence they'll use if this ever appears in the national spelling bee. The kid will be all like, "wha?" and the judge will be like "Well, it's your life...it's now or never."

Fortune Nookie

2005-08-03T12:11:00.000-04:00

Confucious say, "Man who criticize other's writing, but can't spell is like man who can't walk criticizing other man's running style."

Lucky Numbers: 6-6-6

Confucious also say, "Man who write copy for other is like anus of child molester first time shower in prison."

Lucky Numbers: 9-1-1

Found Humor

2005-08-01T10:58:00.000-04:00

Humor is all around us. Take your funny bone, for instance. So, there was a section on MSN with their "Top Searches" and "Top Suggested Searches," side by side, though seemingly unrelated (or so they think). They appear below, followed by the clearly insinuated facts/observations that link them together.

Top Searches:

Natalee Holloway
Choking game
Jessica Alba
Mindy McCready
Rachael Ray

Suggested Searches:

News: ID Theft
Japanese Garden
Dinosaur embryos
Tension headaches
Fish decline

-If you want to make news by stealing someone's identity, then Natalee Holloway is a good choice.
-The Japanese enjoy gardens...and some of the world's filthiest fetish porn.
-Jessica Alba has the talent of a Dinosaur embryo (as long as it's dormant or dead, otherwise the embryo starts winning).
-Trying to figure out something funny to say about Mind McCready has caused me a tension headache.
-Rachel Ray is so cute, knowledgeable, and utterly intoxicating, and her shows/books have encouraged so much cooking of fish that the earth's rivers and streams are becoming depleted of delicious Trout (which are later served in a delicious Almondine sauce garnished with a sprig of parsley and a lemon wedge...All in under an hour! Fuck yeah!).

Charlie and The Chocolate Factory: a male review

2005-08-01T09:12:00.000-04:00

After much waiting and even some gnashing of teeth, I finally made it to see Johnny Depp's latest flick. For the most part it was what I expected. The movie took clear pains to avoid rehashing the original verbatim, or visualum, or whatever Latinos would say. I will have to say that I found it a bit disheartening when Gene Wilder made a solicitous cameo as Mr. Slugworth. When he and Johnny Depp fought it out with candy cane light sabres in the Wonka candy land and Wilder got his arm cut off, then slowly melted in the chocolate lake with hand extended upwards in a clear homage to Terminator...that was really weird. But, when your father is Sith Lord Count Dooku, you'd expect the Dark Side to be very strong in Wonka's character.

Okay, so on to what really happened in the movie. The casting for children was excellent, especially Veruca Salt, perhaps my favorite character from the original. Let's face it, Charlie and Gramps are pretty damn dull, though I like the new gramps much better--despite him lacking an awesome mustache. And even with janked up teeth grayed from decades of eating cabbage soup, I will do Charlie's Mom (Helena Bonham Carter) very, very hard. Then again, I was ready to bone her in Planet of the Apes, monkey suit and all.

The jury is still out on Johnny Depp's performance. Not so much on the execution (he did a fantastic job per usual), but more on the screenwriting. I have never read the book, but I doubt that Roald Dahl envisioned a character cross between Edward Scissorhands and Michael Jackson. 'Nuff said. I applaud the special effects meisters with their ambitious task of giving every one of the Oompa Loompas the same face. While the CGI wasn't flawless in every case, it didn't detract from the overall experience. For me, the best parts of the movie were the Oompa Loompa songs. I detected a hint of Rick James and a smattering of Village People in one of their renditions. Truly marvelous.

Props for not completely bastardizing the original, no props for creating a movie that can't really stand on its own.

Pluses: Oompa Loompa songs, Elfman's scoring, Johnny Depp
Minuses: Johnny Depp's character, the simple fact that it's a remake of an excellent original

Overall, I give the movie a B/B+.

Unsent letter to the local Starbucks Barista, penned by an unhappily married 32-yr old high-school history teacher (who wears Dockers)

2005-07-29T12:50:00.000-04:00

Dear Barista-

I have seen you, woman. From afar. Like a hawk gazes upon his prey from on high…only I usually watch from the corner. Were we in medieval times, I would call you “coffee wench,” and probably try to slip my hand beneath your mildewy dress, at which time you would slap me and hiss, showing your half a dozen somewhat browned teeth. You have all your teeth now, as far as I can tell, but medieval folk weren’t into dental hygiene, and I’d imagine that so-called coffee wenches would be into it even less so. You would maybe brush once a week with a frayed twig and some salt, but that would be it, tops.

I can tell that you do not like to don the black and green baseball-style chapeau. You wear it at curious angles that betray your unease. You yearn to let loose your hornet’s nest of multicolored hair held captive by the corporate mandates of conformity…and health codes. Perhaps then I would find an electric blue strand of your filthy hair in my half-caf latte. I already have an inkling that you sometimes spit in the froth. A pungent venom far sweeter than any vanilla syrup shot.

You seem so alternative, indie, punk or whatever. I see the cigarette burns on your bicep. It must be difficult working for “the man.” Your locally-owned coffee shop peers must poke fun at you. They get to wear whatever they want.

I see your Vespa chained to the parking meter. Can it seat two? It is covered in militant stickers and symbols. Sharpie graffiti and rust against pale blue. Someone once phoned you at work, and I think the person who gave you the phone called you “Miranda.” I had rather fancied you a “Darcy” or “Clara.”

Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s your ripped fishnets making my loins steam, or if it’s from the rich venti-load of overpriced Guatamalan sludge. You brew a mean cup of voodoo love, woman—of this I am certain.

Yours from afar,

BH

Ps-So, you know…just e-mail me whenever.

Oh Phil! Yes, take me there, Phil!

2005-07-28T16:01:00.000-04:00

This story has been a long time coming on ye olde blogg. Some of you might have heard this strange tale in person, while others might have actually dreamed it while tripping on ill-prepared tuna salad. Either way, I trust none of you can relate.

It all began several months ago, in a sleepy little town called Athens. And by sleepy, I mean quite awake and smelling of beer and vomit. Two college chums were in town for the weekend. After a practically delightful first few days, which involved a Braves game, lots of drinking and watching Road House (see previous entry titled “Non Sequitur”), we decided to visit my girlfriend at UGA. One of these college friends of mine, we’ll call him Luigi, had a long-distance belle in Athens whom he’d met abroad in the summer prior. So, Luigi was obviously spending the night at his lady-friend’s abode, where he would proceed to romp her both raw and silly. Which leaves the greater of two evils, whom we’ll call Beelzebub, or “Bub” for short. Bub would be staying at my girlfriend’s house…out on the futon.

The night began innocently enough. A nice sushi dinner. Some pool and drinks at Cutter’s. Shortly afterwards, things became ominous as we left Cutter’s to visit another downtown watering hall called El Centro. Lo and behold, we see that El Centro is right next door to another bar called Road House. Bub is from a town named El Centro, of which is mother is the mayor, and he loves the movie Road House so much that he carries around his own DVD copy when he travels. Though it was April, these ill portents carried the same cosmic consequence and heft as the Ides of March.

At Bub’s “hometown” bar we drank mightily as the Vikings of yore. Though, it’s doubtful that Erik the Red drank many Jager shots in his day. We finished the evening off with a delicious late-night repast and PBR nightcap. With a twinkle in their eyes and a throbbing in their loins, Luigi and his bella departed. That leaves me, my girlfriend and Bub. As we are paying the check for our munchies, Bub is hitting on our waitress. She is a few pounds overweight, though fairly attractive and right up Bub’s ally in her “alternative” look. Rather dismissively, she says to him, “I get off at 5 if you wanna wait around.” This was around 2:30. The three of us take a taxi back to the homestead.

M’lady and I bedded down for the evening, but Bub has different plans. He sets his phone alarm for 4:50 and has taken down the number of our taxi driver. Always on the hunt for skanky poon, Bub plans to make his move on our waitress. The next few hours were later reconstructed piece-meal from Bub’s jumbled brain in the following days.

He woke up, got the cab, and made it down to the restaurant as planned. What he did not plan on was seeing our waitress sharing a bowl of soup with, what one would presume to be, her boyfriend. Now, Bub had been a little depressed leading up to this time…recently unemployed and unhappy in his recent relationships. The scene at the restaurant now cast him into the very pits of self-loathing and despair, and he walked all the way back to my girlfriend’s apartment…some 3-4 miles away. Well, he actually rode the last two blocks, when, as he put it, “I remembered that I was in the fucking South, so I threw out my thumb.” Someone stopped…it was the bouncer from El Centro. Bad tidings, my friends…bad tidings.

When he returned, Bub discovered a handle of Smirnoff in the freezer. Over the next hour or so, all his 5’ 6” and 145 lbs. would consume the entire handle as he sat on the back porch wrapped in a throw blanket.

Beginning at about 6AM, Bub began singing/ranting to himself loudly in the living room. I got out of bed, walked into the living room, yelled at him, then punched him fairly hard in the kidney. This continued every 10 minutes for the next two hours. My girlfriend was getting ready to call the cops.

The piece de resistance was one of the last times I woke up to chide him. He was now in the kitchen. From the bedroom I could hear him saying, “Oh Phil! Yes, yes. Take me there, Phil…yes yes!” As I entered the kitchen/laundry area I discovered that he was standing inside of the washing machine wearing only his boxers. He had his iPod on, was holding a loaf of bread and was weeping. Playing on his iPod: Phil Collins’ “Against All Odds.” Phil was taking Bub on a soulful journey through dark territory, and Bub was connecting/communicating with Phil through a drunken haze. When jarred out of his trance, Bub said, “Don’t fucking touch me. Don’t ever touch me. I’m in the dark place. Don’t ever touch me.” Fair enough.

At around 8:30, shortly after my girlfriend saw Bub naked in the living room, I decided this could not go on any further. We had planned to do breakfast with Luigi and his girl, but now all bets were off. I packed Bub’s belongings and threw them in the car. Then I had to literally body-slam Bub on the living room floor and drag him by his arm into the driveway. He got up from the driveway, walked into the middle of the street and laid down. In the back of my head, I hoped he would be non-fatally injured by a car or competitive bicyclist. Somehow he ended up in my car, and off we sped for Atlanta…the very winds of hate licking at our heels and hieing us onward.

Not much happened from that point forward, although we did get into an altercation of sorts when Bub flipped the bird to a passing motorist, clearly on his way to Church. Said motorist then pulled his SUV in front of my car and slammed on the brakes. Luckily, his exit came up and we missed out on some vigilante Georgian justice. Good thing, for I fear Jesus was not on our side at the moment.

If you had known Bub for the past 5 years, as I have, then perhaps this would not seem so surprising. This weekend didn't really alter our friendship too badly. Those who do not know him, though…seem to find this incident rather interesting. Oh well. I guess your friends say a lot about you. Mine say I’m relatively boring.

Lord of the DumpRing (tm)

2005-07-27T09:26:00.000-04:00

A few of us "visionaries" from my college days once came up with this great invention. Actually, it was the theory of an invention, not the invention itself. As far as I know, the technology does not yet exist to make it feesible. Clearly, this kind of forward-thinking puts us in the realm of Da Vinci and Walt Disney's doctor.

It's called the DumpRing (tm). The (tm) is a trademark symbol, by the way, and is not shorthand for "Time!" as you were probably thinking. Although, It's DumpRing Time! will definitely be the premise of the first infomercial...once NASA creates the breakthrough technology to satiate world-wide demand for the mere idea of the DumpRing (tm). So, what the heck is this crazy invention of yours, you're probably wondering. Well, hold on to your ergonomic desk chair, for I am about to reveal its premise.

The DumpRing (tm) is simple device that comes in two parts. Part A is a small ring that fits in your anus. Part B is an identically sized device that can be placed wherever. The idea is that you can dump whenever and wherever--just stick Part B somewhere your dump is welcome (read on to see DumpRing (tm) applications where it is "not welcome"). Get the urge while you're boning your lady...no worries, dump away! Long car ride with no rest area in site...just let it go, man! Perhaps the best use for the DumpRing (tm) is for gags, as some might call them. Stick Part B in your boss's coffee cup and someone's gonna be having a steaming cup of Kona dump. The possibilities are truly endless. Of course, patented "one-way" technology makes it impossible for someone to send a dump backwards into your ass...because, honestly...who wants that to happen?

Many have asked, "Hey man...if this transporter technology is available, couldn't you put it to a lot better use, like transporting people around the galaxy at the speed of light, or supplying food to starving African refugees in mere seconds?" To which I then answer, "But c'mon...it's the DumpRing (tm)" And then they say, "Totally! What was I thinking?!" Then we high-five and jump into the air while using our bodies to form different letters of the alphabet.

There you have it...the DumpRing (tm). "Go, dump-set, go!!!"

Non Sequitur

2005-07-22T14:55:00.000-04:00

Road House, starring Patrick Swayze's flowing mane, is one of my favorite flicks. I had a couple of buds from college visit me a few months ago, and one of them brought his trusty Road House DVD. I had seen this cinematic materpiece many times, but must have been incoherent from chugging malt liquor, distracted while grabbing a PBR from the fridge, or struck deaf and blind by Patrick Swayze's hairless chest during this one particular part of the movie...because I honestly didn't remember/believe it when I saw it.

The scene in question is when Swayze's character, Dalton, finds himself in a climactic battle with his evil doppelganger. I think this villain's name was Jimmy. He looks to be of mixed ethnicity, somewhere between Native American and trailer trash, and sports a curly mullet. So anways, these two are kickboxing it out on the edge of the swamp when Jimmy says out of absolutely nowhere: "I used to fuck guys like you in prison." Pardon? Come again?

Now if that's not a non sequitur, I don't know what the hell is. The whole "he's a man" thing in The Crying Game, you might have seen coming...but this line was the movie equivalent of finding an unlabeled video of Tommy Lee and Vince Neil DPing your grandmother. Yowser! If anyone's got some more equally gravy movie lines, I implore you to share.

Above the Law

2005-07-20T09:24:00.000-04:00

Suspend your disbelief for a moment. Let's imagine that I am dating a stunning Hollywood actress who looks like this.

Now imagine that I cheated on her with my childrens' nanny. Pretty far-fetched, don't you think? Yeah, no woman in her right mind would ever carry my fallow seed once, much less multiple times. And then there's the whole cheating thing. But if you replace me in this scenario with Jude Law, it somehow seems much more plausible. In fact, it would seem true. I realize that the entertainment biz is full of unethical, beautiful, cokehounding man-whores, so that's not too big a deal. What amazes me is how blase you can be after boning your 26-yr old nanny whilst engaged:

Jude Law publicly apologized to his actress-fiancee, Sienna Miller, expressing his "sincere regret" over an affair with one of his children's nanny.

Somehow, "sincere regret" wouldn't be enough to get me out of this deep, dark nanny-hole. All I'm saying is that if I was dating Sienna Milller and perpetrated such a foul, I would probably attempt to cut a non-vital/vestigial organ out of my body using a spork, and then offer it to her with a selection of myrhs and oils in forgiveness. Jude Law, on the other hand, just says: "Oops, my bust. Cheers anyway." And now he's off to mooch upon Brad Pitt's relationship leftovers. Such injustice in the world.

And down the stretch they come!

2005-07-19T17:02:00.000-04:00

I think I just lost my faith in humanity for the 38th time. So this guy dies from having sex with a horse. Weird, you think...because how can you die from pounding a horse? (Well, that's what I thought was weird, but most sentient humans would probably find the whole sex with a horse thing a little strange, too...but I digress) It would perhaps be less suprising for the horse to die, right? Well, not if the HORSE is the one doing the pounding. Now that, my friends, is some disturbing stuff. It's probably best this poor chap didn't live, for I think he would have lost his body's muscular powers of fecal retention.

From the article:

Sullivan [the local reporter] also spoke with two neighbors -- a husband and wife -- near the farm who had no idea that this kind of activity had been going on. A few days ago, they were shown a tape of men having sex with horses -- one of which belonged to them.

'It was a really rural community,' Sullivan explained. 'They were pretty devastated.'

First of all, shouldn't it be "horses having sex with men?" And devastated? I should hope so. Their vicious, sex-crazed horse raped and killed this guy. I'm not buying the whole "non-cognizent beasts of the field" argument. Unfortunately in our justice system, when it comes down to the wire...it's gonna be Mr. Ed by a peforated-colon-length.

Either way...I feel really bad for this guy's family.

Math is Depressing

2005-07-16T15:18:00.000-04:00

Abraham Lincoln would often speak of what he called "Deadly Arithmetic." That had to do with the North having more soldiers than the South, so the Union could basically continue to get their asses kicked in casualties, but still win the war. (Ironically, West Virginians now use the same term to refer to the actual subject of math...which, as we all know, was invented by the devil.) Well, I believe I have made an equally significant and gruesome, math-related discovery. It is called "The K-Y Theorem of Blog Proportions." It goes something like this:

The frequency of posting to one's blog is directly proportional to frequency of sexual intercourse in a long-term relationship.

Think about it. You sign up and are all excited about your new blog. It's a little awkward at first because you're not quite sure how to do hyperlinks. Your first image posting is too big and won't fit in the alotted space. Even though you're nervous, you want to post as many times as you can. After a few more times, you're really getting the hang of this new blog thing. In fact, your postings are becoming pretty routine and you're really getting some good blog action in on the weekends.

After awhile, though, you'll miss a day here and there. No big deal, you know--you've just been busy at work or there was a really good episode of Law & Order on TNT. Then you go on an out-of-town business trip and aren't able to post for a week. Surely when you get back, you should have a lot to write...I mean, that's what you'd expect after being away for 8 days.

You post right when you get back. It's okay at first, but you notice it's kind of short and not nearly as funny as your first few times. "I gotta do it for the fans," you think. You try to keep the facade up as you write about casual workplace observations that sounds amazingly similar to Seinfeld plot lines. Before you know it, you're only posting on every-other Saturday night.

Pretty soon, you start thinking about other people's blogs while you're in the shower (sometimes, even in the bathroom at work). In a last ditch effort to resurect your blog, you give it oral, but then it just rolls over and says "Thanks."

That's it, that's the last straw. You pull up the Setting Menu and hover the cursor over "Delete This Blog." But you can't pull the trigger. You just can't. There are too many postings to look back on, too much history to lose. Remember that time you got drunk and made a post about your boss's speech impediment? Man, that was a good one. Your buddy Chuck in Receivables said that when he read it, he laughed so hard he cried. You can't delete those kind of good times. And after you worked so hard to make that template just like you wanted, how are you ever going to find the time to make another one that looks so good? You don't even remember how you figured out the HTML to get it that way, you dumbass. Face it, you're past your prime. It's Blogger Magazine and cold showers from now on.

Yeah. Math is depressing.

You got some real bals, you know that!?

2005-07-14T15:25:00.000-04:00

You know what I forgot about completely for 15 years? Pogo Balls, that's what. And it's actually spelled "Pogo Bal," which totally confounds me. They look like Saturn and were about as fun as Uranus, if you get my drift. It was kind of like putting a large stress ball on the ground, balancing a plate on top of it, then jumping up and down on the plate. I remember getting about 4 inches of air on these things. If you squeezed the top half of the ball really tightly between your feet and folded your legs under your ass as you jumped, then it gave the illusion of "mad ups." In the commercial these kids would be bouncing over houses, trees, prison walls, the space shuttle and all kinds of crap. Not me. I remember getting in about 7 off-kilter bounces before having to ditch in some shrubs.

Then there's the whole thing with spelling "ball" with only one "L." You just can't teach that kind of marketing prowess. Somebody woke up one morning and thought, "Let's just spell ball like a retarded 9 year old." Which reminds me...how awesome are ad campaigns that go the whole "parents just don't get it" route. As in there's a "parent" dressed in a button-up sweater vest and smoking a pipe who then says, "But that's not the way you spell BALL." And then a wacky voiceover comes on and says, "Dude, when will parents ever get it? Rock out! Jump up and down! Go to town, yeah! Satan rules!" Well, that last one is only if you've been huffing paint thinner.

In this ad, the "50's kid" is using a hula hoop, right? But it's a POGO Ball. You know, as in POGO stick. So since this is the way radder version of a pogo stick, what the hell does a hula hoop have to do with anything? Again, I remain confounded.

Hugh G. Rection

2005-07-13T09:36:00.000-04:00

Do you remember "Big Johnson" t-shirts? You know, the ones that made clever double entendres such as "Big Johnson Casino: Liquor up front, poker in the rear." Nothing could make a 13 year old boy smile faster and an 8th grade teacher flip out any quicker than these uncouth togs. On that same note, anyone over the age of 18 who wore these shirts could not be broadcasting the fact any clearer that they did not, in fact, have a "Big Johnson." While I haven't seen one since my last trip (roughly 10 years ago) to a friend's hunting camp in Mer Rouge, Louisiana...I'd reckon that there are small splinter cells of steadfast Johnson devotees in the wilds of Alabama and Northeastern Mississippi. These would be the same people with "Ain't Skeered," "No Fear," and "The South Will Rise Again" bumper stickers. Just wondering if anyone had made recent sightings of this rare, beautiful species.

Mexican Radio (for help)

2005-07-12T10:55:00.000-04:00

A quote from my extremely sweet grandmother: "If your grandfather would just teach me to shoot a gun, I'd sit on the border and shoot those darn immigrants myself. They need to die. That'll teach 'em a lesson." I already knew that she subscribed to some right-wing magazine devoted to the issue of illegal immigration, but this level of single-minded devotion was entirely new.

In this same conversation, the terms "Peace-nik" and "Arab" (pronounced Ay-rab) were thrown out and discussed. As always, I played my political cards extremely close to my vest, so to speak. I just nodded and lost myself in the meal, specifically the cauliflower. That was good cauliflower...a hint of butter and a dash of paprika for color and flavor.

The Buffet

2005-07-11T11:53:00.000-04:00

I went home this weekend...back to Monroe, Louisiana. Hadn't been back since November. As always, not a whole lot changes aside from some new houses and strip malls hither and thither. Friday night my parents took my grandmother, aunt and me to this new Chinese/Japanese Buffet place called "Five Star." The warning signal went off as soon as I learned that it was in the exact same space as the town's formerly premier Mexican restaurant, called Cuco's. I could already imagine the culturally confused decor.

We arrived at Five Star around 7pm, peak dinner time in those parts. In the parking lot: two pick-up trucks and a Suburban. Surprisingly small crowd. Around the front entrance there were some contruction cones, yellow police tape, a sewer grate, some window burglar bars (pried off the window) and a blanket. Either someone had been shot recently, there was a rummage sale, or a homeless person had been living there and had just left for the moment...or all of the above. Upon entering we were greeted by about 5 friendly Chinese employees and a bivvy of empty tables. At one of the two occupied tables, I spied the backside of a 500 pound man--the truest sign of an affordable all-you-can-eat buffet. Honest to goodness, his chair looked like it was a smallish butt crack accessory.

As we were guided to our table by overeager waitress, the decor availed itself. A true hodge-podge of cultural inconsistencies that I have come to love in cheap Asian eateries. The ceiling tiles were painted checkerboard-style green and white. There was a lot of tube lighting (you know...basically Christmas lights in a thin flexible tube) pinned to the ceiling, as well. On one wall there was a 12' x 5' backlit picture of a waterfall which was so bright that, when looked at directly, would sear the image into your eyeballs for a good 5 minutes. Also strange were the 4 or 5 ballpoint pens festooned about our table. My favorite touch, though: hung on a large wall with nothing else on it, a framed color poster of carrots, celery and onions...as if to say, "Vegetables? Yes, we've got those."

Against my better judgement I ordered a la carte and got a sushi combo, because my mom assured me that their sushi was okay. The presentation was truly remarkable, as my dad got his sushi on a scale model wooden pull-cart and my mom got hers on a scale model of a Japanese footbridge. Mine, however, just came out on a big ass plate. The fun ended there, because the sushi tasted like salty fish vomit stuffed into a stress squeeze ball. Oh well...should have known, right?

Perhaps the creepiest part of the whole experience was the fact that no one else in the "restaurant" talked the whole time. I was looking around at there were three or four couples, all of whom were staring straight into their dish and eating like robots. Man, I sure hope my marriage ends up like that...guess MSG won't preserve everything (this is where I would insert a smiley face emoticon if I wasn't morally opposed to their use and irresponsible proliferation).

The Verdict: I was going to make some stupid comment about giving the place 1 out of "Five Star," but have now realized that this story really isn't going anywhere, nor is it interesting. I'm sorry.

Mr. Bonkers and me

2005-07-06T09:25:00.000-04:00

I've always wanted a pet monkey. Well, technically not a monkey...an ape (chimpanzee to be specific). When people hear this they are quick to point out the monkeys are feral, filthy creatures who can often be quite mean and even fling their own poo. "Very well," I say to these detractors. I do, in fact, concur that in practice, my pet ambitions might not be so wonderful. But, let's be honest...I will never own a pet chimp, so allow me to revel in my dream.

This chimp of mine would follow me anywhere, and we would always hold hands. Preferably, Mr. Bonkers would wear at least a diaper, though a lime green pants suit with a madras blazer would be most desirable. Mr. Bonkers would sit next to me at work and doodle with sharpies. Whenever my boss comes in to tell me something, Mr. B would put on a fake smile and enthusiastically nod his head. Then, when bossman left, Mr. B would flub his lips and spit, then laugh a hearty apetastic laugh as we high-fived Top Gun style. Mr. Bonkers would also definitely hurl poo at the people in media. As the angry, poo-laden media people stormed over to my office, Mr. B would jump into my arms and act really scared. "He's just a silly monkey," I would say. But, as we would both know...that's ridiculous because chimpanzees are great apes, not monkeys.

Snap, Crackle, Crack

2005-07-05T14:13:00.000-04:00

I will have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the fireworks last night at Lenox. It was a rootin, tootin good time for all...especially the guy seated next to me who smelled like socks. About half way through the stunning pyrotechnic opus, aforementioned smelly guy began magically controlling the fireworks with his fingers...or so he obviously thought. This guy didn't really bother me...what really bothered me is that they played Springsteen's "Born in the USA" during part of the show. Apparently no one has ever listened to the song or else they wouldn't ever play it at a patriotic event. OK, so the first stanza goes something like this: "Born down in a dead man's town/ The first kick I took was when I hit the ground/ You end up like a dog that's been beat too much/ 'Til you spend half your life just covering up" Hmmmm...makes me feel all tingly and Jeffersonian inside.

But perhaps I give too little credit to the show's music arranger. Perhaps the juxtaposition of Neil Diamond's "America" with the Boss's song was actually an ironic commentary. Stay with me here. So Neil Diamond is singing all about immigrants attracted to freedom's warm glow, and Springsteen in singing about losing his job in a refinery town. Dirt cheap immigrant labor is driving labor into a wage funnel, which forces Americans out of these jobs because they aren't willing to compete at such low recompense. Ok, probably not...but just what if?

Oh, and we stopped in Caribou Coffee on the way to the car and had a fun run-in with this guy hyped up on PCP, whom I gave 50/50 odds of trying to shoot/stab someone in the coffee shop. Luckily, he didn't. Maybe he was just really mad at immigrant labor. After he left, I continued sipping my small decaf coffee, savoring the lukewarm dregs of freedom. It's good to be an American (pronounced "amurukun").

Houston, I have a problem

2005-07-05T13:53:00.000-04:00

After having been in Houston, TX for the past few days, I can say with a fair degree of certainty that Houston really sucks. I should have know what I was in for when I stepped out of the terminal and it felt like a midget socked me in the face with a hot, wet towel. Why a midget, you ask? Because that's how I picture it in my head: Wee-man from Jackass whapping my in the yap with a steaming towel.

Now, I'm sure there are little areas of Houston that are cultural gems and full of ambience, but I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about Houston as one entire hunk of char-broiled range-ridden beef...haunches, innards and all. It's like the city sprouted forth from the very plains in about 1973. Maybe someone planted some city beans, I don't know. It just struck me as very odd and disturbing that an entire downtown could look so vanilla. And you know what else was alarming? The flatness. From the simple heights of an interstate overpass, miles of terrain availed themselves before my disapproving gaze. I mean, we're talking Mary Kate and Ashley circa Full House flat. Perhaps I'll wait for a Texas winter (known to New Englanders as "early fall") before making a full decision.

Teiam

2005-06-28T11:53:00.000-04:00

This one's for my former youth league soccer coach. See, I told you.

Extreme Makeover: My Lifeless Soul Edition

2005-06-28T09:34:00.000-04:00

I don't know what it is about "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" that warms my frigid heart and gets the waterworks a-pumping. I mean, after all, they do the same thing every week. Take a crap house full of 10 people living crap lives and make it rock. Crazy spiked-hair guy abuses the bullhorn, the hot blonde is extremely hot (while also satisfying my tool/sex fetish), and the guy with the glasses cries. Yet, despite its formulaic development, I am somehow enamored and touched (incidentally, this also holds true for American Chopper, minus the tears and self-sacrifice). This Sunday it got so emotional that for 10 whole minutes I was thinking about volunteering somewhere. Then for like 2 seconds I was even thinking about writing and illustrating books for children with cancer. Luckily, a little MTV Inferno II and those altruistic notions were quickly dispelled. But, man...I gotta stop watching this show before I end up in a soup kitchen.

ifraud

2005-06-25T10:55:00.000-04:00

Just 5 minutes ago I was innocently watching NBC's Discovery Kids. What can I say...I love Macaques. So everything was going fine until this particularly offensive commercial came before my eyes. It was for Rooms-To-Go. The ad featured neon outlines of 20-somethings dancing to music. Let me repeat: neon outlines of 20-somethings dancing to music. This is so hack on so many levels. What's funny is that I was just having a related conversation the other day. We were talking about how funny it would be to do some spec ads for an mp3 player where people are dancing to edgy music, only the people are neon colored and the background is black. Because that would like totally be the opposite of ipod's stuff. Duh. Someone gets paid at least 6-times what I do to make these kind of marketing decisions. If that's the price of my creative soul...just throw in some Barilla tortelloni and I'm in.

VD, and I ain't talkin' The Clap

2005-06-24T18:35:00.000-04:00

So, you think you know Vin Diesel. Think again. This is an awesome Vin Diesel random fact generator (click here). Hit refresh over and over as you slowly kiss your day away. And no, I do not like nor have I ever liked Vin Diesel as an actor, personality or human being (well, ok...maybe a little in Fast and the Furious).

Failure, the second stanza

2005-06-24T14:55:00.000-04:00

TRACK TITLES OF CHRISTIAN ROCK SONGS WITH IMPRUDENT USE OF PARENTHESES

-Satan Rules (over his fallow kingdom of nothing)

-Jesus Sucks (the very sin from my bones)

-Nail Me Hard (to the cross)

-Faith is a Prison (with imaginary bars made out of love)

-The Dark Lord is My Master (Not!)

-That priest touched me (with the awesome power of God)

-Evil is Alive (spelled backwards plus an “a,” but switch out “i” for “o “and you’ve got “love,” my friend)

Caveman

2005-06-23T17:51:00.000-04:00

Imagine that you are a caveman. You've just eaten the face off a Snokrat. Your name is Gorf. Seriously, just imagine.

Vengassippi Burning

2005-06-23T09:18:00.000-04:00

So, apparently the Six Flags guy has a pretty dark past. And I'm not talking about dropping E and listening to Venga Boys. Check out the CNN article here. Wish I could claim responsibility for this most excellent call, but I can't...this time I am but the messenger of irony.

My favorite sentence of the article (for several reasons): "The balding, bespectacled Killen -- a former part-time Baptist preacher -- appeared to be sleeping during much of the closing remarks."

Between this and the Carolina dog-raper, I am so not proud of being from the South right now.

Confessions of an Advertising Hack

2005-06-22T09:55:00.000-04:00

So, you want to be a copywriter? Good one. Just start crapping in one hand and wishing in the other...you know the rest. But no one ever told me that. You know what else no one ever told me? That there is a finite list of adjectives that can be used within the hospitality industry (this apparently also goes for medical and real estate, but the real prize goes to hospitality). Even worse, if you try and shake things up with a little poetic turn of phrase that eschews these "canned" descriptors, they will inevitable be replaced by the client with the exact word you were trying to avoid. For future reference, I have decided to list these adjectives so that I might never forget. Please feel free to add your own.

-Stunning
-Awe-inspiring
-Majestic
-Spacious
-Magnificent (see also "magnificently appointed")
-Splendid
-Beautiful (the to-be-avoided granddaddy of them all)
-Beauteous (grandpa's gay cousin)
-Pristine
-Incomparable
-Unparalleled
-Peerless (careful...this one's a head turner!)
-Unmatched
-Artful
-Masterful
-Luxurious (verb form "luxuriate")
-Blissful
-Charming
-Distinctive
-Sophisticated
-Urbane (yes, I spelled it right)
-Immaculate
-Calming
-Soothing
-Spacious
-Impressive
-Untouched
-Natural
-Surreal
-Serendipitous (not sure if this is a word)
-Serene
-Placid
-Rejuvenating (no spa would be complete w/o this guy)
-Restorative (perhaps not a word?)
-Replinishing (also favored by sports drink manufacturers)
-Euphoric
-Unfathomable
-Etc., etc., etc.

Yesssssss!

2005-06-22T03:38:00.000-04:00

If I could list "King of Muscle Rock" as past experience on my resume, I would sooooo get in everywhere I applied.

Boogie Man

2005-06-21T09:59:00.000-04:00

In response to the Saddam image, a friend wrote: "The expression on his face looks like he just sneaked a huge, unwieldy booger out of his left nostril and doesn't know where exactly to wipe it." Which got me thinking...

It would be so awesome if Saddam was jealously hording his boogers on the wall behind his cot. Every morning he would line them all up and hum the Iraqi national anthem. Occasionally, a booger would become crusty and fall to the ground. "Weakness!" Saddam would say, crushing the fallen booger beneath his prison-issue flip-flops. "Let him be an example to you all! I will not tolerate this kind of insolence!" Man, you can take the boy out of his dictatorial role, but you can't take the dictator out of the boy.

The Sad in Saddam

2005-06-21T02:32:00.000-04:00

So, apparently Saddam likes his Doritos, but is about as crazy about Froot Loops as he is about Shiite rebels (check it). By the way, this was an interesting choice of picture for the article, don't you think? They must have taken it just as he ran out of Doritos. Then again, he could have been reflecting on his past genocidal tendencies. Either way, I sense some inner-conflict...and some kick-ass beardage.

I heart blog

2005-06-20T10:17:00.000-04:00

I can already tell that this blog is going to take over my life. So, anyway...here's to the real point of starting a blog in the first place. And that is: posting my two McSweeney's submissions that have been rejected. For those of you who aren't "in the know," McSweeney's is a web/print purveyor of things humorous and slightly twisted. Not everything they do is funny, but it's far better than most drivel being spouted and touted as "humor." However, until I achieve the comedic noteriety of such VH1 regulars as Michael Ian Black, my submissions will be overlooked. So here's one of them:

Top 5 ways to take the edge off a positive diagnosis for an STD.

5. Doctor wears crude Richard Dawson mask (strangely palms your butt and slips you tongue during introduction). “We showed 100 doctors your test results, then asked them 'What does Neel have?' (Ghonnorea is #1 answer. Cancer runs a distant second.)
4. Doctor reveals diagnosis in subtle joke: "So this guy walks into a doctor’s office. He has chlamydia. His name is Neel. You are the guy."
3. Doctor stretches cotton ball across upper lip. He says “Got Milk?” Laughter. Akward pause. “Got herpes.” Laughter. “No, that wasn’t a question.”
2. Diagnosis followed by blooper sound effect: “I’m sorry, Neel, but you’ve got syphilis.” (muffled trumpet: “wonk, wonk, wahhhhhh”)
1. Your doctor is Dave Coulier.

It's alive!

2005-06-19T14:56:00.000-04:00

So there I was: sitting in a coffee bar (Octane, for those interested), chugging dark roast coffee, reading consumer research filth from work, using every ounce of rectal strength to relent an ever-increasing natural urge (see earlier coffee reference). And then another urge struck me--much like a Coke bottle from the heavens once struck a naive African tribesman in "The Gods Must Be Crazy." Actually, I'm not sure it struck him, so much as fell at his feet. Can you believe they made a sequel to that movie? It's the movie gods that must be crazy, right? So anyway, the urge to blog was what struck me. And by blog, I actually mean "blog" and not dump. Ta da...a little electronical zim zammies and out of the worldwide chaos of 1's, 0's, and streaming foot fetish porn cometh the order of mine blog. Now I just have to figure out how to ad pictures and I will truly be cooking with gas...e-gas, that is! Ha, delightful.