All Better Now!

Hey, New Yorkers: just when you thought your crippling life problems were deserving of legitimate attention, guess what? PHPHPHLBPPHLBTHHHBBBBLBTTTT My, what was that apocalyptic armpit noise? Ah, yes. That was the sweet, sweet sound of Dr. Debbie. Caring.

I don't mean to leave out the rest of you urb- and 'burbanites here; only to recount this latest of gems from Time Out New York, the publication that, through thick and thin, has unerringly been there to provide me with biweekly late-breaking intelligence on which lesser-manicured bodily orifices may be waxed for under $58 at boutiques with names like "Sasha." You can't put a price on knowledge like that.*

Anyway, earlier this month, Time Out ventured into the field of career solicitude, introducing psychologist-person Dr. Debbie, an individual who bravely and single-handedly smashes the boundaries of a formerly staid profession by being pictured in a cartoon booth. As if that weren't enough to convince you of the magnitude of this courageous pioneer's gifts to society, let us consider a nugget of her advice to one of Manhattan's job-seeking, 22-year-old Samantha Ringstaff, determined to become a professional contemporary dancer but forestalled by the combination of toilet-bound economy and cutthroat industry.

Dr. Debbie will make it better!:

"Dr. Debbie says: It's important that Samantha stays positive and focused on her goal. She should create a vision board -- a place where she posts pictures of her goals (dance imagery) and encouraging words (I've made it to Broadway, etc.) -- and look at it every day. She can take ten minutes at different times during the day to recite positive affirmations in the form of 'I am...' (not 'I wish...,' 'I want...'); for example, 'I am a great dancer.'")

Listen up, all you jobless: it's high time you stopped all your wimpmeister whining just because the economy has left you without your weenie-butt "artistic fulfillment" and "intellectual stimulation" and "financial security" and "food." Wallowing time is over! Dr. Debbie commands that you get up off your "butt" (assuming that (a) you can dislodge yourself from the "cardboard box" you now call home and (b) you have not already pawned your "butt" to pay for one delicious, delicious meal of "Slim Jims") and create yourself a "vision board" from whatever materials** happen to be available to you! Then, and only then, will you achieve the goal of each and every job-seeker in these troubled times: namely, you will have a vision board.

ASK DR. SNARK

Q. Well, okay, but what if I can't feed myself?

A. We suggest developing motor skills.

Q. But I sold mine to pay for medication for my small ailing child, Braner.***

A. We feel your pain.

Q. Really?

A. Mmm, nah.

Q. Will reciting positive affirmations really help me achieve job security?

A. It depends.

Q. On what?

A. On whether you are a LITTLE PINK CAAAAARE BEEEEEAR WITH A RAAAAAINBOW ON ITS CHE-E-E-E-E-EST FROM THE MAAAAAGICAL LAAAND OF CAAAAAARE-A-LOT COPYRIGHT THE EIGHTIES, THE WALT DISNEY COMPANY, UNDER POTENTIAL THREAT OF WHOM I SWE-E-E-EAR I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF ANYTHING CALLED A "CARE BEAR," SIGNED, DR. SNARK.

Q. What?

A. We said you should look into the exciting field of new media.

Q. What is "new media?"

A. It is media that is not as old as "old media." As opposed to old media, it is comparatively new.

Q. May I recite positive affirmations about it; for example, "I am a great dancer?"

A. Not near Dr. Snark.

Q. But what if I'm not actually a great dancer?

A. Then the Care Bears, who do not tolerate lies, will have you killed. (DR. SNARK HAS NEVER HEARD OF THE CARE BEARS. DR. SNARK HAS NEVER HEARD OF ANY ENTITY ASSOCIATED WITH THE WALT DISNEY COMPANY, ESPECIALLY NOT THE GREAT FESTERING PIECE OF SNOT KNOWN AS "BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, THE BROADWAY MUSICAL," SO PLEASE DON'T HURT ME.)

Q. But what about Braner?

A. You again?

That is all for today's informative edition of "Ask Dr. Snark." If we have helped but one job-seeker today, we will be very surprised. Not that we will let this get us down or anything, because we are a great dancer.

* Actually, you can: $47.50 at "Sasha."

** Such as, for example, maggot hide. What, does Dr. Debbie have to think of everything FOR YOU???

*** DISCLAIMER: Please be advised that small ailing children are not funny. Unless they are named "Braner."

©2009 Nicola McEldowney

The Snark Ascending

Laughing Time is Over

The other day, in a chilling episode worthy of any cutting-room floor, I walked into a drugstore and picked up a birthday card. You have probably gone down this path yourself. It starts out innocently enough: you stop by the card rack to stock up on li'l nuggets o' Hallmark insincerity for appalling relatives with names like Uncle Sue, and then you make THE FATAL MISTAKE. You pick up the card under the heading "HUMOR." This one had a cupcake on the front, and inside it said - quote - "It's Your Special Day."

Frankly, I'm uneasy. I had prided myself, up until then, on a healthy working understanding of greeting card humor. My first-ever Real Job was at a Hallmark store, where I was able, via the scientific technique of being really bored, to compartmentalize card humor into a few basic categories:

- Certain persons lead lives rich in pickup trucks and beer.
- Certain persons feature bosoms. (BONUS: There is a high chance these persons also feature buttocks.)
- Hillary Clinton wishing you a happy birthday is funny.
- Dogs pee on things.

So after encountering the cupcake card, I stood there, very still except for my eyeballs, which bulged progressively out of my skull while days and nights progressed behind me in comical cinematic fashion. Later, my sister would childishly suggest that perhaps somebody just put the card back in the wrong place. You cannot reason with persons like this. No, my friends, we are witnessing THE DEATH OF HUMOR. We sit idly by as, before our very eyes, it goes the way of audiocassette players, so that one day soon, we will try to tell a joke, and find that it features no orifice into which we can insert our "Soft '70s" tape. I don't want my future children growing up in a world like this.

Further support for this: a classmate of mine once enlightened me to the blood-curdling fact that our school features a course in - get ready - comedy analysis. Really. As in GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW HAKK sorry, that was just the sound of me sobbing out my trachea. No, seriously, as a proud student at wherever-it-is-I-go, I stand firmly behind my institution, which is why, as a token of my gratitude to the school for admitting me and unfailingly billing me since, I will consider their mode of comedy education today.

So what say we throw it over to the insightful dudes and dudettes in Dr. Professor Warwick H. Eggbound's First-Year Seminar in Comedy Proctology ("Looking Up Comedy's Ass Through The Rectoscope of Humanity"):


DR. EGGBOUND: What do you think the author means by "we will tell a joke, and find that it features no orifice into which we can insert our 'Soft '70s' tape?" Explain.

(Dead silence; sounds of sleep, surreptitious autoeroticism, etc.)

DR. EGGBOUND: Jason? Your analysis? (Mouthing along with student.) It's ... funny ... because ... a ... joke ... can't ... feature ... an ... orifice. That's correct. The use of absurdity renders the observation humorous. Academic laugh!

EVERYONE (academically): Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.

DR. EGGBOUND: Ahhh. I needed that. Now it is vital, too, that we pay attention to the author's use of the transative defamatory conjunction, "GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW." What, precisely, do we find funny about "GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW?" Stewart?

STEWART (a "special student" who still wets the bed): Well, if memory serves, the O.E.D. in fact classifies "GAWHAWWWWWWHAWW" as a laxative depilatory confection that should really only have four W's in a row instead of six. Thus is it rendered "humorous."

DR. EGGBOUND: Now laugh.

EVERYONE: Ha Ha Ha Ha.

(Dr. Eggbound smokes a cigarette)


Speaking as a wide-eyed garbage-disposal style newbie in the academic sphere, I firmly believe that there is actually nothing in the world that cannot benefit from Dr. Eggbound's particular brand of analysis. In fact, such luminaries as he render me totally unnecessary. So I highly encourage all of you, especially you young persons as are yet benighted enough to think comedy is "funny," to take his course. And have a ball. It's Your Special Day.

P.S. Also, Hillary says happy birthday.

P.P.S. Now laugh.





©2009, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

Snark for Girls

You'll be devastated to know that, despite my heroic efforts to bring the gender-studies world to its knees by writing an essay about it that upwards of several people read, it turns out -- you may want to sit down with your head between your knees for this part -- gender still endures.* This despite the fact that some of those who read the essay were not even members of my personal family.

Anyway, the ugly truth visited itself on me on a recent visit to the bookstore, where, in the interest of broadening my intellectual horizons in teh time it would take to finish my Honkaccino, I picked up a book that transported me back to my early childhood,** when one day my mother, who was home-schooling me at the time, was given a book entitled: MATH FOR GIRLS. Sadly, I no longer own this book due to the fact that we misplaced it, shortly after attacking it with a machete. But I do remember its main features:

1. Math.
2. For girls.
3. An answer guide providing many -- not to put too fine a point on it -- wrong answers.
4. A pink cover with stickers*** on it.
5. Problems such as:

You earned $15 from baby-sitting! And $25 from the bake sale you and the other little be-uterused creatures held after cheerleading practice! Then you and people with names like "Kaylee" went to the mall! If you spent $6.99 on a charm bracelet and $2.27 on a nonfat taco, plus a $1.25 exclamation mark surcharge, and 6.5% sales tax, then don't worry about it, you can't solve this problem anyway. Have a great day!!

So I was thinking, there in the bookstore, that we have really come a long way since those unenlightened days (case in point: we no longer wear "scrunchies"), thanks largely to entities such as the American Girl company, publisher of the book I was holding in my hand, the American Girl Girl's Guide To Money. I remember this company fondly, because when I was little I had a couple of the dolls, like the WWII doll, the colonial doll, the plague-infected doll, etc., plus I once invented, as a prospective addition to their lineup, a cavegirl doll with a name like "Unnhh" who went around doing plucky cavegirl things and starring in uplifting cavegirl adventures with titles like "Unnhh Saves The Day."****

So I had nothing but the utmost respect for A.G., until the moment, there in the bookstore, that my heart was ripped out of my chest, stomped on, chopped up into fun-size pieces and charged a $1.95 Citibank Surcharge by their book. I refer to the following passage, which I quote verbatim:

It’s Saturday. You’ve got friends at your side, a purse with some cash, and the mall at your feet. You’re happy – even a little excited – walking along under the bright lights, listening to music and the babble of voices. The air smells of pretzels and cookies and pizza. You love being here, talking to friends about what you like and don’t like. You don’t have to buy anything to have a good time. And yet – funny – you often do. How’s that work?

In fact, when you’re in a mall, you’re in a landscape very different from the rest of the world. There are no windows to the outdoors. Blue sky, fresh air, dirt, pavement – that all sort of disappears. What you have instead are signs, lighting, colors, advertisements, and stylish displays.

It’s a landscape designed by people who have one thing in mind: encouraging you to buy things. Everything is arranged to that purpose.


*blink*

NOOOOOOOOOOOO I WON'T BELIEVE IT NOT THE MAAAALLLLLLLLLL THE MALL LOOOOOVES MEEEE TAKE IT BACK TAKE IT BACK WHY I OUGHTA POKE YOU IN THE EYE WITH A NONFAT TACO.

*sniff*

And ... and another thing ... (sniff) ... frankly, this passage is DISCRIMINATORY. Yeah. Discriminatory against ... against people who don't shop at malls. Take the urban vagrant. Yeah! Do I see the American urban vagrant represented an-y-where in that passage, "American Girl," if that IS your name?

Well, lucky for you I and the editors of American Urban Vagrant***** came along. With their assistance, I have retooled the foregoing passage thusly:

It's Saturday -- not that that means anything to you! You've got your imaginary friends at your side, another person's purse with some cash, and bodily substances at your feet. You're happy -- even a little excited in bodily ways -- walking along under the smog, listening ot the babble of the voices in your head telling you KILL THE MAYOR KILL THE MAYOR.****** The air smells of pretzels and cookies and secretions. You love being here, talking to your imaginary bunny, Harvey, about what you don't like and ... don't like. You don't have to buy anything to have a good time. And, accordingly, you often don't. How's that work?

It works like this, silly: you're an AMERICAN URBAN VAGRANT! All you need to feel good is the toe-tapping entertainment inside your own fried, fried head. In fact, when you're inside your head, you're in a landscape very different from the rest of the world. There are no windows to the outdoors.

It's a landscape designed by people who have one thing in mind: they want to EAT YOUR BRAIN EAT YOUR BRAIN EAT YOUR BRAIN. Everything is arranged to that purpose.


So there. Having struck a much-needed blow for whatever it was I was striking a blow for, I'm off to the mall to do math. Then I'm going to buy things, because the stylish displays are telling me I have to. Or else Harvey will eat my brain.





* In fact, while sitting in this position, you may notice it between your knees.
** There were "crop tops" there. You may want to put your head between your knees again.
*** They sparkled!!
**** This will yet make me rich; you just wait.
***** Insert your own joke about a line of dolls here. It's just too easy.
****** DISCLAIMER: This is the voice in your head, avoiding legal involvements. Do NOT kill the mayor. Thank you.



©2009, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending

Ses and the city

An ad at the bottom of lepoint.fr entreats me to, quote, "Find Sesy Girls at Great Prices." Which raises questions:

1. Do I have to?
2. Am I missing something here?
3. Or do certain copywriters just need to go to Russia for some ses ed?

Today's nugget o' highly suspicious

The box of ice cream cones at work says, quote, LARGE JACKETED WAFFLE. This suggests a big anthropomorphized Disney-style waffle-dude wearing a trenchcoat, which he would occasionally throw open, to display his nooks and crannies to passing sprinkles.

Now if only it had been actual CAT porn -- he'd have had us all.

Man says cat downloaded child porn :: CHICAGO SUN-TIMES :: Nation

Shared via AddThis

Sex Ed

As a hardcore noticer of the highly suspicious (a telltale sign of which is often making hardcore statements such as "Huh!"), sometimes I have to dip back into the archives to reach my noticing quota. It's not that suspicious things aren't going on in the present; it's just that life is full, what with all the exciting and glamorous adventures we young persons have, such as being on the phone with Amazon customer service for 6,253 hours this week. The result being, today's nugget comes courtesy of the November 2007 Marie Claire, the same periodical responsible each month for purveying the following information:

* HOW A FLEETINGLY FAMOUS REALITY-SHOW CONTESTANT WITH A NAME LIKE "CANDEIGH" LEARNED TO BELIEVE IN HERSELF AND GOT A HOT ASS!!!
* 770 SUREFIRE WAYS TO DROP 20 POUNDS WHILE INGESTING FRIED CHEESE BY THE TRUCKLOAD!!!

And of course:

* 353,569,103 SIZZLING NEW TECHNIQUES FOR GETTING YOUR PARTNER HOT IN BED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So of course I follow religiously, even though there are usually actually only 16 SIZZLING NEW TECHNIQUES, and all of them pretty much boil down to, "Involving the naughty parts usually works." But who am I to judge? Especially when -- hold on to your fried cheese now -- it turns out certain other countries believe it takes actual formal education to complete your sexual know-how. Marie Claire says so itself: in Moscow, which qualifies as a location in a certain other country, there is: a sex school. As in, a school that teaches you how to ... like ... do sex. I quote from the article:

On a Saturday night at [the school] ... five students are gyrating their hips and tossing their hair to the manic beat of Russian disco (think early Madonna crossed with Cossack music). And this is just the warm-up. Tonight's class is "How to Be Your Man's Number-One Lover." Lessons include trying out erotic massage on a live male model, practicing fellatio with the aid of bananas and lollipops, and learning how to praise a man's sexual prowess "convincingly."

Now it must be noted that this is only a small excerpt of the article, and there are many other parts (heh-heh) that are seriously depraved and disturbing, and I feel compelled to say that -- as a 21st-century American woman -- I find them funny. This is why -- call me new frontier* if you must -- I am posting here the parts that, as a 21st-century American woman, I find the most funny.

I'm not quite sure why this is. I have never been to Russia ("The Show Me State"), so I cannot identify with the story on anything like a personal basis. That said -- not that I wish to toot my own horn here -- I did personally take one whole entire semester of Russian, during which I attained the invaluable cultural skill of learning words I would promptly forget.** The existence of the sex school, however, entirely restores my faith in a country that could call an innocent alphabet letter an "R" when it is flagrantly a "P." Nobody would have ever dreamed of letting them get away with such a thing if their athletes hadn't kicked all the other athletes' butts dating back to the 3,000,000 B.C. Australopithecine Winter Olympics. (That was the one where the australopithecines in charge of the world figure skating federation engaged in underhanded dealings that were all over the newspapers.) (FUN FACT FOR NON-FIGURE SKATING ENTHUSIASTS: These same individuals are still in charge of the federation today.)

But back to Russia, and why I am cool with the whole sex-school deal. You know what I think it is? I've spent far too much time - approximately 671 years since my birth in 1988 - as an American student in the American system of higher education, which has its benefits,*** but in which they would never dream of hiring a male model as an Educational Supplement. This is because this would constitute an act. In the American system of higher education, theory, theory, theory is the order of the day; the more degrees removed you are from actually doing anything, the better, as evidenced by this highly authentic transcript from a sex class at West Southeast North Montana Technical Agricultural & Umbilical:


PROFESSOR SWITHIN R. HORKBUCKET: ... therefore it is altogether necessary, as we theorize about theorizing about, but do not actually ever theorize about, the theories pertaining to this theory ...

STUDENT: Excuse me. Can we get a male model in here?

PROF. HORKBUCKET: No.

STUDENT: Oh. But uh... we can maybe look at pictures of a male model, right?

PROF. HORKBUCKET: Heh, heh, heh! No.

STUDENT: Are we allowed to, uh...think about a male model?

PROF. HORKBUCKET: Ah-ah-ah! That's thinking. You're at an American university, remember, you little mucus-wad? Thinking is but a baby step from activity, and activity is anathema. The name of the game here is, through inaction and non-thought, to get yourself as close as possible to THE HOLY GRAIL OF NON-BEING.

STUDENT: Uh ... well, then ... can I maybe think about not thinking about a male model?

PROF. HORKBUCKET (grudgingly): Closer.

STUDENT (in an epiphany): Hey ... it's kind of like ... THE HOLY GRAIL OF NON-BEING!

PROF. HORKBUCKET (in a low voice): You getting hot yet?

So I admit I kind of sympathize with the Russians on this one. And get this: the male model isn't even the best part of the article. No, the indisputable best part is the photograph of the chic young bosom-intensive cutie humping -- purely in the academic sense of that word, you understand -- a stuffed tiger. Though, as a scholastic-type, I cannot help but observe this raises the following troubling questions:

- Do they sanitize the tiger between each use?
- Can tigers get human crabs?
- Can crabs get human tigers?
- Do you think the tiger ever gets tired? Or does he just smoke a little cigarette after each "lecture," and then bounce back, good to go?
- Do you think there's any point in my thinking up these questions anymore inasmuch as you guys are all off googling the picture of the chick humping the tiger anyway so actually I can do whatever I want now OOGY BOOGY BOOGY BOOGY BOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGYBOOGY that was fun?

Still, in conclusion, I must depart on a somber note**** to my fellow young persons: young persons, after you engage in tender moments, ALWAYS remember to sanitize your tiger. There is no excuse to do otherwise. Plus, in some institutions, doing so may get you college credit.





* But before you call me new frontier, remember to punch "7" to dial out.
** I suspect this was because many of these words contained funny letters, which was in itself highly suspicious.
*** Like sometimes the cafeteria serves International Food.
****E-flat.



©2009, Nicola McEldowney
The Snark Ascending