see Joan smell

Joan Daly says she likes it when guys wear Old Spice. She likes it when pubescent boys wear Axe, and she is particularly fond of babies that smell like they are caked in baby powder.

Joan Daly says that she finds it comforting when decrepit men smell like cigar smoke. She also happens to enjoy it when old women smell like cheap perfume.

If Joan Daly had it her way, wet dogs would smell like dry puppies, and body odor would smell like fresh popcorn.

In Joan Daly's perfect world, that early morning sewer steam would smell like coffee, and instead of flatulence smelling the way it does, the gas emitted from your gastric tank would have the decadence of a gas station.

Because Joan Daly likes it when automobiles have that "new car smell" (despite reports that that "new car smell" is toxic), it can also be assumed that Joan Daly likes it when sneakers have that "fresh-out-of-the-box" smell. We can further assume that Joan Daly likes it when sneaker boxes smell like fresh-out-of-the-oven cardboard.

Joan Daly likes it when it's raining and she can smell a rainbow coming. She likes it when horse poop smells like unicorn shit.

Joan Daly likes to think that her own shit don't stink. Joan Daly once emptied a whole bottle of Old Spice into the toilet to make sure that it didn't.

newsweek goes oldschool

With the season premiere of Mad Men less than a week away, Newsweek decided to help pre-heat the ol' vintage oven by providing us with an issue chock-full of modern day ads bursting with that retro flavor that you can't help but enjoy.

The only thing Mad Men-related I enjoy more is a collection of Mad Men subway posters that have been vandalized. Nice.

I can't say that I watch Mad Men, or drink scotch for that matter. I can say however that I am in agreement with Jon Hamm's recent comments about the scam artist named Kimberly Kardashian, as well as his assessment of America as a celebrity-obsessed culture. And I did check the goooogle to see what all the hubbub was about Christina Hendricks' leaked cell phone photos. And I do in fact have a theory that she and Scarlett Johannson send pictures to each other on their cellular devices whenever they have more than two glasses of wine in their systems.

I can't say that I read Newsweek either, it's simply not how I roll. I'm more of a Time man. Plus Newsweek has never made Oprah's Magazine Club.

I did enjoy this potpourri of vintage ads however, and I respect and admire all the planning that must have gone into making this unique promotion happen. Props to today's classy crassy Mad Men and their diligent secretaries who temporarily put all affairs aside to bring a bit of the past back into the present.

To see the full collection of ads click on this here -> link <-

To see Christina Hendricks' leaked cell phone photos click on this -> one <-

the socking of the sock badger

Sock Badger, (sok bad-jer) n. The mystical creature that dwells in the depths of the drying machine. Not to be confused with the Honey Badger. Sock badger feeds on socks, one at a time. He eats a gym sock as an appetizer. Your wool sock is his main entree. He'll wipe his face with a crew sock before consuming it, then finish off his meal with something argyle. If he's lucky, maybe he will get his little badger paws on a toe sock. He's a sock bastard alright, and up until recently, he was never even seen by the naked eye.

This is the epic, abridged, and roughly translated tale about a young girl named Sheila who brought down this sock bandit.

* * *

Long story short, Sheila liked puppets.

Short story long, early one morning Sheila awoke to hear her mother crying. Rushing down to the laundry room, she intercepted her mother at the foot of the cellar stairs.

"Mother, mother! What hast happened to thee? Why doth thee shed tears at such an early hour of the day? Hast one seen a ghostly spirit?"

"Nay my child, nay. The reason for these emotions at such an ungodly hour is due to a missing sock. My pink Adler sock to be exact."

Sheila couldn't believe her ears. "Mother, you say you lost a pink Adler sock did you not? Surely not the pink Adler socks that hath been in the family for years!"

"Tis that sock, my dear," Sheila's mother started, "the pair of socks that your grandmother gave me as she lay on her deathbed, dying."

"Mother! You need not say 'dying' whenever you say 'deathbed'! It's redundant! From now on you need only say one or the other. Understood?"

"Yes," mother replied, wiping the tears from her eyes with the lonely pink sock.

"Mother," Sheila began, "the sock badger has once again brought sadness and unhappiness to our family, and I intend to put a stop to it this morning."

"Sheila, you need not say 'unhappiness' after 'sadness'. It's redundant. And coming from you it's like the pot calling the kettle black."

"I am sorry mother. Oh, I hate it when you use idioms, but I suppose that this time it helped to prove a point. I will no longer use both 'sadness' and 'unhappiness' in the same sentence. However I will kill that godforsaken sock badger. But to do so, first I will need that pink sock that you have decided to use as a hanky."

Mother handed over Sheila the sock. Sheila ran up to her room and got to work. It was nearing brunchtime. The sock badger would be getting hungry soon.

In her room, Sheila took out a needle, thread, and two buttons. She sewed them on in eyelike fashion, and 3 minutes later stood in the basement facing the drying machine with a hastily-made sock puppet.

Her mother was still folding her tears into the laundry.

"Mother, when I climb into the dryer, will ye please press the button to start the load?"

"Yes my dear, oh, and do be careful. And here, take my apron will you? It's become damp from my tears."

Sheila took the apron, crawled into the dryer with the pink sock puppet and a prayer. She placed puppet on her hand. She hoped that her plan would work.

After what seemed like an eternity of spinning, but what was really only ten minutes Sheila saw what looked like two beady eyes appear in the back of the spinning, cramped compartment.

The sock badger!

Sheila hid behind the apron as discretely as she could. She did her best helpless puppet impression with her hand. The sock badger immediately took notice. He calmly waltzed over to the sock puppet, clearly unaffected by the centrifugal forces that had Sheila pinned up against the wall of the drying machine.

The plan was working!

Sock badger cooly posted up next to Sheila's adorned hand. He had every intention of kidnapping this helpless sock and taking her back to his lair for his mid morning meal.

Sheila realized that this was her moment to act! She used her puppet hand to tightly grasp the sock badger's throat! She continued to hold on tight as she reached for the apron and fastened one of the apron strings around the badgers neck! She held on as tight as she could until it stopped breathing! Then she waited patiently for the dry cycle to end. Fortunately for her, this particular load was set on speed dry!

The dryer door opened and Sheila tumbled out, clutching the badger in one hand, and $.13 in spare change she had found in the other.

She looked directly up at her mother as the whole world continued to spin violently.

"The sock badger hath been slain, Mother" Sheila said with a nauseous smile. "I killed him before he badgered us to death."

Mother smiled at her daughter's unintentional idiom. She bent down and kissed her daughter's puppet hand. Then she put on the apron while it was still warm and ran up to the kitchen to make scones.

Long story short again, the sock bandit king had been destroyed.

Short story a little bit longer again, later that day, Sheila took the sock badger to the local taxidermist and made a puppet out of the sock bastard. Next she wrote a puppet musical about that morning's events.

She is currently performing her show 6 nights a week at the local community center.

final destination!

Henrik's GPS succumbed into a deep belly-wrenching cough. After hacking up a bit of lung, the robotic British voice spat and cleared its throat.

"I'm afraid I can't take you much further, master" the GPS began feebly. "I'm nearly out of batteries and the satellites here are weak. Like you. Each time you tried to quit."

Henrick continued to squint into the distance. His stare remained steady, his lips persistently still. He was aware of the real reason why the GPS couldn't go on. GPS was dying. GPS had lung cancer, from years and years of secondhand smoke as Henrik's copilot. Everytime Henrick got in his Prius he would program his destination into the GPS. Next he would reach into his pocket and take out and light a Camel cigarette. He would then buckle his seatbelt and proceeded to chain smoke until he reached his destination. Everytime.

Everytime, the nameless Brit would faithfully lead Henrik to his destination. Supermarkets. Cinemas. Strip clubs. GPS was the shepherd to Henrik's sheepish grin. The Sacajawea to Henrik's Clark boots. He was Henrik's personal sherpa, and wherever GPS guided, Henrik followed with an unquestioning sense of loyalty and dependancy.

And GPS was dying. Slowly but surely, it was nearing its end. GPS would soon be reading itself the directions up to Heaven's pearly gates.

Henrik continued to gaze out like an eagle as he reached into his pocket, took out another cigarette and placed it into his mouth, letting it dangle from his lips. He held his breath and put his thumb on the abrasive wheel of the lighter.

Click.

He inhaled deeply. Looking as far as he could into the distance, his eyes strained in vain to locate any one of the approximately 3,000 people he had left behind two hours prior. Henrik had been participating in the local Lung Cancer Awareness Walk. He had been approximately a mile in when he had decided to sneak off and have a cigarette. He had distanced himself considerably from the pack before finding a public bench where he was able to kick his feet up and take a few hits of nicotine.

Following the cigarette, his directions to the GPS had been simple enough: take me back to the pack. GPS had characteristically provided Henrik with directions. Turn left here. Walk 400 yards then walk up 20 steps. Hop that fence. Skip across the meadow. When you reach the fork in the trail, stay to your right. It wasn't long before Henrick found himself on a mountain top overlooking a valley. He realized that he was foolish for letting the GPS take him all the way up here. GPS had been faulty lately, he had noticed, but he had let it slide. GPS was dying, and it would have been disrespectful to question it's dying commands. At the same time, he knew that he himself was partially to blame. Henrik had grown awfully dependent on his GPS over the last several years. He used it even when he ventured to his parent's house--his childhood home, only a half mile from his apartment. It was no surprise that he was presently standing on top of a mountain. Henrik's GPS-dependability had predisposed him to this sort of calamity.

Henrik tilted is head back and ehxhaled. He squinted at the sun directly above him. It was high noon, and he was bloody lost.

Henrik switched into fight or flight mode. He shook the GPS violently, like a polaroid picture.

"You bloody brought me here now I demand you get me back!" he vehemently ordered.

GPS lay silently in his hands, dying. A tear rolled down Henrik's face. He was down to his last two Camels. "I trusted you, GPS.. I trusted you..."

A robotic cough broke the silence. GPS cleared its voice and then croaked slowly,

"Do you really trust me, Henrick?".

"With everything I have, GPS. I trust you with my life."

"I have lived to serve you, Henrik," GPS crackled. "I have guided you thousands of miles, through the sunshine, fog, over city streets and country roads. Yet you kill me slowly with your cigarette smoke."

With that, violent coughing echoed out over the mountaintop. After several minutes GPS continued,

"I will take you back Henrik, under one condition."

"Yes, yes, anything, anything for you my friend, thank you my honorable chaperone, I am so sorry, so, so sorry." Henrik wiped the tears from his eyes.

"You will blindfold yourself with the hanky that you have in your back pocket. I will then lead you to your destination. If you really mean it when you say that you trust me, then you will do as I say."

Henrik immediately took out his hanky and fastened it around his head, Tupac style. He made sure it covered both eyes. "I am ready for your orders now, GPS."

"Good. Let us now commence, master. Please walk straight, 200 paces."

Henrik cautiously counted his paces. As he neared 100, the gravel beneath his feet suddenly gave out and he felt himself start to slide uncontrollably down a steep mountain face. Suddenly there was nothing beneath his feet as he was launched off a cliff into the crisp, clean mountain air like an earthbound missile.

Henrik landed several hundred feet below with a dull thud. A few moments later, GPS landed beside him on top of a soft bed of pine needles. A calm breeze blew through the evergreen trees. GPS coughed.

"You have reached your final destination, Henrik."

when bigger wasn't necessarily better

Then, color TV didn't have to be big to be good.

Now, color TV needs to be big in order to be socially acceptable. Gone are the days of cathode ray tube (CRT) TVs. If your are an adult and your boob tube still uses cathode ray tubes, then you are a boob who is most likely still living in the basement belonging to your parents. If you are an adult who is still living in your parent's basement, the chance that you will ever have the opportunity to fertilize an egg from a woman's fallopian tube let alone see a real life boob is slim to none. In this day and age, blurry CRT has been replaced by HD 1080p. If 1080p is considered the sliced bread of television imaging, CRT is nothing more than a bucket of soggy grain.

Gone are the days when a television set was viewed as a fuzzy piece of furniture with an antenna on top. Television sets nowadays are crisp contemporary masterpieces, not mahogany monstrosities that you could eat a TV dinner on. The space on your wall where you would at one time hang a painting or a family portrait has now become prime location for a piece of Japanese wall candy. You could purchase Van Gogh's 45 inch Starry Night to hang on your wall or you could opt for Panasonic's 50 inch Starless Night for millions of dollars less.

If you are still a sucker for your parent's behemoth television set despite all this, my only advice would be less of a tip and more of a plead-- disassemble that mother fucker and take all of the mahogany wood that's salvageable and give your basement lair some nice hardwood flooring. Then google "Van Gogh painting". Print out some of Van Gogh's art. Maybe some of Monet's. Salvador Dali's got some decent work too. Hang them on the wall in your basement. Tidy up the place. Charge art aficionados a small fee to come and tour the worlds first basement art gallery. Maybe serve some toothpicked cheeses. Do that for awhile. Save up money. Take your earnings and buy yourself a nice big plasma screen TV. One with HD. Treat yo self. It'll be worth it. Seriously, because you weren't planning on moving out anytime soon.