September 23, 2014
Subliminal Advertisin​g Exposed! Right on Target, So Direct

A few days ago, I posted the following image on Simian Idiot’s Facebook page

because what was meant, on the surface, to evoke fantasies of a creamy, berry-filled, satisfying romp through ice cream bliss, looked, to me, like the gore-spattered hand towel in Ed Gein’s powder room.  I stated as much, and was validated to find out that I was not alone in this misconception.  Others joined me in expressing similar concerns and we all opened up about our feelings and potentially got our names on the government’s list of sketchy people who can’t look at dessert without thinking murder.  It was nice to feel like part of something, for a minute. 
 
Doing this resulted in two major marketing-related revelations in my life. 
 
1.  Haagen Dazs amped up their targeted pitches to me, and my Facebook feed was soon jam-packed with ice cream themed horror mini-plots, including a brown flecked hand towel shape that was supposed to be caramel but called to mind certain bus station restrooms I have backed out of abruptly with increased resolve to “hold it” until I reached my destination, no matter how far, and
 
2.  Alert Idiot Greta left the following comment, which opened the floodgates of paranoia:  “Well, they’re obviously out to kill you.  If they force feed you sugary treats, they might as well bludgeon you and leave a bloody towel.”
HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE.  Has Greta stumbled onto something dangerously accurate here?  Let’s dive deeper.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have confessed in the past that a deep paranoia about the specifics of subliminal advertising once sparked within me an obsession so all-consuming that Wilson Bryan Key himself stood back and read undertones of sexual solicitations in the swirls of my hair.
Well this is a new era, friends.  An era when we all get on our social media things and broadcast our insecurities, fears, and desires, even when we think we are holding back.  We’re applying hashtags to everything, too, so sinister market research professionals don’t even have to sort through our potpourri of issues and problems.  They have but to filter and extrapolate, and pitch to us accordingly.
 
None of this is news.  Targeted marketing is a very real thing.  That is why, only a few short weeks after photos of a baby began appearing in my Facebook profile, an unprecedented volume of ads for weight loss, incontinence, and vaginal reconstruction surgeons began showing up.  But here is where things get a little more frightening.
Old-time subliminal advertising conspiracy theorists suggest that the low-tech versions of subliminal advertising - that which is and was found in magazines, newspapers, and television - played in particular to the subconscious death wish of the consumer, based on the commonplace knowledge that excessive intake of alcohol and cigarettes will eventually kill you, unless something else does it first.  
How many times have I used the word “insulin”, or “beetus”, or “Brimley" in my online dealings?  How difficult would it be for a computer program to extract these words based on their frequency and regularity, and determine that I am probably drawn to the forbidden allure of sweet, frosty, toe-claiming ice cream?
 
Technology has provided marketers with a wider array of specific things with which to kill the shit out of us.  They know we secretly want to check out, and that’s why our feeds are littered with highly specified, utterly lethal, deeply psychological targeted electronic grim reapers.  A bloody towel of ice cream for me.  Maybe a big platter of fried onion rings and an artery-clogging cheeseburger for you.  It’s not just booze and cigarettes anymore.  It’s not a carpet bomb - it’s a surgical strike.
 
 
 
Think about that.  Somewhere out there is a long distance Dr. Kevorkian working round the clock, just for you.  Helping to aim you in a helpful direction if ever the burdens of modern life start to feel like a little too much.  He is there, in the shadows, counting how often you complain, analyzing what you are threatened by, and flinging suggestive images into your eyeballs.  If you don’t think you can withstand the assault you must either turn off your computer or SHOW NO WEAKNESS.  Get on your outlet of choice and repeat this phrase:  “EVERYTHING IS FINE.  EVERYTHING IS FINE.  EVERYTHING IS FINE.”  Because you have a personal devil, and he knows you want to die, and if not, he knows you want to get laid.  It’s one or the other.  Death or sex. 
 
On an unrelated note, I got this ad for outerwear and now I need some time alone.  Leave me alone.

 
See you tomorrow for whatever.

September 22, 2014
Forehead of the Week: Analytics Lady

How did YOU find Simian Idiot?

Because somebody out there found it by searching for “Big, sexy Iranian butts”, which is something that I have never to my knowledge written about, until this very moment.

I have also acquired readers through such not at all alarming search terms as “blowjobs from cousins”, “Richard Marx’s Bulge”, “squirty pants tumblr” and “girl wearing a Tinkerbell pull up diaper”.  

Yes, the search term.  Many a blogger is as excited as they are terrified by the blurbs of psychosis that leak through our screens, direct from some horny, squirt-obsessed masturbator’s brain to our willing eyeballs, and how do we know about these search terms?  I’m sure there are many ways, but I know mine through the use of Google Analytics.  

And who is the face of Google Analytics?  It’s either this toothy dweeb who looks like he owns about five Macbook Pros, or, if you’re lucky, it’s this lovely lady:

Look at that forehead.  If you were to Google “world-class dome”, you’d get a picture of this fine lady.

No you wouldn’t.  Don’t Google that.

Congratulations, Analytics Lady.  You seem like the kind of woman who enjoys turning data insights into action, and today is your day.  I searched in my heart for “best head”, and today, I’m feeling lucky, because here you are.

September 19, 2014
¿Doctor Quien?

It is time, once again, to diagnose fictional characters with major issues.  In this evocative series, we have already found Doc McStuffins guilty of practicing medicine without a license, and determined that what presents itself as a charming childhood romp through pirate-infested waters is actually nothing more than thinly veiled subliminal pornography.  And there is so much more to come.
 
A trend I have noticed recently in children’s television, which I spend much more time watching than Little13 does (for research!), is for the characters to attempt to engage the viewer with questions.  Notorious for this behavior is the Little Einsteins, four cute little prodigies who are gradually helping our children become brilliant with such thought-provoking dialogue as:
 
"It’s so early, I’m still in my pajamas.  Do YOU wear pajamas?  (lengthy pause)  Great!"
 
I like it when the characters do this, because Little13 clearly finds the interrogation patronizing.  When she can be bothered to acknowledge the question, it usually goes something like this:
 
Cartoon:  “I’m having cereal for breakfast.  Do YOU like cereal?”
Little13:  “No.  NO!”
Cartoon:  “Great!”
Little13:  ”Don’t talk down to me, man.”
 
They say cartoons are influencing our youth, but the only influence I’ve noticed is my now 23 month old child’s tendency to answer many of my statements with a resounding and enthusiastic “Great!”
 
Another show that famously insults the intelligence of the under-two set, which is no small feat considering that this is the crowd we have to protect from eating paint chips, is Dora the damn Explorer, which is the story of an adventurous little Mexican girl who owns a backpack and a monkey, and challenges the developing mind with such brainstorming scenarios as:
 
Dora:  “To get to the circus, we are going to have to go over the bridge, through the rainforest, and past the farmhouse.  Over the bridge, through the rainforest, and past the farmhouse!”
Dora’s friend:  “So, we go over the bridge, through the rainforest, and past the farmhouse?”
Dora:  “That’s right!  Over the bridge, through the rainforest, and past the farmhouse.”
Dora’s friend:  “We’ve gone over the bridge.  What should we do now?”
Little13:  “Go through the fucking rainforest!”
Dora:  “Should we go around the lake?”
Little13: “No, go through the rainforest.  God damn it!”
Dora:  “Or should we go through the rainforest?”
Little13:  “I will cut your face.”
Dora:  “Great!”
 
And with that, Dora stuffs the map in her backpack, which also contains a bunch of other conveniently useful objects for her specific challenges of the day (shoes, helmets, screwdrivers, weapons, etc.), goes through the rainforest, finds herself at a farmhouse and naturally has no clue what the hell to do, even though we can literally SEE the circus from here.  It’s right there, Dora, holy shit.  Just go to it.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
The same channel that airs Dora the Explorer, pictured here:
 
 
 
 
 
has just initiated a new teevee show called “Dora and Friends: Into the City”, in which an older, more glamorous Dora with a better hairstyle, pictured here:
 
 

 
 
has all kinds of mature adventures in “the city”, with her fancy big city friends.  Her entourage is as diverse as a rainbow, and they do all sorts of insipid shit together, and ask you questions about their course of action that reveals that the passage of time has done little to help Dora with her short term memory issues.
 
Why, it is almost as if Dora hasn’t aged at all, even though her face and body look completely different.  
 
HMM.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
I don’t understand how you can age a cartoon character and expect the world to just accept it.  This isn’t Dora’s older, more worldly cousin Nora we’re dealing with, which would make so much more sense.  We are supposed to accept that Dora is five years old or whatever at 6PM, but by 8PM, she’s fifteen.  And later on, she’s little again.  It’s so obviously bullshit, even a two year old doesn’t buy this lie.  Time doesn’t work that way, and human bodies can’t change instantaneously into different bodies.  It doesn’t compute.
 
It would have been so easy to just make a COMPANION show out of this new thing, so Dora didn’t have to live two completely different stages of her life ON THE SAME PLANE OF EXISTENCE.
 
The only explanation that makes any sense is that Dora is moving through time, carefully avoiding her former incarnation by staying out of the bridges, rainforests and farmhouses, and keeping her time-travelling ass confined to “the city”, where Young Dora would never go, because it’s not on the stupid map.
 
Companions.
Planes of existence.
Time travelling.
A backpack that seems to hold a scientifically impossible volume of useful objects, almost as though it is…bigger on the inside.
 
 
 
 
Suddenly it all clicks. 
 
Great!

September 17, 2014
Let’s Learn Parenting: Unhappy Meal, Part #3290825

Picture it!
The local McDonalds hamburger-style meat-product patty on bread-like slabs emporium!  Chemical cheez spread!  Shakes so thick you can rupture a blood vessel in your head trying to suck one through a straw.  Under the elevated train tracks, so you can enjoy the soft thwacks of pigeon parts raining down on the hoods of cars parked underneath.  The local hamburger stand, in quaint, Norman Rockwell style, I shall paint you in words. 
 
Where I was once solicited by a prostitute wearing metallic silver short-shorts…
 
Where I once saw an apathetic 16 year old girl abandon her post taking orders at the drive through window to fight off a wild-eyed, intoxicated homeless guy with a broom because he was trying to grab the change she was handing to the customers…
 
Where ketchup and napkins cost extra, and you have to ask for them…
 
Where you can (I am told) buy reasonably priced narcotics in the parking lot…
 
Where Sifu and I were approached by a disheveled man asking for food, who, upon discovering that the bag we handed him was full of hamburgers from that very McDonalds, emitted a string of obscenities appropriate only if we had handed him a bag filled with dead guinea pigs and excrement and then grudgingly ate the hamburgers…
 
The local McDonalds with its tall, glowing sign advertising the specials of the day, which reads:
 
"TRY HOUR HAPPY MEALS 2.99 UNTIL 2 A.M."
 
 
I realize that children don’t earn a lot of money and are often restricted to a relatively small food budget, but 2:00 A.M. is too late for children to be driving around, eating McDonalds!  If your children are hungry in the middle of the night, teach them how to use the stove so they can cook themselves something healthy.
 
You have learned parenting.  Go in peace.

September 16, 2014
Astonishin​g Shit You Can Buy: Much, Much More!

According to the description, this is “more than a nut milk bag”.
 
 image
 
I’m not going to make any jokes about nut milk.  Or nut bags.  Or Milk bags.  I’m too mature for that!  I am thirty-seven years old!  Shame on you!  I’m going to let those foolhardy childish observations go completely, 100% unmade.
 
I am going to say that this nut milk bag is perfect for making Greek yogurt if you are into that kind of thing
 
And I am going to say that I am unable to view this nut milk bag, which is so much more than just that, without hearing this song

It takes a special kind of nut sack to bring the Gibbs to the forefront of my mind for the fiftieth time today, and so in honor of this product, let’s take a walk down memory lane together, to a simpler time on Simian Idiot, when nuts were important because they helped us hate our fellow man.
Buy this nut milk bag for only ten bones or clams or whatever you call them, and enjoy using it to milk your nuts.  But don’t tell me too much about it.  I don’t want to know.

September 15, 2014
Mastermind​s of Marketing! Feast & Famine

It is said that no matter what it is you do, there will always be someone better, faster, stronger, and just generally more at it than you.  Just as there will always be someone worse, slower, weaker and less.  It is rare that we ever find ourselves at the absolute top or bottom in our field, so we might as well just do what we enjoy, and do it to the best of our ability, and not compare ourselves too much to others, for this robs us of the beauty of life.
 
Unless we are the social media marketing department of various enormous corporations, in which case it can be said with little doubt that we are the MOST out of touch, the MOST tone deaf, the absolute and utter LEAST capable of relating to the real life needs and attitudes of human beings of earth. 
Every one of these ads, or “sponsored posts”, that you see on various social media outlets appears to have been written by a giant, sluglike alien from outer space who JUST YESTERDAY touched down on earth, strangled a tie around his thick, mucousy gilled neck, walked into an ad agency and took a job selling miscellaneous every day objects on the internet without doing so much as ten minutes of research on human behavioral patterns. 
You can literally hear him gurgling as you read these ads. “Gluuuuh, sandwiches, yes?  The humans like to eat these things, is it correct to say so?  And, uuuuuurgh, what about the TOILET PAPER.  They enjoy this, do they?  Put these things together and you has big success marketing ad with earth people, I think!”
 
So let’s explore this shit in an ongoing series entitled MASTERMINDS OF MARKETING.  Today we will celebrate Subway Sandwiches.  Subway:  Eat Shit!
 
 
 
 
 
Let’s start by observing how Subway’s trained alien has employed one of my worst marketing peeves:  The Not Clever Made Up Word.  Subway is a repeat offender in this department. 
 
I’m already pissed off with Lysol about this because no matter how hard they try, “Healthing” is never going to be more a more appropriate word than “cleaning”.  You can’t just take a pleasant noun and use it to replace an onerous verb.  “Glurghlll, the people, they like this ‘health’, I say. But their ‘cleaning’ not so much, yes, yes?  So, for most sales of bleach wipe, RHXLSSLOR think replace ‘clean’ with ‘health’, and people cannot tell and buy million bleach wipe!  Clean toilet every morning after quaff bean juice sweetened with chemical packet!  RHXLSSLOR will be salesalien of month!”  Fuck you, RHXLSSLOR.  Stop trying to make healthing happen.  It’s not going to happen. 
 
But, stupid fake language aside (“Subprise”?) we are now faced with willingly suspending our disbelief to inhabit an alien universe in which suddenly receiving unexpected Subway sandwiches is cause for celebration.  Have you ever had a Subway sandwich?  If you are on the verge of starvation, I will allow that a Subway sandwich constitutes a feast, but let us not forget that their ad campaign for years centered around the fact that a once very overweight man managed to wither down to a more reasonable size by SUBSISTING on their horrible aerated bread and molecule thin meat product slices.  
Nearly eleven thousand unique human entities viewed this ad and were moved to overcome their finger’s inertia to “like” this.  “Yes,” I imagine they said. “Subway sandwiches ARE cause for joy.  I and three friends could sit around a picnic table and look at each other and eat them.  I wish I had three friends who would willingly be with me.”
 
Then again, there is a lot to be said about body language.  Let’s observe these four hypothetical Subway consumers.
 
They are calmly sitting, faceless, emotionless, staring down at their untouched sandwiches.  Not one bite has been taken.
 
How long have they been sitting there?
 
The one cookie in the center of the table, gazing up like the eye of Sauron.  Four friends, four horrible sandwiches.  Two drinks.  One cookie.  What we’re looking at here is not a picnic. 
 
It is a standoff.
 
Well played, Subway marketing alien.  

September 12, 2014
Let’s Learn Science: Love Hurts

A few months ago, there was a recall on the beef used in Hot Pockets.
 
Putting aside the obviously questionable culinary standards of the average Hot Pockets eater, we must consider the following:  once it was determined that the beef in these nasty pastry meat pustules was not just unappealing, but actually unsafe, Hot Pockets continued to sell in my supermarket and they are STILL THERE TO THIS DAY. 
 
Consider the scandals that have brought down many a celebrity.  All Paul Rubens ever did was tug his weiner in a perfectly appropriate weiner-tugging venue, and yet even now, years later, the mention of his name brings about sexy, scandalized blushes.  Well maybe not literally, but still.  If you mention him, people think about jerking it.  Fact. 
To keep this on theme with the food element, Barilla pasta has been in the clearance section of my supermarket for ages, ever since President Pasta Barilla, the monarch of Italy, declared that he didn’t want gay people slurping his noodles.  They never recovered from that bad press, as it should be.  More power to Ronzoni, The Macaroni Gay People Proudly Devour, mother fuckers.
(This is what you get when you do a google image search for “Ronzoni Ranibow.  Close enough!)
 
Yet Hot Pockets were able to pull out of the swamp of scandal and move on, and they continue to offend the palates of thousands of people who don’t know any better day after day, with their strange ham chunks swimming in “cheese” sauce effluvium, enrobed in a crust of moistened newspaper shreddings.  It is as if people were willing to make the distinction and say, “Well, sure, THOSE SPECIFIC Hot Pockets might turn me into a diarrhea volcano, but these OTHER ONES won’t do anything worse than fill my organs with vaporized plastic molecules and whipped pig cock.”  What gives with this illogical thinking.  I do not understand.
 
There is a lid for every pot, as a crazy lonely person I used to know once said. In the context of her statement, this was meant to suggest that no matter how rude, ugly, and unappealing a human being (her) may be, someone (equally horrifying) out there is just right for them.  But we can expand this philosophy to cover other pairings as well.  There is a lid for every pot, and there is a substandard, unappetizing meal for every hunger. 
Someone, or in this case, many someones, KNEW that the makers of Hot Pockets, in addition to being sociopaths, were also willing to take a risk on selling sketchy beef, and they just didn’t care.  They had to get that vile meat pudding in a bread pouch into them, no matter the cost.  The flesh clump lust was strong, and the satisfaction was worth the suffering.
 
Let’s talk about cat dicks.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
I will never be a “cat person”. 
 
I have gone over this and over this with my “cat person” friends, and whereas their hearts are warm and open and contain boundless waves of love and tolerance, I myself prefer not to have countertops flecked with poop morsels from between the toes of an animal that shits in a box in my house and then lovingly bats at my face while I sleep with its turd feet.  And while the lower six inches of my house are fair game for dog boogers, everything above that point is well out of the weinerdog’s reach, so I can lick virtually any fixture in my house with relatively strong confidence that I’m not eating her emissions.  I don’t do this though.
 
There is a gentleman named Tommy who lives in my neighborhood, who is prone to wearing threadbare undershirts as outershirts and what can only be described as “scrotehugger short shorts”.  He is tall and lanky, middle 50’s, with long, pasty legs that hang from the leg holes of his IMPOSSIBLY SHORT SHORTS, so that anyone with even a passing interest can scope a hearty eyeful of the hairs on his body that are possibly leg hairs but also possibly pubes.  Tommy parks his ancient car on the street and routinely fills it with garbage, and I’m not being judgmental about it - this stuff is literally trash.  He keeps it in his car so he can get to it when he’s out and about, I assume.  He doesn’t drive the car.  If he would get in the car, you wouldn’t be able to see his pubic mound quite so thoroughly as he goes to and fro.  Fucking Tommy.
 
He also loves cats.  And his cats all love each other.  A lot.
 
His house can no longer contain the volume of cats his existing cats have lovingly produced in tender moments in the middle of the god damned night, so they roam free throughout the streets of my peaceful burg, not doing anything about the rats and romancing each other, loudly, and vigorously.  They sure make a lot of racket when they screw. 
 
This is because cats have very sharp peens.  See also Goran Arnqvist, who does not have a sharp wang himself (I’m guessing) but famously studied this phenomenon in bugs. 
 
Now why would cats have spikes on their love muscles?  And given that they do, and how few of the cats out there in my neighborhood at least are virgins, why do they continue to get busy? 
 
In part it is to make more cats, because we sure do need that alright.
 
But in larger part, it is because cat love is like Hot Pockets.
 
They know they’re going to suffer for it.  They’ve been around the block before.  Literally, I could hear them when I lived in my old apartment around the block.  These cats are not novices in the way of amore.  They understand that there will be pain.
 
But they keep coming back for it.  Like a hungry man staring into the freezer at a snow-covered box of old Hot Pockets. 
 
He doesn’t know the serial numbers affected by the recall, and while on some level he cares just a bit, the primal need outweighs the logical brain’s frantic urgings:  “Do not put that thing in your mouth.”  In the end, the savory flavor always wins.
 
Hot Pockets.  Cat schlong.  Love hurts, friends.  Get to enjoy the pain or live a life devoid of the prospect of joy.
 
You have learned Science.  Go in peace.

September 10, 2014
Sweet Jane

Every so often - and it’s rare enough indeed - I find myself connecting with a human being, who, like me, is adrift in a universe full of fools and annoyances, but who, unlike those fools and annoyances, somehow, without ever having met me, causes me to create the world’s longest run on sentence. 
 
Which is not what I meant to say, exactly.  What I meant to say is that every so often I find myself connecting with someone who gets me, and even though this planet has held life, both intelligent and otherwise, for nearly dozens of years, until recent advances in technology, there would be no cause for my friend Wavie and I to run into each other in any earthly context.  We live in different states, we do not interact professionally, we do not move in the same physical social circles.  But because of the internet, I was fortunate enough to “meet” Wavie, and also because of the internet, I was fortunate enough for her to reach out the other day to very deliberately tell me,
 
"Just wanted you to know about this."
 
And this was what she linked me to:
 
 
 
That right there is a Mid Century 1950’s Ceramic Clown Candy Dish, and at $12.95 I am JUST BARELY able to keep myself from buying it.  God damn it I want this thing so much.
 
Now you all know how I feel about clown housewares.  Essentially I feel that they add a classy touch to any kind of décor, while also lending an air of cannibalistic horror to the ambiance.  Which can’t be bad.
 
But what I really love about this clown candy dish, which was absent in my recent study of a clown nightlight that I’m still not comfortable thinking about without a stiff drink first, is that you literally gorge on his sweet, candied entrails. 
You reach into the cavernous pit of his abdomen, scoop up a savage fistful of his succulent guts with your mighty claw, throw back your shark-like head and devour his innards.  All the while, he stares up at you with his frozen mask of horror and his Harpo Marx eyebrows and silently pleads with you, no, no, please do not chew my Mounds.  You are so large and I so small, please, please do not sink your teeth into my viscera.  My how the tables have turned, my terrifying little friend.  And all he can do is look at you like this:
 

 
Yes.  Yes.  Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
 
Thank you Wavie.  Even if I don’t buy this thing (which I am struggling to restrain my finger from clicking the thing to do because I KNOW that a few months from now I’m going to be sitting alone in a darkened room, staring face to face with this thing and asking myself difficult questions about how susceptible I am), this entire thing has been very therapeutic.
In the sense that I now accept that i need therapy. 

September 9, 2014
Astonishin​g Shit You Can Buy: Hot Pads!

Weinerdog is getting on in years. 
 
At 15 years of age, she is officially in Methuselah territory as far as weinerdogs go.  I struggle every day to cope with the dueling emotions within me - the first is a vast and deep and bottomless ocean of appreciation and loyalty to my elderly, long-term friend, who has slept by my side in sickness and in health, and faithfully cleaned up every morsel of food I ever dropped on the floor, and lovingly soaked my shoes with urine expelled out of sheer joy at my return home from a lengthy trip out to the curb with the garbage bags.  The second is that I’m getting kind of tired of getting puked on while I’m sleeping in my bed, because Weinerdog is not fussy about what kind of food she steals, and sometimes that food is stuff she finds on the lawn, or in the garbage.
 
Let me back up a bit.  Although Weinerdog is ancient, she still has that zest for life that causes her to rocket out of her skinbag every time she sees me unwrap a cheese slice from the fridge.  But, she’s completely deaf, almost completely blind, largely incontinent, often arthritic, and also a little bit aggressive and hostile toward people she doesn’t know well.  When she’s not being super cute and lovable, she’s shitting all over my dining room or stealing garbage and then getting sick from it, or tripping me or waking me up or peeing on something or sneezing four inch snot rockets onto my bookshelves.  It’s not easy loving something.
 
But she was young once, and in her youth, she was subject to the curse all female mammals must bear.  Namely, she’d get her period all over the house, my bed, and my arm. 
 
It’s actually never been easy, loving her.
 
Those days are beyond her now - she is firmly in the menopause stage of life.  That is why I found it so amusing when Amazon, purveyor of all sorts of fine waste catching products, recommended that I might like to buy some maxi pads for her:
 
 
 
Even in her old age, there is no way she’d stand for me strapping her into a diaper, and this is the dog who once endured a pig costume for my amusement.  The product description says it’s also good for “minor” incontinence, but where incontinence is concerned, who is to say what is minor and what is not?  I consider ANY incontinence to be a fairly major event.  Luckily, these also contain “moist lock”.  Hooray for that.
In case you are wondering, and rightly so, how you are supposed to stick these things to your dog’s applicable area, you can buy a little diaper cover to go over it. 
 

 
SpongeBob never looked so appropriately horrified, as if he knows he is wrapped around a dog’s ass, soaking up period.  SpongeBlood ScarePants.   Take THAT, Swype. 
 
Hot Pads are currently 70% off on Amazon, so stock up now because you don’t want to be caught shorthanded when the flow starts, friends.  Here’s what former Big Boss of the Day James Brown has to say on this subject.  Good gaw.

September 8, 2014
Let’s Learn Parenting: And that’s the news of the week!

My laptop is still acting kind of weird.  It’s no longer doing that thing where it won’t scroll, but it’s giving me a seriously hard time with certain things, and the main one is that Tumblr is acting up so that I can’t post certain photos, even though I can’t tell how they differ from photos that I can post.  It’s all getting very annoying.  The “Drafts” folder has 16 things in it that I can’t share with you.  I’m starting to get kind of angsty about it.  But I’m not going to let this keep me down! 

In any event, we all have our problems, but none of us so much as parents in California who, in addition to facing such past and present parenting horrors as earthquakes, random things bursting into flames, smog, palm trees, bridges, beaches, and Richard Ramirez, now have this one fucking random cobra snake to contend with.
 
The search is on, warns this headline, but honestly, is anybody really looking?  Snakes can get into all sorts of places.  Unless the California Snake Patrol is checking under every toilet lid on the west coast, chances are they are not gonna find that snake.
As a resident of the beautiful Bronx, I feel that I am in a unique position to offer some reassurance on the subject of escaped snakes.  Let’s cast our memories back to 2011, when the Bronx Zoo misplaced an Egyptian Cobra as though it were as simple an error as when Thomas mislaid His Lordship’s evening shirts.  This controversial snake situation left the entire eastern seaboard trembling in terror, and people didn’t leave their houses for weeks.  Just kidding.  Life went on as normal until they “found” “the” “snake”, and not some totally different snake strawman, prosecuted for a cleverer snake’s crimes. 
Once “The” “Snake” was located, the entire Bronx lined up to punch it in its stupid escaping face.  Just kidding again.  The Bronx does not condone snake abuse.  Not since the now defunct Globe Theater for Adult Films closed down many a decade ago has a snake been mercilessly pummeled in my home borough.  Count on that.
 
But California parents are presumably more progressive in terms of safety, with straps to keep their bookshelves from falling off the walls and smashing their children to paste when the earth rumbles, and helmets to keep their children from bumping their heads when they jump up out of their tanning beds.  So these safety minded parents are now warning their children to keep away from dark holes, according to this article.
 
Allow me to play devil’s advocate here for a moment as I inquire how California parents had been handling their children around dark holes BEFORE the DEADLY COBRA got loose?  “Go play near that dark hole, Epiphany,” they said, pausing to flick their long, naturally golden cornsilk hair out of their gluten free eyes.  “You too, Juniper.  Get in that black hole at once, so you can creatively explore and Montessori learn all about the textural dimensions of dark holes.  Grab little Eucharist and Galileo and get in that dark hole and learn!”
 
NO, California parents.  Children should NEVER get into dark holes, even when there are probably no snakes in them!  Many dark holes STILL contain Richard Ramirez!
 
If you want your children to learn in a mind-expanding and holistic way, you need to let them open up a Great Dane to find out what surprises lurk within.  I can’t believe I have to even tell you this.
 
You have learned parenting.  Go in peace. 

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