Subliminal Monkey Balls

“GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!”

The above caustic incantation is how I perceive most advertising. Whether it’s an infectious baby on a web cam or a bearded fool clamoring bloated portrayals of junk or a magazine ad formatted to look like an article or a magazine article written in a covertly advertising manner or a pop-up ad, which I don’t even look at, but if I did I would make a note never to patronize that company for interrupting my on-line Old Maid tournament, or a television crawl about a doorknob millionaire matchmaker show featuring a dopey looking Cher-oid beast making faces at me and ruining the moment when I was about to weep because Will Hunting had just reached an epiphany as he hugged his therapist, Mork from Ork, or a guilt-trip, zippy radio bit about donating my car to help kids I don’t even know (how the hell am I supposed to get to the bar?) or the deluge of other dickering disruptions that are hurled at me each day, “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” is all I hear. It makes me want to dip my head into a boiling pot of goulash and keep it there for like an hour, but then the goulash will become over-reduced, so I don’t. You shouldn’t boil goulash. I do like that one dude on those Miller High Life commercials. “Y’all must be crazy!” Ahhhh, it never gets old. It doesn’t mean I’ll drink the product. It doesn’t mean I won’t, either. Advertising, although seemingly a necessary festering abscess in our beloved capitalistic economy, is the festering abscess of society, and I loathe anybody associated with it, especially those who sell out to it – no matter how fetching the term “Frosty Favorites” is.

So why the hell are there Google Ads on this page? That is a fair question. The easy answer would be that it is Sid’s fault because he has no scruples. Or manners, for that matter. But, that is not the correct answer. We here at Google Pop have taken a lot of good natured ribbing over the years for having sold out by placing Google Ads on our quaint little blog. And rightly so, although the sticky bombs tossed at my station wagon were a little excessive – they destroyed my custom Never Ending Story paint job. We only did it to become Internet millionaires, and why wouldn’t we? It is a noble cause. And we are well on our way. So far, we’ve amassed a prodigious $5.45 (and that’s after only 16 months). On cyberpaper, that is. We have yet to be paid, and we won’t be paid for quite some time.

The Google pimp does not fork over the dough to its bitches until the dirty whore of a web site has generated at least $4,938,338.82 worth of user clicks. The good news is that when we finally get the check, we’ll be a millionaire. The bad news is, by that time, we will be dead. A dead millionaire, but dead nonetheless. But a millionaire, nonetheless, too. It’s a yin yang kind of thing. Unless you like being dead, then it’s a yin yin thing. Or a yang yang. I can never remember which is the good one. Personally, I like yang. I’m a yang guy from way back. I am so imbued with yang, people think I won the Nobel Prize for physics in 1957 (I actually won it in 1983 for discovering the tri-sexual duality of tau neutrinos). I also walk funny.

Part of the soul selling deal with the Google is that we are not allowed to coerce our visitors into clicking the ads, which makes sense since their flashy designs should be enough to attract ravenous online shoppers. Or at least dumb people with some cash to throw away. Nor are we allowed to click the ads ourselves. Why would we? We don’t need any of that crap. Nobody does. So, don’t click on the ads. We don’t need the Google police sending us on the lam again, and you don’t need the crap they promote, either. Take your money, and do something useful with it, like buy a monster truck from GM.

So, if it’s going to take forever to get paid by Google, and the ads suck, why do we display them on our site? Another fair question. One might think it’s because of Sid’s lack of scruples. Good guess, once again. But, wrong, once again. The truth is they can be entertaining and a source of inspiration.

Google has some kind of outlandish database sorcery that sifts through the words in our blog and tries to match them to key words in their table of skulking vendors and then serve up their ad in the designated areas on our site. The assumption is what we’re writing about is of interest to whomever is reading it, and the readers also may be interested in purchasing something related to that topic. We all know that nobody who happens to be reading this blog is even remotely interested in what we are saying. Thus, Google’s underhanded, know-it-all scheme is foiled, which is just plain funny. We sure fooled them. The lack of clicks generated so far is proof of that (it certainly has nothing to do with the amount of traffic to this place).

These ads also help us guide the content of the blog, as we attempt to generate silly and useless ads by writing about silly and useless subjects. Do you think Sid WANTED to write about cow pissing? Do you think I WANTED to write about scratching my crotch? No. What kind of dunderheads would write about that? He was trying to elicit a bovine diaper ad, and I was going for a Sarah Palin ad – both of which we feel are hilarious. Let’s face it, it’s not easy for either one of us to come up with ideas to write about, and we’ll take all the help we can get.

Have you ever wondered why you feel like monkey balls after reading one of our posts? It’s because we’ve subliminally infused the idea of monkey balls throughout most of the writings using fiendishly placed letters and special polyfollic fonts. Unfortunately, our tactics may be beyond the intuition of the Google sorcery, and we have yet to have realized an ad for simian testicular enhancement surgery. But, we have not given up hope and will forge ahead with our quest. We hope you have as much fun with the Google Ads as we do.

Advertising is not informative nor is it there with your best interests in mind. Don’t believe anything it tells you. Its only purpose is to nab our cash. It is a pest. It is a violation of our right to be left alone and make asinine purchases of our own volition. It is also unavoidable. So, we might as well have some fun with it. And, monkey balls.

Pillowcase Sale

It's a Rat's Ass Mother's Day!!!

This is horrible. Mother's Day is just over a week away, and it looks as if nobody loves their mother this year. We know this because nobody has yet ordered a Rat's Ass from us to send to their mother. It's a proven fact. It is impossible to love your mother until you buy her a Rat's Ass. I am ashamed of all of us.

It's not all your fault you don't love your mother. Our marketing department has been remiss in their responsibility to remind you of your mother loving needs. And for that, we are reducing the price of The Rat's Ass by 10%. Screw it, these are our moms we're talking about - we'll make it 15%. Wait, 15% is too hard to calculate, let's make it an even 18.367%.

That's right, you can buy all the moms in your life as many Rat's Asses they want for only $49.99 each (regularly $61.24* for those of you doing math at home).

For more information about The Rat's Ass and how to order, click here. If you missed that link, try clicking here. Or here. We understand not everybody is a marksman with the old mouse pointer. Try here if you missed the other links. OK, one more time and that's it. HERE.

Prototype displayed. The actaul one your mom will receive will be much better, I'm sure.

*before you start whining, call the government about this damn inflation thing.

Frost Brewed Ridiculous

Coors Light bills itself as the frost brewed taste that is as cold as the Rockies. Cold as the Rockies, huh? The average high temperature for July in Golden, Colorado (where Coors Light is brewed, which is located in the Rockies) is 86 degrees Fahrenheit. Have you ever had 86 degree beer? I have. It sucks. It sucks so bad that you end up drinking a 1.75 ml of Southern Comfort instead. Then, all of a sudden you are sleeping on Oak Street Beach at five in the morning getting eaten by sand flies while one of your friends tries to walk to Canada through Lake Michigan.

The Coors Light marketing department has been working overtime, lately. In an effort to disguise whatever it is that they are putting in their cans and bottles as something of value to the consumer, they have invented numerous novel packaging schemes. Each of these enhancements is an attempt to make the drinker forget that xe is not actually drinking beer. In fact, they don’t even use the word “beer” in their ads. The FDA won’t allow it. They can’t be honest about what is in the cans, either, since the FCC won’t let them say “piss water” in their commercials (except in Rhode Island). As a result, they’ve come up with kooky phrases like “frost brewed taste” and “involuntary regurgitative nuances” and “mountain goat renal delight”.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those beer snobs who will only drink imports or cloudy microbrews with onion skin floating in them. In fact, when I drink beer, I usually drink Bud Light because I don’t like the taste of beer, and Bud Light tastes like water. Sometimes I’ll have a few pints of Blue Moon, but only for health purposes as a method to trick myself into eating a slice of an orange colored fruit, the name of which I cannot recall at the moment. Yes, I know Blue Moon is owned by Coors. That’s not the point. I have nothing against Coors, in general. But they are overloading the cosmetic bullshitification of Coors Light. How many gilded gimmicks do they need to trick drunks into drinking their frost brewed diet sewage? Even Domino’s, while, admittedly, they downplay the role pizza has in their business model, only hides behind one marketing trick. They are the delivery experts. That's all they want you to know. They don't care if you enjoy the taste of their "pizza" or not. If you want something warm and edible, they will deliver it to you in a box real soon, no questions asked.

“Did you order pizza from Domino’s?”

“I ordered something from them. It sure got here quick. It didn’t look so good. So, I ate the box instead. I fixed the hole in the ceiling with whatever was in the box.”

What frosts my brew about Coors Light is the volume of doohickeys and glockenspiels they have built into their containers to distract us from the fact that their product is crap. It’s overkill. I don’t have time for overkill. I’m being killed at a nice respectable pace as it is. Stick to one bit of chicanery per product. That’s what my grandmother always used to say, before she lost her lips in a bar brawl.

Here is a list of the circus attractions that surround the Coors Light product:

Vent Cans: the mouth of the can has two little vents to allow more air to get into the can while drinking, forcing the liquid down your throat at a quicker rate. This allows you to get drunk faster and forget that you are drinking liquefied mountain dross.

Wide Mouth Cans: similar strategy to the Vent Cans. Drink as much as possible as fast as possible. That is the Coors Light way. When you get really drunk, try to stick your entire tongue through the wide mouth. Note from the Coors legal department: Not responsible for any tongue related deaths or maimings.

Frost Brewed Liner: supposedly Coors Light is the only beer served cold and this liner will keep it that way. However, it will also keep it at 86 degrees because the cans have been sitting in the liquor store storage room for a month before you bought it. I believe the liner is made out of those ice cubes from Don’t Break The Ice.

Cold Activated Bottle: the name of this device implies that the bottle doesn’t encase the beer-like substance until it gets cold. So you end up buying a pile of beer-like substance, place it in your refrigerator, and in a few hours, bottles will envelope it when the temperature reaches the right level. What actually happens is a part of the label turns blue when it gets to proper drinking temperature. Apparently, the Frost Brewed Liner doesn’t work, otherwise it would always be at proper drinking temperature. Also, Coors Light knows, from countless hours of marketing research, that most drunks have nerve damage in their hands from chain saw incidents inspired by drinking too much Coors Light, rendering them unable to properly assess the temperature of their drinks by touch.

Cooler Box: If you are buying Coors Light, you obviously cannot afford to own or rent your own cooler. So steal some ice from the local Motel 6 and throw it in the Coors Light box. Eventually, the ice will melt all over the vinyl tile in your double-wide, and you will be able to clean your kitchen floor with your socks each time you get up for another bottle.

8 ounce Silver Bullet Can: they’re only 8 ounces – instead of twenty-four cans, you can drink 57 of them! And they're bullets! Now, that’s what I call drinkin’!


It’s completely ridiculous.

The Gondola and the Tidal Wave

The Simpsons is probably my favorite television show of all time. I say probably because sometimes I have bouts with wonderful memories of Joanie Loves Chachi tickling my brain, tipping the favorite scales in its direction. But one look at Chief Wiggum brings me back to my senses. It is similar to the way Neptune is the furthest planet from the Sun.

You might imagine how excited I was to learn about the production of a The Simpsons feature length movie, about ten years ago (I’m glad they didn’t take too long to make it). You might also imagine how an insurance salesman feels after he sells an accidental dismemberment policy to a fledgling gondolier, but please do that on your own time. If you imagined correctly, you would understand that I was quite excited, like an out of town gondolier landing a job in Venice.

After years of hearing about the possibility, the probability and the actuality of the movie being made, its release is finally almost here. I will not tell you the date of the release, as you will soon understand why, but it will be soon. Although my joy for the movie has been slammed like an inattentive fish being waylaid by a gondolier’s sweeping oar, I intend to watch and hopefully enjoy the movie.

Let me get to the point. But, first, let me finish my thought about Neptune. Back when Pluto was considered a planet (it’s not a planet, so don’t let the brainwashing they gave you back in grammar school obscure your comprehension of facts that explain why it is not a planet and never was), it was considered the furthest planet from the Sun. However, its orbit is more eccentric that the real planets. Consequently, sometimes it causes Pluto to draw inside the orbit of Neptune, resulting in Neptune being the farthest planet (that we know of) from the Sun. Since Pluto is now considered a dwarf planet (why couldn’t they come up with a brand new word like cosmochunk), instead of a planet, the discussion is pointless. You can see how this relates to my The Simpsons versus Joanie Loves Chachi internal squabble, so I will explain no more. Wait a minute, I just figured out something. If I can get the International Astronomical Union to agree that Joanie Loves Chachi is actually a dwarf TV show, I could finally find peace of mind. I’m going to pen a letter to Catherine J. Cesarsky as soon as I post this.

So the point is I can’t stand mass media blitzes! They are destroying all that is entertaining in this world. As far as network television goes, The Simpsons is just about all there is. But, Moist, you may say, The Simpsons has been a behemoth merchandising outfit since about the time Santa’s Little Helper almost died of gastric torsion. Yes, but I’ve been ignoring that. The Hollywood marketing onslaught for the film is too overwhelming to ignore, similar to a gondola being dropped from the sky onto a grape squishee, where I am the grape squishee and the gondola is a little sticker on the gas pump at my local filling station informing me of my opportunity to become an animated character in a The Simpsons episode. But, that gondola is not just the sticker, it’s all the other evasive smotherdue that pours out of the minds of inhuman marketing think tanks who feel it’s necessary to flood the senses with all things Simpsons (or whatever else they happen to be promoting) in order to coerse people into seeing the movie. Yesterday, I had a Jehovah’s witness come to my door. She handed me a pamphlet cordially inviting me to their “Follow the Christ” convention featuring a full costume bible drama starring the cast of The Simpsons. Last week, I was rear-ended by a guy wearing a Moe Syzlak costume. He got out of his car and slapped a bumper sticker that said “Courtesy of Moe’s Tavern – Don’t Drink and Drive Coming to Theaters July 2007” on the dent in my car. He got back into his car and slammed into the next car he could catch up to. Why, just this morning I was mailing some letters to the International Astronomical Union and the envelope glue tasted like one of Barney Gumble’s burps (don’t ask me how I know). The thing is, I bought that box of envelopes three years ago.

I fear now that somehow, because of the subject matter of this post, this blog will become part of the media pillage, and we will be inundated with millions of obtrusive readers, never to enjoy the quaint, discreet, happy little blog environment that we’ve worked so hard to attain. I’m even more fearful of attracting Joanie Loves Chachi fanatics. Those dudes are ass kickers! They say the gondola never floats too far from Neptune. I’m beginning to believe it.