The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity, Part XVI: Hey, It's a FUCKING BABY, You Psycho

by Blaine Fridley, Editor-in-Chief/Just happy not to be talking about the economy

Remember this SNL bit?

Pretty funny, right?

I mean, a toupee for a baby? How outrageous. Really, who would EVER think of putting a toupee on theirohjesuschristwhy

Apparently, the maker of Baby Bangs™ (Nice name, by the way. I'll guess half of your visitors are disappointed child porn enthusiasts), oblivious to the concept of humor, saw this sketch not as the comedic effort it was, but as an egregious, gender-biased omission.

Suuuure, bald baby boys now have the opportunity to bring that Marv Albert swagger to their next play date, but what about the Sinead O'Colics of the world? What about the pain, the shame of being a follicly-challenged baby girl and facing your drooling, semi-cognizant, big toe-sucking peers looking like Vladimir Putin? Think of the mocking and abuse to be endured. Well, if babies could talk, that is. Hahaha...talking babies. Note to self: write screenplay about babies who can talk. What? It has? Fuck. Travoltaaaaaaaaa! {vigorously shakes fist to the sky as Travolta-piloted jet flies by}

But to truly understand Baby Bangs™, one should first learn the Baby Bangs™ philosophy:

Our Philosophy:
At Baby Bangs! we believe in the beauty (debasement) of childhood. Our unique designs are sprinkled with MAGIC! (SHAME!) ~inspiring (spawning) a world (a lifetime) of whimsical wonder (chronic self-doubt) and mystical magical memorable moments (and distorted self-image) for you and your baby girl to cherish Forever! For she is, and always will be,
Your LiTTLe PRINCESS (vehicle for achieving everything you've failed to do in your life)!

But what are the customers saying (yes, apparently there are customers)?

"Apropos in our image-conscious modern world"?

What? IT'S A FUCKING BABY! 

People generally tend to give babies a little slack in the image and style department. 

Unless, of course, they're wearing a toupee… then they're fair game.

Perfect.

The DoF Childcare Corner: Tip of the Day

Today's Tip:

Do NOT store windshield wiper fluid in the fridge.

"Let's see, we've got soda, SunnyD, purple stuff, windshield wiper fluid…"

Click HERE for larger version

 

"OH YEEAAAAH!!! oh. oh no... ummm... So who wants to take a ride in an ambulance?"

It begins.

By Reno Gruber, Libertarian nut-job (and potential terrorist in the state of Missouri)

The totality of changes going on at a Federal level are something that nobody can truly comprehend right now. It's all happening at such an alarming pace, when the truth comes out, it could be pure chaos.

Let's take a quick gander at what's going on.

http://www.opencongress.org/bill/111-h45/show

This bill makes the government the sole power to decide who can own guns. Now many may say, "But Reno, who really needs to arm themselves?" Well, besides violating the 2nd amendment, creating a central clearinghouse ran by the central government to decide who can even own a gun is far too much control for any bumbling government. But let's put a pin in that one, shall we?

http://www.opencongress.org/bill/111-h1409/show

This bill seems OK at first glance. It is supposed to deride against corporate bulling tactics that are regularly employed in situations where people try to organize a union. It says if you collect 50% of the employees with union cards, it is certified. The secret Ballots are now a thing of the past. So you'd think that would be counter-productive against bullying. Labor says it'll be "more efficient."However it has another fatal flaw. If negotiations stall between the newly recognized union and company for four months while hammering out collective bargaining, the bill puts an arbitration board named by the federal government in full control of what any labor-management contract will look like for at least two years.

The bill potentially puts your neighborhood arbitrator-commissars in charge of how the private sector will behave, except in states like Virginia that bar exclusive union rights. This has very dangerous implications.

http://www.opencongress.org/bill/111-h875/show

House Bill 875, which is sponsored by Representative Rosa DeLauro (D-CT), seeks to reduce or eliminate the danger of distance by establishing a new federal Food Safety Administration (FSA) that would superintend and regulate all food production facilities, from the smallest farms to the biggest processors. In other words, HB 875 would give the federal government dictatorial authority over the entire food chain of the USA.HB 875 and its Food Safety Administration (FSA)
• Binds all State and County Departments of Agriculture to federal authority
• Criminalizes alternative farming methods, such as “organic.”
• Superintends everyone who grows food, whether they sell it or not.
• Superintends the production of meat of any kind.
• Allows the FSA, or its agents, physical access to all farms.
• Allows the FSA, or its agents, to copy all farm documents.
• Forces farmers who sell direct to consumers to make their customer lists available to FSA, or its agents.
• Grants FSA, or its agents, authority to punish rule-breakers with fines of up to $1 million per day.
• Allows FSA to hire industry leaders to decide how program would be administered.

Hope you don't like growing your own food. Or, ya know...being able to feed yourself. The government will do that for you, pleb. Or defend yourself. They'll do that too.

I try to make it quite clear I'm a staunch, (weirdo) libertarian. (I say weirdo, because that's pretty much the initial reaction most have.) Let's be honest, some people just want government to stay out of their business because they are weirdos. (God bless em.) But other warm-blooded, well-read Americans actually like the ability to choose their methods of food and work, or who they choose to follow.

In Missouri, cops are now supposed to be on the lookout for people who choose to follow Rep. Ron Paul, citing they are potential terrorists. (They did elect John Ashcroft, after all.)

http://www.kansascity.com/news/breaking_news/story/1086524.html

So my Dad, who couldn't be more of a 'rah-rah' American type, in Missouri should be considered a possible terrorist because he supported a particular candidate? While our president just hired Tony West, who defended "American Taliban" John Walker Lindh? (I know, kind of a specious argument but it sounded cute.)

This is not the change "we" voted for. You were lied to, and you should be angry. These over-reaching, central-authority bills and amendments to our sovereignty are what large governments do to get larger and even more powerful.

It doesn't matter what side of the aisle you sit, you know that Orwell was prophetic when he said "Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Begin tracking these bills being launched on sites like www.opencongress.org and take control of whats happening. Even if you think Reno is a paranoid douchefucker, at least do your own research and come up with your own opinions, even if it takes a few hours to go through.

You don't want a modern socialism people. Ask anyone in Germany, North Korea or the Eastern Bloc how that turns out for the middle class. (Although it is fucking sweet for the proletariat!)

I hate writing stuff like this because it's grim and makes me sound kooky, I get it. But this stuff is happening. If it becomes a depression type-situation and people have restrictions on the food they can grow and how they can defend themselves or their property...well you make your own deductions.

"Hey baby, could I get a scone to go with that shake?"

Bothell, WA

"I could cut back hours, I could let some employees go, or I could try and do what we could," said owner Alan Tagle of his struggling coffee stand.

And apparently after settling in for an all-night brainstorming session to save his business, Tagle awoke 9 hours later with only a puddle of drool and the word "boobies" scribbled on a piece of loose-leaf paper to speak of.

Well, as Mr. Cheney would say, you go to battle with the army you have. So he announced to his staff that THEY could keep their jobs, but unfortunately, he was going to have to terminate their blouses.

It seems what was once considered "sexual harassment" during times of economic vitality can now be re-classified as "effective business strategy" during a recession. Bet you didn't know that, huh? It's in the fine-print of the TARP Act.

Let us hope Denny's doesn't follow suit.

Tune Translator Vol. 2: "I'm On Fire"

Merton Sussex, Playa-Hater

Today's DoF Tune Translator takes on one of the most beloved of the American pantheon of songwriters. He goes by many names: among them - "The Boss," The Jersey Devil, and (at least at family reunions) Unca' Stinky. But I'll call him what his mom does: Bruce Springsteen.

Bruce's 35-plus year career has seen him win 19 Grammy Awards, sell more than 65 million albums, and play thousands of live shows. Along the way, he's done more to reduce the severity level of the national shame that is New Jersey than Kevin Smith, Bon Jovi and Danny DeVito combined.

However, he's managed to do all of this while being what is, frankly, a weak songwriter.

Easy, Bruce fans. I like the dude as much as the next red-blooded, meat-eating, heterosexual American male is culturally obligated to. But the fact is that when it comes to putting together a song, Brucie-poo cuts more corners than a kindergartner making paper snowflakes. Whether it's beating to death the looping six-note riff that literally forms the entire backing track of "Born in the U.S.A.", or "Born to Run's" clumsy vehicle-parts-as-romantic-metaphor-motif, the fact of the matter is the guy has earned his reputation that seems inversely proportionate to his talent level. Which is fine. I mean, that's sort of what Americans do. For chrissakes, California's economy is the worst of any state in the nation, given the fact that the entire joint seems filled to the bursting point with celebutantes like Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian who don't have any real job and never will, but are somehow still household names regardless.

So, for today's soupçón of snark, I'll be taking a look at the hidden meaning behind "I'm on Fire", one of Mr. Springsteen's most egregiously watered-down compositions. Musically, it's even sparser than "U.S.A.", with a messily arpeggiated guitar, and a wall-clock drum track that is more insulting to Max Weinberg's skill level than anything Conan O'Brien's ever done to him in sixteen seasons. But I'm not concerning myself with the music, for now. Music is subjective. It's lyrically that this turd really "shines."

Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

This passage is, not surprisingly, exactly what it appears to be: A craggy old man delivering a subtle-as-a-sledgehammer come-on to a would-be female paramour. He's got a "mad desire," which, when speaking of the less-fair sex, typically only means one thing. Fine, whatever. A lot of rock music comes much more from the groin than the heart. Not necessarily all that unusual.

However, it's the subtext that has always bugged me. Mostly, because he's asking if her father is home. Presumably, this is because Bruce wants to get his crusty old freak on without having to deal with running into some sort of overprotective paternal warden. Which means she lives at home. And of course, in the current zeitgeist, the financial state of which has millions returning to the safe haven of parental basements, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. But given that this song was written in 1985, one can assume that she's living with her father because she is a minor.

Going further, because there apparently exists the possibility that Papa has "[gone] away and left [her] all alone," it's safe to assume she's of the age where she's not in need of a sitter. Which means by some yardsticks, she could be as young as 13 or so. I'm guessing that this is likely the case, being as Bruce referred to the man he's hoping isn't around to spoil his good time as "daddy," like a little girl would. I'm sorry that you have to think about that now. But there it is.

Even so, it gets worse.

Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

Oh, JESUS.

Look, I'm gonna pull the cards away from my vest here a little bit. I spent a good chunk of the last decade doing some volunteer work dealing with the problem of child sexual predators. I've testified in several court cases as a prosecution witness, given talks to police organizations regarding the ever-changing tactics of the predator, and even been tapped as an "expert" in order to give topic-specific on-camera sound bites to television stations doing stories on the subject. So, I'm a little more than familiar with the tactics of the prowling pervo. And "tell me now baby is he good to you / does he do to you the things that I do" is rife with so much Sex Offender 101 "logic" that it could be a case study all by itself.

To begin with, he opens up with the wheedling term of endearment of "baby," which, while kinda cute among married couples, rather gives marching orders to the epidermis in light of the previous. Then, "Is he good to you" attempts to frame as "positive" that which immediately follows; namely, "does he do to you the things that I do." I'll let you fill in the blanks yourself. But in doing so, be sure to consider the choice of words: "Does he do TO you." Not FOR you, but "TO you." Again, I'm not really going to spell it out for you.

As if that's not bad enough, Bruce follows it up with: "I can take you higher." Which sounds suspiciously like, "I'm sure you enjoy being molested by your father, but trust me...You'll enjoy it even more when I do it."

Take it from someone who knows: the manipulation inherent in these phrasings isn't just common among predators...It's more or less ubiquitous. As are the questions themselves about whether or not the intended victim has any background with being abused, and whether or not they "liked" it. And, if I may refer back to the first verse for a moment: in my experience the query about whether there's a parent around is one of the first that usually arises when any predator is sussing out a potential target. This, notwithstanding that our "protagonist" is asking only about a father. Whether this is a reflection of his own masculine insecurity as depicted in verse two, or because Dad is a single parent (who probably has enough to worry about with raising a teenage daughter even BEFORE creepy, gravel-voiced Americana crooners come poking around her bedroom window) cannot be inferred from the information supplied.

The mind boggles.

Then, it's onto what's passing for the bridge:

Sometimes its like someone took a knife baby
Edgy and dull
And cut a six-inch valley
Through the middle of my soul

Yeah, because YOU'RE the real victim, here. The horrible illicit yearning for the physical company of a teenager coupled with the societal and parental obstacles you have to overcome to get there must be so very AWFUL for you.

And c'mon...six inches is not a "valley," Bruce. Shit, it's not even a ditch. It's more like something a kid would dig into a garden with a stick to move watering-can sprinklin's among the dandelions. And besides, "edgy and dull"? Make up your fucking mind, man. Which is it? It can't be both. And that's putting aside for the moment the deeply-unsettling imagery of a dull, six-inch instrument of assault doing damage to someone's soul. I promise, if there's a six-inch weapon involved in this transaction that's going to do damage to ANYONE'S soul, chances are, it's gonna be hers. Talk to me in 10 years when you're nursing your sixth beer under the glowing buzz of the neon "GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!" sign, and wondering why the dead-eyed stripper mechanically gyrating against the pole 20 feet away looks so doggoned familiar, anyhow.

At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet
And a freight train running through the
Middle of my head

Oh, God. PLEASE let the sheets be "soaking wet" because you were sweating, or I will never stop throwing up. I guess it depends on whether the freight train in his head just went into a tunnel, or not.

Assuming that the waking-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night is a panic thing, I'm thinking it's possible that someone's got a case of the guilties, maybe?

Only you can cool my desire
Oh, oh, oh, I'm on fire

I guess that WAS too much to hope for. No, he's sweating because the carnal craving he has for a child is too much to bear, and it's gotten to the point where it's interrupting his sleep. He's managed to convince himself that only SHE holds the keys to his well-being. Lovely. I'm sure any woman who at any point had second thoughts about the way things were going once the ball got rolling is well-acquainted with justifications like that. "It's PAINFUL if I stop! Guys HAVE to once they get turned on! You don't understand!" Uh-huh. Cry me a river. If we're both lucky, you might turn that six-inch valley into a wee li'l babblin' brook filled entirely with your sadness!

Christ.

Also, at the risk of cluttering things any further, I suppose it's too much to hope for in an overall sum-up sense that "I'm On Fire" refers only to his perversely sick-headed youth-lust, and NOT some crotch-clap that ACTUALLY burns. Because the only thing sweeter than raping a kid is dumping off a little chlamydia in the bargain.

Now, don't get me wrong. Am I suggesting that Bruce Springsteen, American treasure, and celebrated bearer of the quintessential American Songwriter torch that John Mellencamp has coveted since before he was Cougar is a full-on, unrepentant pedophile? Not at all. It's just given that all that I've come to understand about the mindset of their revolting ilk, he certainly seems to be able to convincingly write lazy, crappy little three-minute pop ditties from their perspective.

Of course, maybe I'm right. Maybe he IS a sex-crazed maniac. It certainly would explain why three of his albums were called "Human Touch," "Tunnel of Love" and "The Rising," would it not?

You're welcome.

The Day I Lost My Faith in Humanity, Part XV

by Reno Gruber, lover of humans, liker of animals

You can't fucking make this shit up people.

First. Go here (link below) Read the comments. (As many as you can before getting really angry.) Then come back.

http://www.asylum.com/2009/03/13/man-wrestles-and-kills-giant-shark/

Not that Reno should be surprised that there are fucking morons out there, but the depth people have fallen into the abyss of logic is so profound it makes him fearful he will one day bring another soul onto this earth that must navigate through crazy of this level.

Let's do a quick inventory.

Man is in ocean. Is attacked. Has legendary 2 hour battle to heroically save himself and friend. Cat People from the dankest corner of the internet are outraged a defenseless shark was "murdered."

If Reno reads about an animal being "murdered" ever again, he may begin destroying people. Animals are destroyed, people are murdered. Of course stupidity of this level actually makes me root for natural selection.

Congratulations PeTA. You have taken a noble cause like being decent to defenseless animals, and through your tireless crusades into things that barely mattered have carved out a niche of fucking morons that care more for a killing machine than their fellow humans.

God/Allah/Xenu/Spaghetti monster have mercy on our souls.

Friday Funk: Outasight

One of the many artists that have basically cultivated a groundswell off little else but MySpace (and since shows in small clubs in NYC,) Outasight has dropped two free-for-download EPs and turned those into a soon-coming LP for Daily Grind Records.

The title track off his first EP, "Employee of the Year"


The first single off his 2008's Radio New York "Good Evening (Dream Big.)"


More. Myspace.com/iamoutasight

Hot Sh!t: The Dead Weather

So it seems neither The White Stripes nor The Raconteurs are enough to contain Jack White's insatiable creativity, so… meet the The Dead Weather! Featuring Jack Lawrence on bass (Raconteurs), Dean Fertita on gee-tar (Queens of the Stoneage), Allison Mosshart on vocals (The Kills) and Mr. White layin' down the beats. Album due in June. But here's a little preview, and it's super bad-ass times 1,000 squared, proving once again that Jack White is simply incapable of making shitty music.

The Breakfast of Champions

A post inspired by co-workers eating chocolate cake for breakfast today -- here's a classic Bill Cosby bit on the topic. Seriously, if the only Bill Cosby you know is from The Cosby Show or Pudding Pop commercials, do yourself a favor and watch some of his stand-up from back in the day. He truly is the most gifted comedian/story teller of all time. Not even close. Richard Pryor is a distant 2nd (and I LOOOOOVE me some Richard Pryor) and here's why: his act is as funny to me now as it was when I was 6 years old and in the backseat listening to his tapes on the long trip to grandma's house and struggling to breathe between hysterical cackles. 

Enjoy,

Blaine

Bill Cosby Chocolate cake
Uploaded by Spookytime

Ricky Gervais wins the Internet

Ricky Gervais is funny. Elmo is cute.

Youtube win.

I Blame this on Watchmen

Last week while seeing "Watchmen" on Imax I was inundated with giant blue peen. Now, there is small green peen in the form of a youtube video showing some turtle doing sexy times with a shoe. Ugghhhh, and I just ate a salad for lunch, full of GREEN things. Barf.





Honestly, the close up was not necessary and what is up with the sounds that turtle is making?

Facebook Tag Your Friends with Disdain

Been on Facebook the past two weeks? Then you noticed a horrible new trend that made the "20 things" notes seem well-thought out and insightful.

Well your friends at Diary of Fools have created our own version that has some key upgrades.

(much better quality, larger version available for download here. http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v27/Tajmccall/DOF-Facebooktag.png)

Post it, tag your friends, then immediately begin answering questions on why you'd think that of them. It's a good way to weed out your friends with absolutely no sense of sarcasm.

Go ahead, you know you want to.

DoF Classic: Blaine Fridley's Ironclad Break-up Techniques, Vol. I

Originally published Feb. 2008

Breaking up is hard to do. But withstanding the fallout of a break-up is even harder. The crying. The late night phone calls. The ill-fated attempt at "being friends". Worst of all is the break-up that doesn't stick, which usually comes as a result of a determined/dillusional breakee refusing to accept the estrangement and a weak-willed breaker who would do anything to stop the breakee's crying...including keeping a vegetative relationship hooked up to a feeding tube for several more agonizing months if it means they'll just shut-the-fuck-up already.

Throughout the history of mankind, those looking to end a relationship have searched for, and almost always have failed to find, a way to make a "clean break".

That is, until now.

In this semi-regular re-accuring feature, I will share with you the ironclad break-up techniques guaranteed to get you out of an unwanted relationship quickly and cleanly.

Ironclad Break-up Technique #1: "The Tuck and Roll"

Sometimes a bad relationship can make you feel like you're in a speeding car that has caught fire and is headed straight for Dead Man's Cliff. This technique is for you.

However, to execute "The Tuck and Roll" properly, you need to set the table with a few easy steps of preparation.

1. Erase your number from his/her cell phone
2. Get new email address
3. Relocate, relocate, relocate. This is key. Another city is preferred to avoid the dreaded "chance meeting".

Great! Now you're prepared for "The Tuck and Roll".

As we've already discussed, the hardest part of a break-up isn't really the act of telling your partner that you don't want to be with them anymore, so much as it is the severe awkwardness that follows directly after. If only there was a way to escape the second you've let the other person know you don't want to be with them, never to be seen again.

Well, accomplishing that is as easy as going for a Sunday drive with your partner.

And then jumping out of the vehicle as you announce that you'd like to break-up.

Typically, this technique is done with you in the passenger seat. But depending on how much you despise the person you're breaking up with, it can be performed with you in the driver's seat as well.

And there you have it. A clean break. No excruciating back and forth. No awkwardness. No muss, no fuss.

You're welcome.

Fuck you, Walgreen's.

I am so onto you it is, quite literally, sick.

So, the other day, by which I mean sometime around mid-goddamn-January, I come down with The Grippe. Yes, I know this is an archaic term, but it fits...mostly because whatever microscopic motherfucker has taken hold in my lungs will. Not. Let. GO. I've actually torn my ridiculously well-insulated abdominal muscles coughing, my voice sounds like ten miles of bad road, and I can hardly sleep, because when I lie down, my lungs make a noise that sounds altogether too much like a teapot left on the burner at an enthusiastic simmer. I've been to see two separate medical professionals, and while their bedside manners were wildly divergent, the diagnosis was the same:

Disaffected, gum-smacking, 21-year-old Nurse Practitioner at lunch-break kwik-e-klinic inside major department store chain: "S'prolly a virus. Here, go get some codeine syrup, or sumthin'."

My incredibly-cool actual Doctor (from whom I sought a second opinion on day 10), while listening to my upper-respiratory function via stethoscope: "Wow. That is fucked...UP. Your lungs sound like the bastard lovechild of an accordion and a set of bagpipes!" And yeah, he really talks like that, which is a large part of the reason I go to him. Anyone can do the doctorin', but this guy's always good for some entertainment in the bargain. "It's definitely Bronchitis, but it doesn't seem to be the bacterial kind. So, sorry...No antibiotics. You'll just have to rub some dirt on it and soldier it out, tough guy."

However, he did write me for some more drugs. Namely, a steroid and an inhaled dilator to shore up my breathing, and help me get some sleep. So, off to Walgreen's I go like a good citizen to procure my controlled substances.

And WHY do I go to Walgreen's? Same reason so many other drones march dutifully off to other buyatoriums that start with "Wal-." The heady combination of ubiquity, convenience, and familiarity that most chains assume translates as "brand loyalty." Walgreen's has the sort of market penetration also-rans like CVS, Snyder's and Rite Aid can only have wet dreams about. Of course, with Walgreen's, there's also the added wrinkle that they're sort of a de facto extension of my doctor's office, inasmuch as they deal with the medication end. And going anywhere else involves giving someone new a lot of semi-sensitive info. So when it comes to faceless corporate giants being privy to the particulars of my medical history, I try to keep that shit to a minimum.

But. It must be said that Walgreen's, while easy, also pisses me off something FIERCE. They frost my cookies, big-time. This is because they are shamelessly running one of the biggest rackets in the entire Western Hemisphere. And that racket goes by a code-phrase:

"That's gonna be about twenty minutes."

That's the way their business model works: You drop off a prescription, and the friendly, helpful pharmacist (or a licensed representative of same) says, "That's gonna be about twenty minutes." And then you're left to your own devices. And, make no mistake, "twenty minutes" is an EXTREMELY carefully-chosen window of time they'll tell you to wait. It is totally arbitrary; a span specifically selected to sound like a reasonable amount of time to hang out. Certainly, too brief a window of time to leave and come back, right? So, what do you do?

You take the bait. You shop. You shop like the goddamned MORON you are. You shop like they know you will.

You cruise up and down the aisles, perusing the selection of (again, very carefully-selected) products, and you wind up picking shit out you don't really need JUST BECAUSE IT'S THERE.

Let it be known: the "twenty minutes" gambit is the BIG profit-building backbone of the Walgreen's corporate empire. You think Astra-Zeneca, Pfizer, and GlaxoSmithKline are cutting them a sweet deal on the good stuff? Fuck, no. So they make it up on the other crap. And the large-scale moving of the tertiary shit-on-shelves accounts for such a significant chunk of their overall business that it's no WONDER we never question it, no matter how ludicrous it is on its face. Of course it doesn't take twenty goddamned minutes to count to fifteen pills, you fucking mongoloids! Especially not when three-quarters of everything behind the magic barrier comes in bottles, pre-counted blister-packs, or patented, complicated dose-measuring mechanisms designed to jack up the asking price Big Pharma gets to charge for top-tier drugs! WALGREEN'S IS PLAYING YOU, BITCHES! And you, my friend, are literally buying it!

Think about it...The non-prescription products in every Walgreen's fall into one of four categories:

1) Food. And not just food...Convenience food. Canned soups. Frozen shit. Insta-dinners. The kind of stuff that's cheap and fast, and that you're likely to be inclined to want to pick up to save all the time they've stolen from you, being as it apparently takes twenty minutes to take a bottle from a box, and put it into a bag with your name on it.

2) Cheap Entertainment. Paperbacks. DVD's. Magazines. There is no earthly reason for this shit to be here. That is, except for the fact that Walgreen's knows that you'll be wandering the store for quite awhile while they fastidiously count out one pill every 90 seconds and you're gonna walk past everything twice.

3) "Health & Beauty" products. Toothpaste. Cotton balls. Cosmetics. Weak-sauce over-the-counter pseudo-remedies. Stuff that helps them feel more like a pharmacy, and less like a seedy corner convenience store. Plus, it's all shit you tend to run out of at home. Not that the hippie to the left is necessarily gonna need what she's nabbing any time soon, but they also don't refuse to sell eyeliner to geriatrics, if you feel me.

4) CANDY, CANDY, CANDY. First, you have to chew good and slow on the incongruity of the fact that the same place that sells both sugary sweets AND insulin monitors knows that you're sure to be back for both sooner or later. If you think about it, that's kind of like a motorcycle dealership that has a special section in the back for crutches and discount body casting: the shiny, highly-marketed shit hangs out in the front all glossy and appealing, and the piper-paying wages-of-sin are just below the surface. Walgreen's knows that you can't pass up a 2-for-1 sale on Twizzlers. They know that a bag of store-brand Bridge Mix that's not-coincidentally the rough size of your lower intestines is a "gimme." Especially when you're wandering the aisles forever, waiting on a tiny bottle of pills to be painstakingly totted up and bagged by a glorified register-jockey.

And besides that, they know there's a pretty good chance you're going to have some kids with you. And if you've ever dragged a squalling brat past rows and rows and rows of brightly-colored bags of sugary bliss, you know only one of you is getting out of there alive. And yes, while Dr. Spock would have our parental hides for caving in and reinforcing bad behavior by buying the unbearable little shits something to shut them the fuck up already, anyone who has ever had to endure the stygian joy of a tiny, impossible-to-deal-with asshole pitching a howling, red-faced bitch in the middle of a public place knows the meaning of the phrase "pick your battles" more intimately than any army commander ever will.

Bear in mind, that's only if you're lucky enough NOT to need meds during one of the four candy-heavy marketing seasons of the year. Those being: Easter (defined as Valentine's Day through Memorial Day), Halloween (Labor Day through Thanksgiving), Christmas (Thanksgiving through New Years') and Valentine's Day (New Years' through Easter). During those magical run-up/holiday/clearance periods, the candy "aisle" sprawls over the entire front half of the store like a goddamned alien fungus that feeds on desperation and self-loathing.

Of course, as you're drinking in all of this shameless retailery as a more-or-less captive audience, you don't usually realize that it's never actually only twenty minutes you wait. It just never is, is it? In Walgreen's time, "twenty minutes" usually averages about thirty-five. That way, when you go up to the counter to ask them why it's taken them the better part of an hour to hand you your goddamned birth control pills, pills that come in for-chrissakes blister-packs in a shit-eating clamshell case and have for years, they can act flustered, like YOU'RE the unreasonable asshole. At that point, they may tersely claim they called your name on the overhead P.A., but of course, they never do. Even when you've specifically asked them to, and they say they will. Then they sigh, as if they're so put-upon and so overworked, and then they GO AND GET THE FUCKING PILLS. And they ring them up right there. They ring them up right along with your three pints of Ben & Jerry's, gallon jug of Lubriderm, copy of "Hair Today," family-size jeroboam of Extra-Strength Tylenol Migraine, pair of "As Seen On TV" Dryer Balls, and the My Little Pony with the lollipop ass-tattoo that little Keighleighh welled up a metric quart of crocodile tears over when you forgot yourself for three seconds and half-turned down the toy aisle. And lo and behold...you are the sucker again.

So, don't fall for it, tools. Don't become a cog in the system! Don't be seduced by Walgreen's carefully-researched and perfectly-laid little honey-trap. Because that's what it is. A trap. So , the next time the pharmacist or conscripted surrogate looks you dead in the eye and utters the lie-on-several-levels of, "that's gonna be about twenty minutes," just do what I do. Look right back at them and say, "Okay. I'll just wait RIGHT HERE." Refuse to move from the register. Firmly, but politely decline to step aside so they can help someone else. Do not be swayed by the bank of comfy chairs they have placed near the counter so they can drag their heels while you watch your afternoon slip away. Stand bolt upright directly in front of the register, and watch them like a hawk until you get your medication. They fucking HATE this. Not only are you totally calling them on the absurd notion that it takes thirty-plus minutes to count out twenty tablets by observing the process directly, but you are making them nervous by being vaguely menacing...But not SO menacing that security must get involved. As an added bonus, you are not draining your bank account and padding theirs by buying SHIT YOU WILL NEVER NEED. EVER.

Trust me, try it. If you don't get your meds inside of five minutes flat, Uncle Mert will buy you a fuckin' Whitman's Sampler. You can pick it out. They're the next aisle over from the Massengill.