“The first-ever BMW 2-series.”
Just great. Now we can have people with even lower credit scores driving like complete fucking assholes. At least the Mini Cooper owners will have some competition.
On a much more positive note, I imagine a future where the leading Kickstarter campaign utilizes alien-level tech to siphon some of that perpetual right-turn signal energy from every Toyota Avalon to allow a percentage of Infiniti and Lexus drivers to experience the thrill of illuminating at least one blinker bulb at some point in their vehicle’s life cycle.
You know why Sun Chips come packaged in those opaque bags? I think it has a lot to do with that near baby-shit brown coloring of the chips themselves. Had they been packaged like normal snack foods, you’d see them behind that little window in the bag and think “Those look more Earthy than the name implies. Perhaps more like the contents of the colostomy bag found attached to a mummy. I am an American, and demand that MY Sun Chips look more yellow, as the sun itself,” and then Neil Degrasse Tyson could step in and reclassify the snack as something else, because that’s what astrophysicists do, obviously.
And don’t even get me started on the potential of a sixteen show series from Michio Kaku that would dig deeper into the mystery of the off-colored “red giant” chip, or the even more rare stellar collision, wherein two chips have merged into one unit (occasionally, there’s like five PLUS in some globular cluster, forming this nebula of not-quite Sun Chippy-goodness that you avoid because it’s more like the weird characters in Tod Browning’s 1932 film Freaks than some food, and you just can’t bring yourself to touch it, but can rest assured that some talent-less hack would have stolen the entire premise for a shitty cable series like some eighty years down the road).
That said, try a little fucking harder, Sun Chips. I demand accountability from my snacks. Now, about this “Milky Way” bar, and the obviously sloppy anatomical research by the “Butterfinger” people…
Another night of these begging little bastards with their iPhones and $200 sneakers, being dropped off in our neighborhood by yoga pant-wearing women driving Lexus and BMW SUV’s to mooch free food.
In keeping with tradition, we’ll hand out condoms in the hope that these pint-sized ingrates will take them home and prevent their parents from having any more children that they can’t feed.
Don’t get me wrong, I feel bad for the dude… I’m not a monster, after all.
But in hindsight, two things were working against the man whose stall I barged into in the restroom:
One: That door latch appeared to be in perfect working order.
Two: (and possibly more important than the first) His missing legs most certainly did not prevent him from engaging that fucking latch.
But I’M the bad guy. Perhaps my telling you that taking a “stand” over an honest mistake was, well, a mistake, but cut me some slack here. I was probably just, if not more embarrassed. And just a little freaked-out to be frank.
The SEMA Show retains the same schedule from year to year. It’s not as though the dates are randomly selected as a part of some ritual dependent upon just how the chicken bones land on the calendar in some tent at the county fair or what the average diameter of giant spinning wheels is at the DUB Show when divided by the wattage of the stereo in your cousin’s friend’s bitchin’ Eclipse; it’s an annual event, subject to some form or another of tradition.
That understood, explain to me just why in the fuck year after year am I subjected to an almost endless stream of possibly brain-damaged douchebags calling and emailing looking for conceptual art, logos, cards and other work within the FINAL weeks leading to the show? I mean barely enough time to conceptualize anything, much less produce anything. Even worse is the utter disrespect and anger that these pricks show when I explain that “no, I’m currently double-booked as it is, and that means 18-20 hour days already, and no time for your last-minute afterthought.”
Quote of the week: “What’s a few more all-nighters to help a bro?”
First, I don’t have a brother. And if I did just discover long-lost sibling who has waited forty-plus years to contact me, much less just weeks before THE major trade show of the year and needing a logo and shirts and cards for his “shop” as they display a vehicle (side note: If you’re “having a car at SEMA”, and as yet have NO logo for your “shop”, you are either full of shit, buying your way in or just one heck of a loser in the grand scheme, and destined to fail), I’d invite his sorry ass to wait another forty-plus to call again, fuck him very much. His poor planning is most definitely not my problem. I truly couldn’t care less. I’ll probably devote more time to wondering just how the life of that mosquito that flew into my ear last Summer is going than whether or not you found someone else to dupe into creating artwork for you based on promises you can never hope to make good on.
Furthermore, as I state each year around this time (gosh! It’s almost SEMA Show time!), if you’re posting hundreds of photos to Instagram and Facebook about your “SEMA thrash” and how gosh-darned tired you are and how it sucks, you are a fucking idiot. You chose it, you procrastinated, and you have chosen to spend time away from said project to play on social media, delaying any progress. You should re-think your life, asshole. You got time to play on a social site? Then you have time to finish the fucking thing and get some rest.
In summary: Three weeks to design, produce and ship all of your graphics needs utilizing the twenty minutes per day that I may or may not be able to squeeze in while neglecting my family even more than usual is not enough time. Your poor planning is but one symptom of the terminal condition you make others suffer along with you: Self-imposed suffering in the hope of some glory via a tiny photo in some magazine’s annual “SEMA SHOW COVERAGE!!” Good luck with that. Hugs and kisses as always,
P.S. Oh yeah: #semathrash
I work my days away trying to help clients get the most of their vision into a build. I enjoy the guys who have PASSION and drive. That willingness to dive in and create something unique… an expression of an emotion in a mechanical object. These are the clients and the sort of car guys I want to be around, and enjoy the company of. On the other hand, I see the “patina” guys as looking for the quickest buy-in, and can’t jump that hurdle.
We live in the scariest of times… We witness the revision of the present day alongside the careful editing of history. It strikes me as both odd and funny at once that “new” words are added to the English language, or worse, EDITED TO HAVE THEIR MEANINGS CHANGED.
The latter seems to coincide neatly with some politically-correct dickhead wishing to add a “softer” word to describe something, or worse, some degenerate who expects the world to alter their fucking viewpoint regarding some personal preference of this entitlement-seeker, and by commandeering an existing word and altering its meaning, or developing some fresh jargon to more adequately appease them.
For instance, with this Bruce Jenner in a dress bullshit… He is not a “woman” in any respect, be it “trans” or any other catchy, new-age bullshit prefix. If he took a transcontinental drive in a Trans Am to the Transamerica Pyramid Center while listening to a transistor radio as a friend in the passenger seat transcribed the transmissions of the radio show (discussing transmutation of water into wine), and mis-translating the hoots and howls of the transient illegal immigrants being transported into California, the situation would no more make him a “woman” than would lighting a Pop Tart on fire make it fucking Baked Alaska.
We’ve fallen into this wormhole, wherein we are expected, nay FORCED to bow to the whims and fancy of whatever brain-damaged spoiled brat deems as his or her (or, should you attend the University of Tennessee – that alone begs for me to seek mercy on your soul in the first place, you illiterate turd – the all-inclusive non-gender pronoun “ze”… what in the fuck?!!) “right” to some “respect”, simply by altering the fucking language. We are surrounded by these hashtag-using pukes on their giant phones who are so utterly disconnected to reality, yet so “connected” to social issues that they automatically assume that the two are directly interchangeable. There is no transference in this manner. You simply cannot be so far removed from reality that you can see fit to change it, simply because you “feel” something. It simply doesn’t work that way. Unless, of course, you have allowed the public school system to raise your kids, and you’re transfixed with fear that your offspring will go on a Twitter rant about what an awful sperm donor (or recipient) you are because you don’t understand them and these “feelings.” And if I cannot discern your gender, especially if you’ve taken steps to alter it to make that so, then please explain to me just how in the Hell it becomes my fault that you feel bad or misunderstood, or how I am not “paying conscious attention to your emotional state,” you freak? All of these fringe weirdos demanding “acceptance.” Here’s a thought: JUST LIVE YOUR FUCKING LIFE, AND STOP FORCING ME TO LOOK AT YOU. If I don’t see you, the chances are greatly improved in your favor that I won’t point and laugh at you. It’s as simple as that, honestly. That’s like dressing up as The Mummy for Halloween, but creating your costume from yellow feathers and beak, and then wondering why the other kids are calling you “Big Bird.” A little logic goes a long way there, cupcake. A decision to be “different” or your “inner self” is on YOU, and not me. Should you possess some “great strength and courage” to become your inner weirdo, then at least have the fortitude to take a few jokes at your expense. THAT is the sign of strength or courage… Not crying to just be loved, or protesting to force someone to accept your individual desire. Seriously. There we go, changing the meanings again. And to be frank, I don’t give a flying fuck if you like it, or if it makes you sad. I’ve never come to your door and forced you to gaze upon the Conservative white guy who enjoys punk music and guns and cars and women and B-movies. And I certainly have never forced you to alter your language or manner of thinking to accept with blind certainty that my selection of a lifestyle is protected by any law or otherwise. Force of a belief always meets resistance. That is an irrefutable fact. Going about finding acceptance via a less aggressive manner would breed infinitely more positive results, but it’s probably far less profitable. You’ll find a similar peace and far less self-inflicted suffering once you grasp that, you entitlement-age puke.
Certain words have EARNED their definitions and use and stature in the language. They command a respect for the things they are used to represent. And respect is earned, not forced upon anyone. And while I’m certain that the lily-livered liberal, entitlement-seeking generation we have now will change all of that in the future, you can bet your ass that it won’t be changing soon in my house. Even if your son drops by and threatens to hit me with his purse.