Archive for the ‘Pop Culture’ Category
My quest for authenticity through my writing has required me to reveal quite a bit about myself. Some may say a little too much. Believe it or not, there are a few more things you ought to know or be reminded of before reading this post:
- I love creating awkward situations for my own enjoyment and the discomfort of others
- I have a very sophomoric sense of humor (this may not be a new revelation)
- My family is convinced that I currently have a nasty medical condition
Last week I discovered a product on the internet that’s so completely AWESOME I almost wet myself with anticipation of the possibilities for creating some aforementioned awkward situations. I eagerly read the detailed description of the product, the multitude of glowing customer testimonials, and even watched an amazing home video demonstrating the effectiveness of this item. I was hooked like a bullfrog at the end of a gig pole. Like a caffeine addict with a year’s supply of free Starbucks. Like a flamboyant Apple fanboy with a ticket to the latest Launch Event.
I placed my order on Amazon and scored free 2-day shipping. Then I started some wild and crazy planning for its arrival. Unfortunately, Steve Martin wasn’t available to help. That would have been cool.
So, are you intrigued? Are you crossing your legs in anticipation of the big reveal? Can you even imagine how amazing this product must be to have achieved the coveted Authentic Ramblings “Shut Up You’re Awesome!” award, sight unseen?
This 8th Wonder is called…Liquid ASS.
The website describes it as “an overwhelming, stinky, funny prank product. Once unleashed, this power–packed, super–concentrated liquid begins to evaporate filling the air with a genuine, foul butt–crack smell with hints of dead animal and fresh poo.” Just…awesome!
Two days later my package arrived and I was literally light-headed with giddiness. I had already decided that my family would be the ones to experience this “overwhelming” product. Other people can unfriend me. My family is stuck with me.
Without further ado (or adieu), here’s how it went down.
Friday Night
My wife was out late with some friends while my daughter was at a sleep-over, so my son and I were home alone. He’s created his own entertaiment mecca upstairs in the Game Room, complete with 48” TV, DVR, game consoles, etc., and I could hear him cackling to some adolescent TV humor. I stuffed a bottle of Liquid ASS in my pocket and made my way to his man-cave, where I plopped myself (uninvited) on the sofa directly behind the La-Z-Boy where he was sprawled.
“Sup?”
“Not much, just seeing what you’re up to.”
“Just watching Family Guy.”
“K.”
I silently extracted the bottle, pulled the cap like the pin on a hand grenade, and pumped the nozzle five or six times directly behind his chair.
“WHAT is that smell?!” He whipped his head around the edge of the chair to glare at me. The aroma was rising, and oh my gosh it was shocking.
“Ummm…it might be me? Mom and I ate Mexican for dinner and I had some really funky tasting charro beans.”
I could barely contain my immature giggles, but he wasn’t the least bit suspicious. Is there any teenage boy who can resist the humor of a farting scenario? As the essence increased in intensity, however, he found it much less humorous.
“You need to quit eating that stuff that makes you stink like that. Seriously Dad, it smells like a squirrel crawled up your butt and died. Uggggh! I need you to leave. Now! I’m gonna barf.” (You know it’s rank when this comment comes from a kid who relies on Axe Body Spray as a shower alternative.)
When I realized he was ready to forcibly remove me from the room, I got up, fanned my butt in his face as I walked by him, and went back downstairs.
Saturday Night
My daughter got home late from a school band trip. I saw my window of opportunity as she chattered non-stop to my wife about her day. I pocketed the bottle of Liquid ASS and stealthily made my way upstairs. Once outside her bedroom, I pumped a few liberal sprays in her doorway and in her bathroom. I retreated down the back stairs as she began to head up the front stairs to get ready for bed. I hid in my bedroom because I knew I couldn’t remain composed and I’d give myself away. Almost immediately the mayhem began.
“Mooooom!!!”
“What do you need?”
“You gotta come up here! It smells like poop all over!”
My wife rolled her eyes and trudged upstairs, as I watched and listened from the door of the bedroom where I pretended to fold laundry.
“Dang! What did you do?”
“Mom – I didn’t do anything! I haven’t even been here! Ugh. It smells like cat litter. Without the litter.”
“Well it smells fine down the hall there where we keep the cat litter box. It’s coming from your bedroom.”
My wife came down, grabbed a can of Lysol, and went back up to spray the funk away. What she was unaware of was one of the unique properties of Liquid ASS: you cannot disguise that smell with any amount of disinfectant spray, air freshener or perfume. Liquid ASS is large and in charge and it, and it alone, decides when to recede.
“Gak! Now it just smells like butt-flavored Lysol!”
“I’m doing the best I can, honey!”
My son became aware of the stenchy situation as my wife flew into our bedroom to consult with me, and he followed her in.
“Jon, I really don’t know what to think about this. It smells terrible up there. Like really bad. Worse than that time we went on vacation for a week and left a chicken carcass in the trash under the sink.”
“It’s Dad! It’s Dad! He’s farting! He did it to me last night!”
I couldn’t control the grin that began to spread across my face, and my wife began the third degree.
“It’s you? Have you been in or near her bedroom?”
“Well, I had to put some laundry away in there.”
“Oh my lord!”
“It may have been something I ate. Not sure.”
My daughter finally settled down and went to sleep an hour later, although still indignant, as the smell finally began to dissipate.
Sunday Morning
While my wife was upstairs making sure the kids were up for church, I sprayed some Liquid ASS around our bathroom and then hopped in the shower. She came in to do her make-up, walked through the room, and sort of stumbled as the reek hit her nostrils. She grabbed her make-up kit and blow dryer and hustled to the powder room next door to finish getting ready.
She never said a word to me or displayed her disgust with the smelly fumes (allegedly) coming from my butt. Bless her heart. She must really love me, for better or for worse.
Sunday Night
The wife and I had dinner by ourselves at one of our favorite Mexican food restaurants. When our food arrived, she sighed.
“This isn’t really what I wanted, but my stomach’s been upset so I needed to get something without beans.”
“Me too! I do not need any more beans!”
“Are you sure it’s beans that are causing your problem? Cause it seems like this issue goes way beyond anything even beans would create. Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve never smelled anything like that. Wow. I thought something had died in the attic above the girl’s bedroom.”
Later Sunday Night
On the way home from dinner, we stopped at Kroger to engage in our ritual Sunday-night grocery shopping soiree.
“Ooh! I need to get some more of that soy milk to use with my protein shakes.”
“Wait – how do you know that’s not what’s causing the smell?”
“Hmmm…my parents gave me that as a baby because I was lactose intolerant. It’s got to be okay.”
“Well, we’ve got to figure it out. Because truly, I’ve never smelled anything as foul as what’s coming out of you. And we’ve been married a long time.
We got home, unloaded the groceries, and collapsed. My wife commented, “Is it just me, or is it really hot in here?” My son didn’t waste the opportunity to jump in with, “It’s probably just the heat from all that methane in the air from Dad.”
So, Dear Family. Surprise! You’ve been authentically pranked!
What’s the most awesome practical joke you’ve played on somebody?
Walgreens has annoyed me for years with their cute names for generic products that all begin with the prefix “Wal-“. I know you’ve seen them: Wal-Tussin (Robitussin), Wal-Fex (Fexophenadine/Allegra), Wal-Mucil (Metamucil), and the list goes on and on. I think somebody at corporate headquarters is a little too proud of their generics. In my mind, this is more than a marketing misfire, it’s a full-on backfire. Now we can way too easily identify the inferior off-brand by the odd and kitschy house-brand names. It seems counter-intuitive to a world-class marketing scheme, but whatever.
There are several categories of products that Walgreens has yet to place their ubiquitous “Wal-” brand label upon. The geniuses in HQ Marketing seem to be missing some huge opportunities for cheese, so here are my suggestions for some even cuter names, and accompanying slogans with sharp-cheese edge. You’re not likely to see these on the local shelf any time soon, so enjoy them here. And put in a good word for me at Walgreens headquarters.
Depilatories
Wal-Expunge
“Conquer your unwanted hair problems and your lice infestation with one great product! Depilatory of choice for Britney Spears and Howie Mandell.”
Disinfectant Spray
Wal-Sol
“At last, the two-in-one product you’ve been waiting for: Sunscreen + Germicide. Spray this where the sun shines and you’ll not only be germ free, but avoid the inconvenient pain of melanoma.”
Condoms
Wal-BabyDaddy
“Number one contraceptive choice of the Kappa Alpha Psi fraternity at LSU. For those times when low cost and urgency trump quality protection.”
Menopausal Feminine Products
Wal-WinterFlash
“The only feminine deodorant product containing concentrated spearmint and peppermint essential oils. Guaranteed to cool you down when your hormones heat you up.”
Enemas
Wal-Squirt
“Unstoppable help for your gastric discomfort. Also try our Little Squirts, travel sized for on-the-go evacuations.”
Note: Walgreens actually does carry a generic enema product, but they’ve not branded it with a snappy “Wal-“ name. And even if they did, mine will always be much snappier.
Skin Exfoliators
Wal-Molt
“Safely and easily remove those unattractive layers of dead skin from your neck, thighs, and back. Includes DIY instructions and patterns for creating your very own personalized purse or European Man Bag. They’ll be as unique as your DNA!”
Did I miss any products from the line-up? What would you suggest for the big-wigs at Walgreens Headquarters?
On my way into the office this morning a song from Colbie Caillat’s new record came on my satellite radio, “Dream Life, Life.” The central theme resonated with me, the concept of actually living out my desires, pursuing my passions and being the man God created me to be. Learning to say “yes” to the future instead of remaining stuck in self-doubt and lethargy. Colbie sings:
All I want is the dream life
To be my real life
How could that be wrong?
We all have dreams. I think some are fairly universal, while others are definitely unique to us as individuals. So, what are a few of my dreams?
- I dream that I actually dream more. I’m getting tired of surviving on five hours of sleep every night. (Do you see what I did there?)
- I dream that the work I get paid to do is so engaging that even without a paycheck I would still pursue it.
- I dream that I consistently cultivate my talent for writing. That I would have a clear vision of what I want to do with it and would begin to see that vision fulfilled.
- I dream that my children are fully prepared for life and have the skills to tackle their own difficult situations with confidence and poise. When we launch them from the nest, I dream they soar like eagles and not boomerangs.
- I dream that my wife and I eventually find work we can do together – whether that’s building a consulting practice or taking tickets at the Magic Kingdom turnstiles at Disney World while chatting up the tourists. I dream that 24/7 togetherness with me and my quirky habits won’t drive her over the edge.
- I dream that I can show my family the world through travel adventures that bond us as a family, build lasting memories, and expand our world and our worldview.
- I dream that that I have several superpowers. I want the power to fly, the power of invisibility, and the power of super-metabolism. Awesome.
Take a look at my list again. These things are certainly not beyond the realm of possibility, but they do require intentionality. (You’ll want to debate me on the superpowers, but you’ll lose.) They require effort, planning, and perseverance. I want my dream life. Do you?
Workin’ hard for my dream life
To be my real life
And I can’t be wrong
All we have is this life
Let’s make it what we want
What’s on your Dream Life list? What are you doing to make it your Real Life?
Here’s the second half of my adventure with Scott Ivey watching Marc Broussard at House of Blues. By the way, Scott is an amazing vocalist and musician. Buy his music on iTunes here. Or if you’re in the Houston area on a Sunday, let him lead you in worship at The MET Church, Cypress campus.
Back Scratch Fever. Frequent fliers don’t lie. First Class is awesome. I spent most of the concert literally leaning my arms on the edge of the stage and looking up at the show. The downside was having to share my space with one of the cougars who stood excitedly behind me during the whole set. At one point I felt an itch in the middle of my back and reached over my shoulder to scratch. Before I could make contact with the itchy spot, I heard a low, growly voice in my ear say, “Oh honey, let me get that for you.” Long, hard claw-like fingernails began rubbing and scratching all up and down my spine, accompanied by a few involuntary shuddering chills. As I shrugged forward to escape the claws, Scott could not control his mirth. I think he peed himself a little. So very awkward. For both of us.
A Little Slap and Tickle. Another definite advantage (if you’re into it) of being on the front row of a concert like this is the people watching. Front-row people are generally really into the artist on stage. The cougar to my left and her accompanying man-cougar were no exception. She was pounding margaritas and lining the edge of the stage with her empties, and he kept wrapping her rear in his eight concupiscent (look it up) octopus arms.
* Note: In researching octopi, I discovered that they actually have six arms and two legs. But to avoid confusion, we’ll just go with the traditional eight that you were taught in Oceanography School.
During one of the more up-beat songs, she gyrated and swung her head around so forcefully that I really thought she was going to give herself a concussion. This apparently excited her partner who began slapping her rear with a couple of his tentacles. Awkward, but extremely compelling at the same time. Don’t believe me? Who could blame you? I do make a lot of crap up. But this was for real, and Scott got it all on video. Enjoy this 43-second clip.
Hand Jive. Besides watching the drunk and horny couples in front of the stage, another perk of the front row is periodic artist interaction. In the middle of one of Marc’s signature songs, while I was leaning on the edge of stage left, he walked right over to me and leaned over with his arm outstretched. I was thinking in my head, “Cool.” What I’ve learned about being cool from my kids and younger friends is that palm slapping contact is out, fist bumping is in. So I’m thinking, “This is Marc Broussard – He’s famous. He’s young. He’s a master of R&B. He’s gotta be a fist bumper.” So as his arm came toward me, I reached up with my clenched fist. And got it slapped. He looked confused; I was mortified. Immensely awkward.
Pants Dance. I’m really not sure what was going on with Marc’s jeans that night. He was constantly grabbing at them and tugging upward. It was like a multi-car accident that you just can’t tear your eyes away from, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you feel. Sometimes he would grab both sides and pull. I’m not talking about down by the knees either. I’m guessing there are several viable explanations, most of them awkward:
- The jeans were way too long and he was afraid of tripping over them.
- He had some kind of fungal issue and thought this was the best way to disguise the scratching.
- He was really missing his wife.
What’s your most awkward public-event moment?
Here’s a video I shot of Marc singing “Lucky,” one of the featured songs off the new record.
My buddy Scott has been talking to me for months about how amazing Marc Broussard is. Scott is one of our worship leaders at The MET Church and used to have his own band a few years ago that opened for Marc on a prior tour. Scott’s never led me astray as far as music recommendations so I checked Broussard out. Now I definitely have a new favorite artist. I love the fusion of soul, R&B, pop, and rock in his style, and the new record released on June 14 is amazing. He runs in the same musical circles as Matt Wertz and Dave Barnes, and they all seem to share the same band members. How can you go wrong?
We found out several months ago that Marc Broussard was coming to Houston and made plans to go. But, like guys, we sort of never finalized things. A week before the concert at House of Blues, I still hadn’t purchased my ticket. Scott had left town for a month of vacation (apparently we compensate our pastors with time off instead of the big bucks), and I had no idea if he had a ticket or what kind it was. I left him six voice mails, two emails, and eight texts because I was fairly panicked at this point. I finally got a text back saying, “Yeah dude, I got my ticket like 3 weeks ago. It was around $30. Better get yours – it’s selling out.” Uggh. First, thanks for giving me the heads up that you got your ticket that early. Second, could you be any more vague about where your seat is? Third, I’ve now had to up my anti-anxiety med dosage in anticipation the sell-out situation.
To make a really long set-up just a bit shorter, I scored a reserved seat ticket through LiveNation, but I found nothing priced at $30. I purchased the closet thing and was assigned Row H, Seat 9. I’d undoubtedly be sitting by myself like a concert reject. Awkward? Yes. But just one of many awkward moments last Friday night. Please – be entertained at my expense as you read.
Separate Ways. Scott let me know earlier on Friday that since he was still two states away driving back from his vacation, I was on my own as far as getting to the concert. He would meet me there, probably in the middle of the second opening act. Great. Not that it was gonna matter anyway because I was positive we weren’t sitting together. I got down there early, killed as much time as I could walking around downtown Houston, avoided panhandlers, and submitted to the heat and humidity by sweating from my scalp to my toenails. Awkward.
Seat Roulette. When I couldn’t stand the heat anymore, I got in line and went into the venue. It was in the same Big Room where my wife and I saw Pat Benatar last summer (read about that here). The room was still as hot as it was then, and darn it – I forgot to wear my wicking underwear. I wandered aimlessly trying to find my seat until a HOB dude helped me decipher the secret code to unlock the seat locations. “Row H is back there. You gotta count from the right, starting at that break by the sound booth. Seven, eight, nine. You’re in that one by the pole.” Great. There was a frisky middle-aged couple in seats seven and eight, and I was wedged between the woman and the pole (see picture). No personal space at all. Awkward.
Into the Wild. Like I said, I knew that Marc Broussard was tight with Dave Barnes. My wife and I saw Dave on his Christmas tour last December and we were the oldest people in the room. No kidding, by at least 30 years. I was expecting a similar demographic at this concert, but was shocked when I walked in and saw more wrinkles and sagging than one of those Shar Pei dogs (and not the Ashley Tisdale character from High School Musical). The “mature” women in the crowd were cat-calling Mr. Marc all night and throwing things on stage like it was a Tom Jones concert. I felt like I was on the set of an unattractive spin-off of Cougar Town. Awkward.
Please Don’t Touch Me. While I waited on Scott to text me that he’d arrived, I found myself fending off the dude (in picture above) sitting on the other side of his girlfriend (who was next to me). Get a mental picture of this. I’ve got the pole to my right and Mr. Handsy to my left. We were only two songs into the first opening act and he’d already consumed three beers and a margarita. Frequently he’d reach over to grab his girl on the shoulder, miss, and grab mine instead. Awkward.
First Class vs. Coach. Scott finally arrived, walked obliviously right in front of me, and I nailed him in the shoulder. We hung out in front of the pole for a while, then he felt the need to find his seat. He says to me, “I’m in Row A, Seat 10.” Are you kidding me? Front row! My life stinks. While I’m wedged between a cement pole and the trashed groping couple, Scott’s gonna be partying like a rock star in front of the stage. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Jerry is in First Class next to the supermodel and Elaine is in Coach next to the fat man? Yeah, that was happening. Awkward. Fortunately (for him) Scott texted me a few minutes later to tell me to come on up and sit in one of the three empty seats next to him.
