Trying to find something in my disused Photobucket account sucks because I frequently see pictures of my ol' red Miata and think about what a goddamn idiot I am. I liked the Mercedes a lot, the LE Miata was okay although I didn't really get attached to it, and the Element is a good car. But what the shit, me in 2010? The dumbest goddamn person ever. One day, little buddy. One day.

This may not have quite the same consumer potential as the Ennui Smartwatch, but here's another idea that I think has real potential for the corporate back-end market.

I guess I spaced out for about 20 minutes and was thinking about companies commoditizing farts, like, electric farts that make corporate logos. It could be in a pill form, and use nanobots or something. I don't know. We're still in the R&D phase. So far we've only mastered text-based farting — graphics are still a problem. The next step will be full unicode support, including emoji.



For now, though, the initial plan was that a company could have a batch of their fart-logos made, and hire someone to go around putting these in people's drinks, making them violently ill and delightfully synergistic.



However, I ran this by legal, and an hour later a lawyer came and blew out a notarized fartsponse in my office; it turns out that putting pills in people's drinks is kind of a party foul, especially at locations like metropolitan opera openings and if the plaintiff—ah, experimentee—might or might not be the Prime Minister of the Czech Republic. Court records suggest that the experimenter, my unpaid manservant Milosz, is actually a bit of a Hungarian ultranationalist on his one day off each year, and had Prime Minister Sobotka farting distorted pro-Budapest imagery throughout La Bohème. Once again, our apologies to the fine people of the Czech Republic and I wish to stress once more that nobody is more sorry or less responsible for Milosz's actions than me.

Anyhow, that didn't pan out, but then my board of director cat suggested that humans are vermin who will do anything with enough incentive. Why not just pay them? Surely there is some amount of money that will convince people to spend a day farting the Audi logo. We need to monetize America's most gaseous people.



And lo, our new business model was born. As I said, we still have to perfect imagery-gas. But this is a top priority, as our text-based social fartwork is just not taking off as we hoped. But we hope that, in mere months, customized Brandolin™ pills will be available for gaseous co-marketers to spread the word about your business, illegitimate, coup-ridden government, or unlicensed space program.

Vampires are all worn out now, unless you work for the CW, and werewolves along with them. I say to you that it is time to bring back sexy mummy books, or possibly write some if they weren't real before. I feel that this is the true way to the #1 spot on the YA Best-Seller List, not to mention true self-reliance as mandated by the Juche ideology (and, it goes without saying, our current Five-Year Plan). Allow me to present some excerpts suitable for use on Western Imperialist Kickstarter:

“Chad slowly unwrapped Amunkhare’s gauze. ‘Gross’, he said.” 

---

“‘Mortal’, she said, ‘were it not for being packed with natron and linen, I would be as moist as all the waters in lioness Tefnut's domain.’
‘…Gross’, said Chad”

---

“‘Chad’, she said to Chad, ‘retrieve the canopic jar which is sealed with a likeness of Anubis. It contains my human reproductive system, removed as part of the mummification process by the temple guardians of Khar-Toba.’ ‘Gross’, said Chad.”

If the market absolutely requires it, we could alter the book to be a dystopian sexy mummy book. Chad's name would be Chadniss, and Amunkhare's name would remain the same.

Yet another reliable local business shuttered by Wal*Mart.

Sometimes DCS be all like ?

Yeah, well, holideux and whatever. I mean, I was up until 4 AM throwing up because of chow mein, but that doesn't take away from the lights and the gorgons and stuff. I mean, it's a holideux. My grandma used to drive us down Gorgonnicus Lane in a beige Peugeot and she'd be all "I have a gilded scepter", but you can't command gorgons with that kind of scepter. You need a palladium one. It was then, perhaps, that I realized that Möbius strip intestines were a well-trodden concept with almost no remaining relevance in the field. But as the Peugeot pootled along, we'd look at all the yards with the gorgon lights and gorgon figurines and inflatable gorgons and gorgontivity scenes and I'd think "truly, to succeed in this rap game you gots to go hard in gorgon merchandise futures." And that is the story of how I outspent eight Kaiserins but still missed the Tennyson-Waverley Real Estate Explosion. Man, holideux.



 

Buying socks in bulk NO LONGER.

I dunno if I would call myself 100% sold on center stands, but it sure makes changing a front tire real easy when you put some weight on the back.

This one goes out to the comrade who visited this website from 175.45.177.167 last week. In your honor we will all sing the song.

Anyway, I hope Kim Jong-Un survives the DPRK's inevitable fall, because he would be the worst ghost.

This is quadroped turf.