Local time where you're at. ("Where you're at"?)

Okay, so lemme get this straight:

You guys at V8 are saying that drinking your product is going to make me end up like this.

In short, you damnfools are trying to turn me into a Demoscum.

No, thanks.

Damn.  Fuck.  Shit.  (And if the Vicar weren’t here, I’d say a helluva lot more than that.)

You’ve lost my business, Chick-Fil-A.  And my family’s.  And you’ve lost it permanently.

Denizens, we here at the Southern Command would like to know if you and yours went out today and supported your local Chick-fil-A.

So, did you???

Don’t make me have to issue a rapid response order to the alert squadron of black helicopters!!!

I for one supported them at breakfast and the Generalette and myself supported them AGAIN for lunch today.

If you haven’t yet, get thee to one poste haste! That’s an order!!!!!!

DISMISSED!!!!™

Cthulu help me, I do so  feel sorry for the dad in that family.  Had that been me, I’d've left a long  time ago.

MRS. VENOMOUS (with cast-iron skillet):  WHAT?!?!?!?!

VENOMOUS:  Take the hint, woman.

MRS. VENOMOUS (sheepishly):  Yes, honey.

Seriously, Verizon.  First “Susie” and her worldwide universal lemonade conglomerate, where there’s not so much as a sniff  of parentage within a thousand miles (and why isn’t the precious little darling mini-diva in SCHOOL, anyway, hm?), and now this?

You douchetards really don’t  want my business, do you?

“…maybe this is just the cake talking, but…let’s celebrate!!!“

What an excellent idea.

And let’s start  celebrating, you little snot-nosed piece-of-shit Occutard wannabe, by THROWING YOUR DISRESPECTFUL, LAZY, NO-FUCKING-GOOD SLIMY ASS OUT OF THE HOUSE, WHY DON’T WE?!?!?!

Stupid punk-ette.

When you decide to stop dissing parents, KFC, let me know.

Maybe I’ll come back.  If I haven’t developed a taste for Church’s, that is.

“There’s an easier way to protect your dog from dangerous parasites.”

No shit, Sherlock.

Any family that would go to the trouble – not to mention the hellacious expense – of building a network of oversized hamster tubes in & around their house, just to keep their puppy clear of a tick or two, deserves to be tied to a stockade, horsewhipped, thrown into prison & chemically castrated (to prevent any further breeding, don’tcha know) just for the stupidity involved in building  a network like that.

And I won’t even  talk about the abuse to the puppy.  That’d involve cattle prods jammed up the ass & locked on high.

And it sure as Hell™ doesn’t compel me to wanna buy their little pill.

And then people wonder why there’s animus in some quarters against the drug industry…

Dumbshit ad-campaign fucktards… 

Hell, who needs Weight Watchers©?  The sight of Barkley in that get-up is more  than enough to take away my  appetite.

Ew.  Just.  Fuckin’.  Ew.

Awwww, inn’t dat pwecious?  They’ve learned to count…

Would you let a lunatic retard like this into your house?  For any  reason???

I sure as Hell™ wouldn’t.

“I wonder how she does it…?”

Well, buttercup, I tend to think the LACK OF ADULT SUPERVISION – YOU KNOW, LIKE HER PARENTS??? – has a little bit to do with it.

I mean, if you go to the original spot in the series (which you can find here, and I’ll be ripping that one in a future installment), this all starts when Susie’s dad gives her his cellphone – HIS  CELLPHONE, FOR CTHULU’S PATHETIC SAKE – because “it’s got a calculator”.

And then returns to find his snot-nosed daughter has apparently, in just the span of eight to ten hours, built an entire company from the ground up (complete with permits, state tax IDs, the whole nine yards, even an administrative assistant for little Susie), all through the auspices of Verizon’s supposedly-smarter-than-Einstein phone.

And that’s the last we see of anything resembling parentage in the entire ad campaign.

Nice of Verizon Wireless to come right out & tell us exactly what they think of the involvement of Mummy & Daddy in their snot-nose’s life.  To whom exactly are you trying to sell  your phone anyway, Verizon?  Couldn’t  be adults like me who just happen  to have kids, could it?

If you’re wanting me to buy your phones, Verizon, you’re not making a very good case.

Uhhhhh…no.

Although the back-flipping cheerleader is kinda cute.

MRS. VENOMOUS (with cast-iron skillet):  WHAAAAAT?!?!?!?!?!

‘Scuse, gotta dash… 

“What would a commercial with me be without an incredible offer like this?”

Uh…barely watchable?

Think I’m going to make this a regular feature:  Stupid-assed commercials.

Yeah, well, y’know what, Nissan?  Everything doesn’t  run on gas.  Or electric, for that matter.

Those things that need gas to run, have gas to run.  And those that don’t, have electric.

And things are just fine that way, dumbasses.

Quit trying to push a technology on us that isn’t ready for prime-time, just to satisfy a gaggle of Gaia-humping pusstards.

Or should I go elsewhere to buy my next car?

Asshats.

Most of you who know me very well know that I’ve come to detest dressing up.  Last suit I owned was one bought for me by My Dear Sainted Mother™, a powder blue vested number that actually still fit as little as five years ago.  Did buy a jacket and matching slack that passed for a suit once – and should I ever get back down to around 200, that might fit again.

(Don’t laugh – I’ve lost about five pounds in the last week or so.)

Anyway, the point of all this is a little outfit called Men’s Wearhouse.  You know – the outfit (pun partially intended) owned by a toothy little fella, one George “I Guarantee It” Zimmer.

Whom, it’s just been discovered, has thrown in with the bastard Occupussies.

Over the years, I’ve spent quite a bit of money at Mens Wearhouse, in the low four figures. They generally have a good selection of clothing at pretty good prices, and in the Twin Cities have conveniently-located stores. Overall I’ve been a pretty satisfied customer. After this week, though, they won’t see a dime from me, thanks to their support of the anti-free market mobs in Oakland that ravaged the city over the last couple of weeks.

“Read it all”, as our old frenemy Straight Up With Sherri might say.

I’ve been in a Men’s Wearhouse a time or two in my life.

Never again.  I guarantee it.

Booker T. Huffman is a professional wrestler, currently employed by World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE – Vince McMahon’s baby).  One of his favorite catchphrases goes something like, “He didn’t just say that.  Tell me he didn’t just say that.”

After reading this, you can imagine how I pretty much thought the same way.

Actress Jane Fonda said in a statement posted on her website today that the QVC television channel cancelled an appearance they had scheduled with her today to promote her new book “Prime Time,” blaming the cancellation on what she called “well funded and organized political extremist groups.”

In the same statement Fonda said, “I have never done anything to hurt my country or the men and women who have fought and continue to fight for us.”

She didn’t just say that.  Tell me she didn’t just say that.

In 1972, during the Vietnam War, Fonda took a two-week trip to North Vietnam, where she was photographed sitting on an antiaircraft gun that North Vietnamese forces otherwise used for shooting at American planes.

When she returned from her sojourn in Vietnam, as Time Magazine reported at the time, she accused U.S. forces of deliberately trying to bomb and destroy dikes, whose destruction could have caused the death of many civilians.

The question should not be how QVC could have cancelled Hanoi Jane’s appearance thereupon.

The question should  be how QVC was asininely stupid enough to invite her in the first place.