Where have you gone, Steve Buscemi? Jesus loves you more than you will know. Woah Woah Woah. Seriously, where are you? I feel like you haven’t graced the big screen in years with your presence. I miss you, kid.
Remember when you were cut in Wilmington, N.C., in front of a then-unknown-Vince Vaughn and by someone my brother was acquainted with during his crazy college days (my brother’s, not Stabber McGutterstein’s)? Shedding blood in a dive bar in an obscure state ties you to that state for life. You are practically a North Carolinian. That makes you my family. I worry about my family when I don’t see them regularly.
You enchanted me as part of the Adam Sandler troupe in such amazing fetes of comedy as Big Daddy, Billy Madison, and Mr. Deeds. You were totally believable as the nicotine-addicted, ex-crack head therapist alongside Sandra Bullock in 28 Days. From your earliest films, to your dabbles in drama, you have always been the best character actor in Hollywood. I am sorry if you have felt under appreciated.
You are quite possibly the ugliest actor to ever sign a Hollywood Contract. With your skinny physique that would make a Next Top Model jealous, to your jacked up teeth – the envy of all West Virginians, you gave America the one thing that politicians and philanthropists have failed to provide: real hope.
Hope that ugly people, too, can make it in the most superficial industry the world-over. Hope that talent can overcome physical deformities and a receding hairline and, finally, hope that Adam Sandler’s movies could actually be comically redeemed. Thank you.
I miss you. I didn’t know your name until 2007, 20 years after your first role, but, at the very least, I liked you. I really liked you. Come back.
- Pokey
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Interview Tips to Land the Job of Your Dreams!
For all of you job seekers out there, you know the stress that comes with the interview process. You meet the recruiter and size him or her up, realizing that he or she is the Gate Keeper to the job of your dreams, or at least one that will pay the bills. When researching interview strategies, each and every source makes it a point to stress how important it is to stand out. They then go on to suggest answers to the most common interview questions – and they are all the same. So, how can you stand out?
Don’t follow the advice you read. Follow mine.
Recruiters are trained and paid to read between the lines of what you say. So let’s put THEM to the test and see if they are doing their job. Here are 3 of the most common interview questions and the answers that I think will set you apart from the other 250 gajillion applicants for the same position.
DISCLAIMER: I do not promise that you will get the job if you use my suggestions. In fact, you will probably be blacklisted and will never again get an interview. However, so long as the government keeps extending unemployment benefits, you should be okay.
Question #1: How do others describe you?
Best Answer: I am amazing in bed.
Never in the history of answers can five small words say more about you and why you are highly qualified for any job on the planet. What do these words really mean? Well, here are just a few of the many qualities a good recruiter will derive from those words, assuming he or she can read between the proverbial lines.
What it says about you:
A. I play very well with others.
B. I am willing to go all night to get the job done right.
C. I can both take direction and anticipate what is needed from me.
D. I am willing to try new things and am innovative enough to come up with a few of them on my own.
E. And, finally, the clincher: I can please even the toughest clients.
Question #2: Tell me about your greatest weakness.
Best Answer: I can’t cook.
Although this answer may lack the raciness of the last, it is still a great answer. Most people try to turn a weakness into a strength or choose something benign and then elaborate on how they’ve taken steps to fix it. Trust me, it won’t work. Everyone and their mother attempts this and recruiters are prepared to call your bluff. An example: Sometimes I focus too much. That answer is about as convincing as a used car dealer telling you that the 1993 Cadillac with rims, fuzzy dice thrown over the rear view mirror, and bullet holes on the side was only driven by a little old lady to get to church on Sundays. I say, why not state a weakness that doesn’t need to be fixed! Again, if the recruiter is doing his or her job, prepare to sign the work contract.
What it says about you:
A. I have never had the time to learn to cook because I have been so focused on my education/career.
B. I won’t mind eating dinner at my desk, purchased from the snack machine in the lobby, because it is probably better than anything I could make at home.
C. My refrigerator is really just a holding cell for beer, white wine and Lean Cuisines, which means I have nothing to go home to anyways, so why not work.
D. I could care less about involving myself in activities that take time away from work and could possibly be relaxing. I’d much rather throw myself into my career and sacrifice my personal life as well as my health. Eventually, I will die of a stress-induced heart attack, but not before giving you the best 20 years of my life. Of course, this will occur before I reach retirement age, which will save the company thousands of dollars as I will never tap into my pension.
Question #3: Why do you want to work for this company?
Best Answer: I had a vision and in it, God told me to work here.
How could they turn you down? God commanded it.
What it says about you:
A. You are the chosen one.
B. You are quite possibly delusional, which means you are both highly creative and will be a lot of fun at the office Christmas party.
C. You can turn the Culligan bottle into wine, thus making casual Fridays even more awesome then when employees where first allowed to wear jeans and polos.
D. Not hiring you could result in either a plague or a swarm of locusts descending upon the office, which legal ramifications the company will be unable to absorb.
I hope this helps all you job searchers out there! Even if you don’t get the job, I guarantee that you will be among the most memorable, if not the most memorable, interviewee the recruiter has ever met.
Cheers.
- Pokey
Don’t follow the advice you read. Follow mine.
Recruiters are trained and paid to read between the lines of what you say. So let’s put THEM to the test and see if they are doing their job. Here are 3 of the most common interview questions and the answers that I think will set you apart from the other 250 gajillion applicants for the same position.
DISCLAIMER: I do not promise that you will get the job if you use my suggestions. In fact, you will probably be blacklisted and will never again get an interview. However, so long as the government keeps extending unemployment benefits, you should be okay.
Question #1: How do others describe you?
Best Answer: I am amazing in bed.
Never in the history of answers can five small words say more about you and why you are highly qualified for any job on the planet. What do these words really mean? Well, here are just a few of the many qualities a good recruiter will derive from those words, assuming he or she can read between the proverbial lines.
What it says about you:
A. I play very well with others.
B. I am willing to go all night to get the job done right.
C. I can both take direction and anticipate what is needed from me.
D. I am willing to try new things and am innovative enough to come up with a few of them on my own.
E. And, finally, the clincher: I can please even the toughest clients.
Question #2: Tell me about your greatest weakness.
Best Answer: I can’t cook.
Although this answer may lack the raciness of the last, it is still a great answer. Most people try to turn a weakness into a strength or choose something benign and then elaborate on how they’ve taken steps to fix it. Trust me, it won’t work. Everyone and their mother attempts this and recruiters are prepared to call your bluff. An example: Sometimes I focus too much. That answer is about as convincing as a used car dealer telling you that the 1993 Cadillac with rims, fuzzy dice thrown over the rear view mirror, and bullet holes on the side was only driven by a little old lady to get to church on Sundays. I say, why not state a weakness that doesn’t need to be fixed! Again, if the recruiter is doing his or her job, prepare to sign the work contract.
What it says about you:
A. I have never had the time to learn to cook because I have been so focused on my education/career.
B. I won’t mind eating dinner at my desk, purchased from the snack machine in the lobby, because it is probably better than anything I could make at home.
C. My refrigerator is really just a holding cell for beer, white wine and Lean Cuisines, which means I have nothing to go home to anyways, so why not work.
D. I could care less about involving myself in activities that take time away from work and could possibly be relaxing. I’d much rather throw myself into my career and sacrifice my personal life as well as my health. Eventually, I will die of a stress-induced heart attack, but not before giving you the best 20 years of my life. Of course, this will occur before I reach retirement age, which will save the company thousands of dollars as I will never tap into my pension.
Question #3: Why do you want to work for this company?
Best Answer: I had a vision and in it, God told me to work here.
How could they turn you down? God commanded it.
What it says about you:
A. You are the chosen one.
B. You are quite possibly delusional, which means you are both highly creative and will be a lot of fun at the office Christmas party.
C. You can turn the Culligan bottle into wine, thus making casual Fridays even more awesome then when employees where first allowed to wear jeans and polos.
D. Not hiring you could result in either a plague or a swarm of locusts descending upon the office, which legal ramifications the company will be unable to absorb.
I hope this helps all you job searchers out there! Even if you don’t get the job, I guarantee that you will be among the most memorable, if not the most memorable, interviewee the recruiter has ever met.
Cheers.
- Pokey
A History of Myself, By Me Part 3: How I am Personally Responsible for the Creation of Democracy
As a very humble person, probably the humblest of the humble (I make Ghandi look like Tom Cruise), I have often quarreled with myself over whether I should or should not admit the obvious. I have come to the conclusion that, after over 2500 years, it is time that the world knows the truth:
I, Pokey, invented Democracy.
There, I said it. I feel much better now. Like a weight has been lifted off my chest. No, wait, that was just my cat getting up from the nap she decided to take on my torso. At the least, admission is step one in the process of recovery. So how did it happen that I brought forth the one and only true form of government? (Sorry all you Dictators, Socialists, Communists, and Monarchs out there. You suck and you Dictators suck about 10,000 times more than the others. And Prince William is balding prematurely. So there.)
Well, here is how:
I was playing outside one day when I was seven. My brothers and sister weren’t around for some reason so I was attempting to play four-square on my own. Note to all: It doesn’t work. Anyways, so this old man pulls up next to me and says he has candy and puppies in his car.
The guy looked like the love child of Einstein and Della Reese, but had a friendly enough face. Of course, my parents had told me to never, ever get into a stranger’s car without first asking the secret code word we’d developed (Napolean – not Bonaparte, but rather a large shaggy mutt we’d inherited from my grandmother), but I’d had a hard day and needed a Snickers. So I climbed into his car. Before I knew what hit me, he plugged the year 508 BC into some machine on the center console and sped off at speeds that would have him taking the Pole at the Indy 500.
The next thing I knew, we were somewhere I’d never been, surrounded by men wearing bed sheets in the style of the Toga. Not normal for 1988, unless you lived in a Fraternity House.
“Welcome to Greece, don’t drink the water,” the man said.
I was talking with Cleisthenes one day. I’d been in Athens about 16 minutes by then. And he was expressing his desire to revamp the Athenian Constitution following the downfall of Isagoras and to establish a new form of government that would allow more people to participate in the decision-making process and to provide a platform for the development of competing media interests. I thought about it for awhile and realized that America in the future had such a form of government! Not only that, but we also had fast-food and an obesity epidemic. I figured that was exactly what Clei – as I called him – was getting at.
I suggested that he establish such a form of government in Athens because it was much better than anything else and, plus, the losers in each election could be fed to lions. (I added that because it seemed more exciting than a conciliatory speech). He loved the idea.
When it came time to name this new form of government, he originally wanted to call it “Cleimocracy.” I told him that sounded a little too egocentric and suggested “Democracy” instead.
Some people claim that the word is derived from the Greek word “dēmokratía,” meaning “rule of the people.” However, that is a misconception. It is really a product of my own mind and stems from my desire to make it exceedingly clear that all other forms of government are ridiculous. So, “Them other forms are crazy” was shortened to “Dem others crazy”, which was then shortened to “Democracy.” It’s a historical fact.
Thus, Cleisthenes eventually became known has the Father of Democracy while I got a swizzle stick and a pat on the head for my efforts. This goes to show that, no matter what, the people in power will get all the credit even though it is always the underlings who do all the work. I'm not bitter - much.
After Clei and I had worked out the logistics, the old man who had brought me there ran at me in a frenzy. He was holding two jugs of wine as he was being chased by shopkeepers yelling “STOP, THIEF!”
“Pokey!” he called out, “It’s time to go back to the future!”
As we jumped back into the car, I shouted one last word of warning to Clei, “Beware of the Ides of March! Oh, and don’t hire young female interns named Monica!”
As we arrived, safely, back in 1988, the old man dropped me off in front of my house. He warned me never to speak of this to anyone. I promised I would never tell a soul.
I guess I lied.
And now you know the rest of the story.
-Pokey
I, Pokey, invented Democracy.
There, I said it. I feel much better now. Like a weight has been lifted off my chest. No, wait, that was just my cat getting up from the nap she decided to take on my torso. At the least, admission is step one in the process of recovery. So how did it happen that I brought forth the one and only true form of government? (Sorry all you Dictators, Socialists, Communists, and Monarchs out there. You suck and you Dictators suck about 10,000 times more than the others. And Prince William is balding prematurely. So there.)
Well, here is how:
I was playing outside one day when I was seven. My brothers and sister weren’t around for some reason so I was attempting to play four-square on my own. Note to all: It doesn’t work. Anyways, so this old man pulls up next to me and says he has candy and puppies in his car.
The guy looked like the love child of Einstein and Della Reese, but had a friendly enough face. Of course, my parents had told me to never, ever get into a stranger’s car without first asking the secret code word we’d developed (Napolean – not Bonaparte, but rather a large shaggy mutt we’d inherited from my grandmother), but I’d had a hard day and needed a Snickers. So I climbed into his car. Before I knew what hit me, he plugged the year 508 BC into some machine on the center console and sped off at speeds that would have him taking the Pole at the Indy 500.
The next thing I knew, we were somewhere I’d never been, surrounded by men wearing bed sheets in the style of the Toga. Not normal for 1988, unless you lived in a Fraternity House.
“Welcome to Greece, don’t drink the water,” the man said.
I was talking with Cleisthenes one day. I’d been in Athens about 16 minutes by then. And he was expressing his desire to revamp the Athenian Constitution following the downfall of Isagoras and to establish a new form of government that would allow more people to participate in the decision-making process and to provide a platform for the development of competing media interests. I thought about it for awhile and realized that America in the future had such a form of government! Not only that, but we also had fast-food and an obesity epidemic. I figured that was exactly what Clei – as I called him – was getting at.
I suggested that he establish such a form of government in Athens because it was much better than anything else and, plus, the losers in each election could be fed to lions. (I added that because it seemed more exciting than a conciliatory speech). He loved the idea.
When it came time to name this new form of government, he originally wanted to call it “Cleimocracy.” I told him that sounded a little too egocentric and suggested “Democracy” instead.
Some people claim that the word is derived from the Greek word “dēmokratía,” meaning “rule of the people.” However, that is a misconception. It is really a product of my own mind and stems from my desire to make it exceedingly clear that all other forms of government are ridiculous. So, “Them other forms are crazy” was shortened to “Dem others crazy”, which was then shortened to “Democracy.” It’s a historical fact.
Thus, Cleisthenes eventually became known has the Father of Democracy while I got a swizzle stick and a pat on the head for my efforts. This goes to show that, no matter what, the people in power will get all the credit even though it is always the underlings who do all the work. I'm not bitter - much.
After Clei and I had worked out the logistics, the old man who had brought me there ran at me in a frenzy. He was holding two jugs of wine as he was being chased by shopkeepers yelling “STOP, THIEF!”
“Pokey!” he called out, “It’s time to go back to the future!”
As we jumped back into the car, I shouted one last word of warning to Clei, “Beware of the Ides of March! Oh, and don’t hire young female interns named Monica!”
As we arrived, safely, back in 1988, the old man dropped me off in front of my house. He warned me never to speak of this to anyone. I promised I would never tell a soul.
I guess I lied.
And now you know the rest of the story.
-Pokey
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Health Alert: 20 oz Soda Bottles that Are Too Hard to Open (AKA Why cans are better)
Let me start off by saying: I hate scare-media, in fact, I tend to do the opposite of what the Evening News tells me to do – for principle, naturally. While TV broadcasts and newspapers droned on and on about the Swine Flu or the Anthrax, I made it a point to lick handrails and open suspicious mail. However, this time I must make an exception. Read on.
It has come to my attention that there is a new health risk that directly affects 99% of non-Amish America: 20 oz. Soda Bottles. Indeed, horrific and sensational statistics developed from the mind of yours truly following minutes of careful and tedious reflection while watching Monday night football conclude that more Americans are injured by 20 oz. soda bottles than are eaten by gangs of angry mutant ninja turtles each year or than get their news from any other source.
The perils of 20 oz. soda bottle use are many. If shaken, the top could be blown from the base of the bottle all together. The trajectory of its launch could lead to eye loss. Worse yet, if the drink is accidentally/purposefully shaken too hard, the whole thing could go, creating a mushroom cloud above Cincinnati that makes Hiroshima look like a day in the park. The destruction from the explosion and subsequent firestorm is just too awful to describe. I just hope that there are no women with breast implants within a 20-mile radius of the epicenter.
Even worse, the bubbly goodness could fizz up as you open the bottle, causing the liquid to completely soak your shirt as you head to interview for your dream job, leaving you with a soiled appearance and no time to change. Long story short: You don’t get the job and within 6 months have to file for bankruptcy and spend the rest of your working life selling string door to door. The boy or girl you thought was “the one” dumps you and moves in with your former best friend. A la Bridget Jones, you wind up alone and eaten by wild dogs. No one finds you or even attempts to look for you until the stench permeating from your apartment becomes unbearable.
You might laugh and say, “Lol. O-M-G. That would never happen to me.” (Oooh, I rhymed!) That, my friend, would be a mistake. What do you think is the real reason there are so many out of work individuals in this country? Think about that the next time you watch the news, sponsored in part by Pepsi…
All those things would make a bad day worse. But the most horrific injury of all occurs when the factory attaches the cap too tight, making it almost impossible to twist off. You spend hours in agony attempting to open the bottle in order to indulge in the sweet, sweet nectar that is contained within. You grunt and you turn. You scream and you turn. Nothing works. You try switching hands or putting the thing between your knees, or you give up altogether and slam the top on the counter in a last-ditch attempt to knock the seal loose and are again denied.
You throw the whole zeug in the trash can (unrecyclable because it contains liquids), thereby killing the planet and wasting $1.49 + tax as well as the opportunity to win a free soda if your secret code (which you can’t see because it is located under the cap) is a winner. Any way you go at it, you wind up tearing off half of the skin on your hand and bleeding like a stuck pig. Congratulations, you also now must deal with carpel tunnel the rest of your miserable, caffeine denied existence.
I wonder: If the soda companies had placed a larger version of the 20 oz cap on the Gulf Oil Rig, would there have been a leak? Hmmmm. Deep thoughts.
It is time we stand up against this offense to humanity known as the hard screw. Demand that soda bottles come from factories reasonably able to be opened. Be vigilant and remain on the lookout for people attempting to open these bottles and stop them before it is too late! Do your part to make this great nation of ours once again safe for soda drinkers!
Join me, friends! I want to live in a country where I can enjoy carbonated beverages without fear of death or bodily harm! I want my soda! In a can!
-Pokey
It has come to my attention that there is a new health risk that directly affects 99% of non-Amish America: 20 oz. Soda Bottles. Indeed, horrific and sensational statistics developed from the mind of yours truly following minutes of careful and tedious reflection while watching Monday night football conclude that more Americans are injured by 20 oz. soda bottles than are eaten by gangs of angry mutant ninja turtles each year or than get their news from any other source.
The perils of 20 oz. soda bottle use are many. If shaken, the top could be blown from the base of the bottle all together. The trajectory of its launch could lead to eye loss. Worse yet, if the drink is accidentally/purposefully shaken too hard, the whole thing could go, creating a mushroom cloud above Cincinnati that makes Hiroshima look like a day in the park. The destruction from the explosion and subsequent firestorm is just too awful to describe. I just hope that there are no women with breast implants within a 20-mile radius of the epicenter.
Even worse, the bubbly goodness could fizz up as you open the bottle, causing the liquid to completely soak your shirt as you head to interview for your dream job, leaving you with a soiled appearance and no time to change. Long story short: You don’t get the job and within 6 months have to file for bankruptcy and spend the rest of your working life selling string door to door. The boy or girl you thought was “the one” dumps you and moves in with your former best friend. A la Bridget Jones, you wind up alone and eaten by wild dogs. No one finds you or even attempts to look for you until the stench permeating from your apartment becomes unbearable.
You might laugh and say, “Lol. O-M-G. That would never happen to me.” (Oooh, I rhymed!) That, my friend, would be a mistake. What do you think is the real reason there are so many out of work individuals in this country? Think about that the next time you watch the news, sponsored in part by Pepsi…
All those things would make a bad day worse. But the most horrific injury of all occurs when the factory attaches the cap too tight, making it almost impossible to twist off. You spend hours in agony attempting to open the bottle in order to indulge in the sweet, sweet nectar that is contained within. You grunt and you turn. You scream and you turn. Nothing works. You try switching hands or putting the thing between your knees, or you give up altogether and slam the top on the counter in a last-ditch attempt to knock the seal loose and are again denied.
You throw the whole zeug in the trash can (unrecyclable because it contains liquids), thereby killing the planet and wasting $1.49 + tax as well as the opportunity to win a free soda if your secret code (which you can’t see because it is located under the cap) is a winner. Any way you go at it, you wind up tearing off half of the skin on your hand and bleeding like a stuck pig. Congratulations, you also now must deal with carpel tunnel the rest of your miserable, caffeine denied existence.
I wonder: If the soda companies had placed a larger version of the 20 oz cap on the Gulf Oil Rig, would there have been a leak? Hmmmm. Deep thoughts.
It is time we stand up against this offense to humanity known as the hard screw. Demand that soda bottles come from factories reasonably able to be opened. Be vigilant and remain on the lookout for people attempting to open these bottles and stop them before it is too late! Do your part to make this great nation of ours once again safe for soda drinkers!
Join me, friends! I want to live in a country where I can enjoy carbonated beverages without fear of death or bodily harm! I want my soda! In a can!
-Pokey
Monday, September 27, 2010
Fan Mail: Andrew Zimmern
Dear Mr. Andrew Zimmern, Host of Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern:
Your food choices are as bizarre as the name of your show suggests. However, what I find to be more bizarre is the look you get on your face right before you shove live bugs, putrid maggot meat or cow dung soup in your mouth. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, but after staying up for 72 hours meditating on the issue and cutting my toenails, I figured it out. It’s the same look that Hannibal Lector gave Clarice when he said, “I ate his liver with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Scaaaaaary. The food is already freak nasty enough – perhaps tone down the facial effects.
So you have totally made a career out of travelling to obscure locations and scoffing down so called “delicacies” that the Department of Health would ban from being served in the US. You have probably been exposed to more diseases than hours the media spent covering the dreaded Swine Flu. I am sure your intestines are a thriving cesspool of dysentery and salmonella. But you haven’t keeled over yet! Mad props.
I think it’s time to add another element to your show, though. The squeamish factor can really only get you so far. To make things a little more interesting, I propose that you and Samantha Brown have a smack down UFC style. Instead of normal things like mud, pudding or jello, you could hold the match in a pit of mezcal-soaked agave worms or skewed crickets! That way, when you pin her (or vice versa) you can shove those protein-enriched, low fat treats in her face!
Sure she’s like 5 ft. tall and probably weighs as much as your left arm (or less), but I hear the girl is freakishly strong. This one time she took down a whole tribe of Aborigines on a trip to the Australian outback – blind folded, with both arms tied behind her back while Irish Dancing to the Purple Rain Soundtrack. They tried to steal her Shrimp on the Barbie. In fact, she’s been known to pull broken down Tour Busses and regional jets full of complaining retirees wearing white Reeboks and counting the hours until the expiration of their here-and-now safely to mountain-top destinations. I believe she holds the record for on-time arrivals and doesn’t charge extra for checked luggage. (Take that airline industry.)
At any rate, my suggestion (in summary form): Less face, more fight. Samantha Brown is a must.
-Pokey
Your food choices are as bizarre as the name of your show suggests. However, what I find to be more bizarre is the look you get on your face right before you shove live bugs, putrid maggot meat or cow dung soup in your mouth. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, but after staying up for 72 hours meditating on the issue and cutting my toenails, I figured it out. It’s the same look that Hannibal Lector gave Clarice when he said, “I ate his liver with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti.” Scaaaaaary. The food is already freak nasty enough – perhaps tone down the facial effects.
So you have totally made a career out of travelling to obscure locations and scoffing down so called “delicacies” that the Department of Health would ban from being served in the US. You have probably been exposed to more diseases than hours the media spent covering the dreaded Swine Flu. I am sure your intestines are a thriving cesspool of dysentery and salmonella. But you haven’t keeled over yet! Mad props.
I think it’s time to add another element to your show, though. The squeamish factor can really only get you so far. To make things a little more interesting, I propose that you and Samantha Brown have a smack down UFC style. Instead of normal things like mud, pudding or jello, you could hold the match in a pit of mezcal-soaked agave worms or skewed crickets! That way, when you pin her (or vice versa) you can shove those protein-enriched, low fat treats in her face!
Sure she’s like 5 ft. tall and probably weighs as much as your left arm (or less), but I hear the girl is freakishly strong. This one time she took down a whole tribe of Aborigines on a trip to the Australian outback – blind folded, with both arms tied behind her back while Irish Dancing to the Purple Rain Soundtrack. They tried to steal her Shrimp on the Barbie. In fact, she’s been known to pull broken down Tour Busses and regional jets full of complaining retirees wearing white Reeboks and counting the hours until the expiration of their here-and-now safely to mountain-top destinations. I believe she holds the record for on-time arrivals and doesn’t charge extra for checked luggage. (Take that airline industry.)
At any rate, my suggestion (in summary form): Less face, more fight. Samantha Brown is a must.
-Pokey
A Rap Song in Memoriam of the Recent 14th Anniversary of the Death of Tupac Shakur (To the Tune of Bah Bah Black Sheep)
Tupac, Tupac
Are you really dead??
Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
T’was three bullets to my head.
One for P Master;
One for my dame;
One for my homies who roughed up Baby Lane.
Tupac, Tupac
You ain’t really dead.
You got me. You got me.
I’m undercover with the Feds.
I knew it.
RIP Mr. Tupac Shakur (June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996)
- Pokey
Are you really dead??
Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
T’was three bullets to my head.
One for P Master;
One for my dame;
One for my homies who roughed up Baby Lane.
Tupac, Tupac
You ain’t really dead.
You got me. You got me.
I’m undercover with the Feds.
I knew it.
RIP Mr. Tupac Shakur (June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996)
- Pokey
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Rant: Prescription Commercials and Side Effects, What's the Point?
Let me just say that I find it ridiculous how prescription drug commercials must include all potential side effects in the 30 seconds the commercial is on TV. Even if such affects have never occurred but there could maybe possibly be a .0000000001% chance that it could happen to someone who was born with translucent skin and curly flourescent pink hair.
I seriously think I end up knowing more about the potential negative effects than what a drug is actually designed to do. We’ve all seen these commercials. They terrify me and not just because the acting is awful and the dialogue is on par with “Debbie Does Dallas,” but because I now fear pills – even Tylenol – because I am afraid I will wake up the day after taking one with some unrelated terminal illness. I had a headache and now I have the Ebola Virus and heartburn. Dun dun dun. Case in point:
A group of late 20-something women are at some big city elitist club, sipping their cosmos and having the same discussion I have at least 5 times a day, every day, with my friends about the horrific bloating and unrelenting cramping that accompanies our monthly cycles. Anyhoo, one of the women – who is always an M.D. – excitedly tells her friends that if they take X Drug, they will only have their periods one to three times a year with some spotting in between!! Sounds great! Wrong. The next 18 seconds are spent as the Dr. Doolittle calmly warns her friends that not only will X Drug curb the effects of Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but could also lead to more cramping/bloating/fatigue/sexual inadequacy/psychosis/the growth of a second head/blackouts followed by public indecency. Then the name of the drug appears on the screen juxtaposed over a scene of the women booty grinding and with a further admonishment to consult one’s doctor before starting use. Of course. I should definitely consult my doctor because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE DRUG IS ACTUALLY INTENDED TO DO!
So many of the side effects are either completely unrelated to the issue the drugs combat or are even more horrible. Seriously. Who wants to buy a drug to relieve, say, arthritis that can cause impotency? The worst is when the drug could potentially worsen your condition or even CAUSE the condition. “Take the Pill once a week to prevent pregnancy. Warning: May cause a Kate Gosselin style pregnancy and subsequent disconnect from reality.” There are even some side effects that can make an otherwise normal appearing person resemble a Star Trek character – one of the ugly ones with more limbs than sense. Though, thinking about all the cool things I could do with a third arm, like brush my teeth, make a sandwich and conduct an orchestra all at the same time, kind of makes me want to risk it…
Even things as benign as chewable vitamins for kids could cause chest hair growth and bowel irritability. Of course, I made this up, but it’s possible. Imagine your child popping those delicious Flinstones’ Chewables in order to get those essential growth vitamins denied to them by strict diets of Twinkies and Chicken Nuggets and subsequently resembling an incontinent Saskwatch. Forget potty training and buy stock in wax.
It’s no wonder that “performance enhancing” drugs aren’t widely advertised – at least on television. Talk about freak nasty. Such disclosures would require that commercials be rated and they would definitely be NC-17. It would, however, give women who are hit on by muscle bound Neanderthals the upper hand: “I would go out with you Billy Bob, but I happen to know that those muscles are completely unobtainable without scientific assistance. And I also happen to know that you are probably struggling with mood swings and a diminished libido and that the increase in the diameter of your forearms is directly proportional to the shrinkage in other areas. So, I just don’t think this is going to work out. Pun fully intended.” Ouch.
The saddest part of all is thinking about the poor lab animals that have developed the side-effects these commercial so indiscreetly detail. I get chocked up thinking about all the rats out there who thought they were there to be cured of the alcoholism they developed living in the basement of Studio 54 and law schools throughout the country. They may now be sober, but must live the rest of their days with five tails, a fear of anything that begins with the letter A and Betty Davis’ eyes. Tragic.
Basically, I think the FDA should allow drug companies to simmer down the scare tactics. I would much rather the 30-second spots in between episodes of The Middle and Modern Family be spent providing information about what the drug is supposed to do rather than the awful things it could do to .01% of the population, i.e. your Aunt Mildred. Trust me, if I choose to seek treatment for IBS or Peripheral Vascular Disease and am interested in a drug, I will consult my doctor, thank you very much. (Not only that, but I HAVE to consult my doctor to get a prescription at which time my doctor will be required to discuss those all to interesting side effects with me.)
Oh, and one more thing: I hate the word “placebo.” It just sounds dirty.
That is all.
-Pokey
I seriously think I end up knowing more about the potential negative effects than what a drug is actually designed to do. We’ve all seen these commercials. They terrify me and not just because the acting is awful and the dialogue is on par with “Debbie Does Dallas,” but because I now fear pills – even Tylenol – because I am afraid I will wake up the day after taking one with some unrelated terminal illness. I had a headache and now I have the Ebola Virus and heartburn. Dun dun dun. Case in point:
A group of late 20-something women are at some big city elitist club, sipping their cosmos and having the same discussion I have at least 5 times a day, every day, with my friends about the horrific bloating and unrelenting cramping that accompanies our monthly cycles. Anyhoo, one of the women – who is always an M.D. – excitedly tells her friends that if they take X Drug, they will only have their periods one to three times a year with some spotting in between!! Sounds great! Wrong. The next 18 seconds are spent as the Dr. Doolittle calmly warns her friends that not only will X Drug curb the effects of Aunt Flo’s monthly visit, but could also lead to more cramping/bloating/fatigue/sexual inadequacy/psychosis/the growth of a second head/blackouts followed by public indecency. Then the name of the drug appears on the screen juxtaposed over a scene of the women booty grinding and with a further admonishment to consult one’s doctor before starting use. Of course. I should definitely consult my doctor because I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT THE DRUG IS ACTUALLY INTENDED TO DO!
So many of the side effects are either completely unrelated to the issue the drugs combat or are even more horrible. Seriously. Who wants to buy a drug to relieve, say, arthritis that can cause impotency? The worst is when the drug could potentially worsen your condition or even CAUSE the condition. “Take the Pill once a week to prevent pregnancy. Warning: May cause a Kate Gosselin style pregnancy and subsequent disconnect from reality.” There are even some side effects that can make an otherwise normal appearing person resemble a Star Trek character – one of the ugly ones with more limbs than sense. Though, thinking about all the cool things I could do with a third arm, like brush my teeth, make a sandwich and conduct an orchestra all at the same time, kind of makes me want to risk it…
Even things as benign as chewable vitamins for kids could cause chest hair growth and bowel irritability. Of course, I made this up, but it’s possible. Imagine your child popping those delicious Flinstones’ Chewables in order to get those essential growth vitamins denied to them by strict diets of Twinkies and Chicken Nuggets and subsequently resembling an incontinent Saskwatch. Forget potty training and buy stock in wax.
It’s no wonder that “performance enhancing” drugs aren’t widely advertised – at least on television. Talk about freak nasty. Such disclosures would require that commercials be rated and they would definitely be NC-17. It would, however, give women who are hit on by muscle bound Neanderthals the upper hand: “I would go out with you Billy Bob, but I happen to know that those muscles are completely unobtainable without scientific assistance. And I also happen to know that you are probably struggling with mood swings and a diminished libido and that the increase in the diameter of your forearms is directly proportional to the shrinkage in other areas. So, I just don’t think this is going to work out. Pun fully intended.” Ouch.
The saddest part of all is thinking about the poor lab animals that have developed the side-effects these commercial so indiscreetly detail. I get chocked up thinking about all the rats out there who thought they were there to be cured of the alcoholism they developed living in the basement of Studio 54 and law schools throughout the country. They may now be sober, but must live the rest of their days with five tails, a fear of anything that begins with the letter A and Betty Davis’ eyes. Tragic.
Basically, I think the FDA should allow drug companies to simmer down the scare tactics. I would much rather the 30-second spots in between episodes of The Middle and Modern Family be spent providing information about what the drug is supposed to do rather than the awful things it could do to .01% of the population, i.e. your Aunt Mildred. Trust me, if I choose to seek treatment for IBS or Peripheral Vascular Disease and am interested in a drug, I will consult my doctor, thank you very much. (Not only that, but I HAVE to consult my doctor to get a prescription at which time my doctor will be required to discuss those all to interesting side effects with me.)
Oh, and one more thing: I hate the word “placebo.” It just sounds dirty.
That is all.
-Pokey
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