So the esteemed Tyler Okney and myself decided to wet our whistles last Tuesday. I found myself looking back with fondness at my biblical retardation. I expected a low key evening catching up with my good friend. Instead, a series of unfortunate circumstances led to another one of those nights I find myself repeating.

We went to burrito loco in Dinky Town because its near Tyler’s house. We started drinking long island ice teas, which should have been the first clue that I was going to have a rough morning. As we drank, some girls started flirting with us. I like to flirt back not because I have any interest, but simply to stroke my own ego. We drank a few more drinks until the girls started feeling like we should all hang out. We quickly left and went to the Library because they have stellar drink specials.

I was planning o waking up early to return my dad’s car. This would not work out terribly well for me. We started drinking at the Library, and several of Tyler’s friends from Africa showed up. We all started drinking together, and soon I was OOC as Dana likes to say (out of control, for the layman). I should have known it was time for me to go home when I convinced some drunk girl that one of Tyler’s friends was a UN Human Rights Activist who had come to the states as a political refugee. Obviously not true, but needless to say we saw neither of them for the rest of the night. My ego sufficiently stroked for my ability to pick up girls not only for myself, but for people I don’t know.

I also bought two girls a shot for their 21st birthday. This was the other major clue that I was going to have a rough morning. I’m too cheap to buy drinks at bars and I hate drunk ass girls. I’m pretty sure I offended both within short order, but who’s to say. When my miserly self is buying people I don’t know bad tequila shots, its time for me to go home. My wing man has little experience with drunk Joe Reed, so he couldn’t intervene properly. Fortunately, we were to go home soon. In fact, I was to get us a ride.

While standing outside the bar, a group of bro’s were about to go home. I convinced them that Tyler was deaf, so we needed a ride home. I don’t know how being deaf would interfere with his walking, but they agreed. I clue that I was lying might have been that I went and told Tyler I had found us a ride. Few would accuse the bro’s of the Library of being especially smart or perceptive.

Tyler lives with an old lady who rents her house out to like 10 college students. Upon arriving home, I demanded that all alcohol guests leave from whence they came. I did so for many minutes, until I felt it time to sleep. I awoke in the morning without my shirt, keys, wallet, or phone. Some girl was asleep in a room with 2 beds. I stumbled in and laid down. She must have assumed I belonged their because she never asked who I was or why I was sleeping in her room. I woke up bright and early to get myself back home.

I rallied my wallet, phone, and keys, but never found the shirt. It was 6:00 AM and some nerd was playing world of warcraft. He laughed at me for vomiting. I reminded him he was playing WoW at 6:00 AM, and the laughing dissipated. I now wished I had vomited on his keyboard. There’s always next time. Although I was no longer hammered, sober would not be an accurate description of how I felt. In fact, I wouldn’t feel sober for about 36 hours. Our body can process a drink per hour my ass.

I got out of Tyler’s and I went on my merry way.  Except I had no shirt and I didn’t know where I parked. Luckily, I was wearing my bright orange boxers with even brighter lemons, and had no shirt to cover them up from sticking out the top of my pants. I walked around for about 30 minutes in a spiral pattern until I found my car. I got in and drove away. My driving and depth perception were fine, but I felt like ass.

I eventually made it to the 35W bridge. About this time, I started heaving. There was no place to pull over. I rolled the window down and threw up on my left shoulder and the left side of the car. I got home with dark brown vomit dried to my shoulder and chest hair. Its a good thing I didn’t get pulled over. Reeking of alcohol laden vomit, which also happened to be dried to my shirtless chest, would have been tricky to explain to law enforcement. I also had no explanation as to where my shirt was.

I would say that I vowed I would never do something so retarded again, but its never worked in the past. The way I felt for the next day or so was one of those natural consequences I preach during my employment. The irony didn’t escape me. Maybe if it had, I could have let a little less vomit escape. 

I find it somewhat shocking that having more money than the continent of Africa doesn’t help Microsoft produce good advertising. Recently, they have had three major campaigns, and I don’t see how they can think any of them were a good idea. The three are the “I’m a PC and I am …,” the ones of people given money to buy a computer, and the commercials with a very young child recommending PCs.

First, the “I’m a PC and I’m …” is just a direct response to the better mac advertising. The entire basis of this campaign is to try to disagree with the Apple campaigns. This only reminds consumers of the more interesting, better produced Apple ads that also came first. The central concept of the ads seems to be saying “nuh-uh” to Apple.

The second campaign was just as misguided. There is clear documented evidence that people think more expensive products are better regardless of any properties of the products themselves. The ads should mention specific prices and let consumers deduce that PCs are cheaper rather than coming out and saying so. The commercials try to present Apple computers as being expensive due to the sleek and modern design elements. Microsoft is effectively admitting that Apples are sleek and modern. Microsoft should be doing everything in their power to make people think that PCs are not just cheaper and just as fast, but that they also have superior design. Research also shows that people tend to believe things that they hear over and over again. Microsoft advertising provides positive messages about Apples. In the Apple ads, there is no such thing. If Microsoft can’t come up with clever ads, they should be make very simple ads that they use to bombard the market. They have decided to go for the neither quantity nor quality approach.

Finally, who cares what a 4 year old Asian thinks about computers. She looks at a bunch of PC reviews and says she sees a lot of happy words. That is the stupidest way to advertise I may have ever seen. First, ads showing kids saying cute but naïve things usually only work on old people. Old people fear technology like young people fear black licorice, and thus will not buy a new computer. Nobody cares about forum reviews of products. This is especially true when there is a kid who can only read the “happy words” of these reviews. If she can’t actually read, how can she be trusted? There is no guarantee that these supposed words are even in reference to PCs. Also, how did this kid find these review forums without being able to read English properly.

Microsoft could easily spend 10 billion dollars in advertising and not feel the hit. Apparently Microsoft has found a way for prison inmates to stop making license plates temporarily so that they can make unimaginative advertising. I would be willing to come up with a new ad campaign for a few hundred bucks, and I am just some punk. Microsoft could even just not worry about the advertising and change how their products look. If they made computers that looked like they had Star Trek looking things on them, people would start to think they were better computers. Add some neon green tubes and some futuristic looking moving parts. Considering the majority of people are morons, it would work. 

So, Dana and I recently decided to stop by a local antique store. In college, I created an intricate rumor that the current president of my fraternity was an expert in antique cats. I thought the store might have one that I could mail him for his personal collection. I was not disappointed. The best part was not the sculptural collection or even the furniture. The store had an extensive collection of terrible art.

I perused the collection of hideous steins in the front of the store. I found myself feeling that the items in the store would be just as likely to appear in garage sales of the elderly in Gary, Indiana. I would later change this opinion when I got deeper into the store.

I never realized how deep the market for glass fruit was among old ladies. I didn’t realize an antique store needed over two dozen different types of glass apple to maximize their market share. I lost a little faith in humanity after seeing the degree to which glass fruit piqued the interest of the antique store patrons.

I made my way to the back of the store, which is where they kept the racist antiques. First I just saw a statue of an overweight black woman with a bright red ring of lips. It would be like what one would imagine aunt Jemima ads would look like in the early 1800’s. There was an entire section of the store with various racist statues. Some were hobo statues, others looked like old timey rapists. Not a single person in the store seemed to think that it was in bad taste to have these items out. Nobody was buying them, but apparently they assumed that other patrons might.

I couldn’t really make fun of these old ladies without feeling like a jerk, so I went to look at the art. I figured I could make fun of them with my internal monologue while I looked at terrible pictures of clowns walking small dogs. I tried to figure out what makes truly bad art. I’ve seen many examples of terrible art. After all, I have been to the Uptown Art Fair in Minneapolis. The criteria for bad art are somewhat difficult to articulate, but I did manage to come up with some basic rules.

First, bad art must be divided into categories. One can’t compare bad art from Yoko Ono to bad to rednecks painting terrible still-life. Each is aesthetically offensive, but for different reasons. Its like comparing apples to oranges, or Yugos to Geo Metros. I will say this for the racist knick-knacks, however. Apparently racist southerners take a great deal of pride in their craftsmanship. The Sambo statuettes were very well made. But I digress.

Second, the art needs to have a poorly executed concept. A poorly painted still-life is not truly terrible unless their is some type of botched aesthetic concept. For example, one might attempt an impressionist feel, but the fruit bowl may end up looking like vomit nuggets organized into similar colors. Perhaps one wants to play on perspective like a Picasso only to find their figures appear more inbred than multi-perspective. This is another spice in the melting pot of bad art.

Another facet that is not necessary, although typically a bonus, is that the art needs to have either a folk art or hipster undertone. Doris the truck stop waitress from rural Iowa might make a whittled baby Jesus. The goal is to reach sprinkle the piece with charming rural flavor. However, 99% of folk art producers are about as tasteful as novelty ties at a funeral. The flip-side would be anyone who considers checkered shoes or the flock of seagulls an acceptable personal style. These hipsters tend to try to make ironic art or art critical of historical events. Unfortunately, most hipsters are morons. Thus, hipsters attempt to be critical or ironic without understanding how exactly one does either. Subtlety, a must for well executed irony or insightful criticism, requires both talent and intelligent, and hipsters are notoriously devoid of both.

I don’t know how to use tumblr well enough to insert pictures. Once I figure this out, I will include some examples.

The joys of putting stuff on my dog, namely a shark costume.

So today on NPR, there was a story that aboriginal Canadians were very upset that Flu kits given to them contained body bags. The kits did not, however, contain hand-sanitizer. The reason for this was that the high alcohol content was considered too tempting for Native Canadians. The Native Canadians did not have any issue with this reasoning. The only way I could explain why saying that Native Canadians would be too tempted to drink the sanitizer, but won’t be needing body bags is that the Canadian government already tried giving them something containing alcohol. This would explain the drunk seeming comments made regarding body bags but not about the sanitizer.

Now it would seem to me that if one finds themselves eating hand-sanitizer gels in order to get drunk, body bags are going to be necessary. In fact, for the hand-sanitizer drinkers first aid kit, I would really think that body bags are the only thing that needs to be there. One would be too drunk to survive any serious cut, the immune system to compromised to fight infection, and the nervous system to hampered to feel any pain.

A lifetime of gasoline huffing and hairspray drinking does not leave a man terribly hardy. In rural Canada, I would image the density of doctors is fairly low. Thus, when people get sick, their family might as well put the living person in the body bag. It would only be a matter of time anyway. If the Canadian government did include hand-sanitizer in the Flu kits, they could just put the little bottle directly inside the body bag. That way, people could get drunk one last time before swine flu killed them  to ease their final moments.