I'm Right Again!

I got hot tea with my lunch today.

See, I’m sick (bronchitis), hate coffee, and work in an office kept at meat-locker temperature levels. Not those sissy warm meat-lockers either. This one operates close to absolute zero. That's -273.15 C or -460 F or 0 K.

Ya gotta love Lord Kelvin, and not just because he would have you beaten if you didn't. No, people would say, "My lord (since he was a lord), it's cold today." And he'd respond, "You think this is cold, wait til I hit zero. Then that bastard Farenheit will really see something."

Ahh, thermodynamic humor.

But I digress. Back to my tea.

It was nothing fancy. No Earl Grey, my usual, or peppermint or anything like that. Just plain-Jane green tea. As I ripped open the outer packaging I noticed at the top, helpfully printed in white over green, it said: Microwave Safe.

Wow, how nice of them, I thought. Ya know, because most people don’t have access to hot tea-temperature water and so use the microwave to bring tap water up to the proper brewing level.

But then I paused.

Microwave Safe?

What exactly does this suggest of my usual teas which don’t say “Microwave Safe” on the outer packaging? Are they non-microwave inspected? Does this mean that I’m creating hostile chemicals in my otherwise caffeine free teas? Am I poisoning my body by combining those deadly little waves with water and herbs shoved into an E-Z-Flo baggie? Or am I, perhaps, mutating the tea via radiation ala Godzilla?

Could a green lizard the size of the Tower Record building even now be lurking in the luke-warm water of my cup waiting to rampage Tokyo?

Good lord, consider the implications!

Then, of course, I took hold of myself. My paranoia checked, along with some oxygen from the local paramedics as they carried me out on a crash cart, when I realized this was nothing but marketing! That’s right, fear-induced marketing from clever little men with pony-tails and button-up women with useless Communications degrees.

Unless my tea bag is made from some hyper-explosive plastique filaments, cast from Uranium 235, or has really sharp, rusty corners, there’s practically no danger of mishap once I put my mug, water and tea bag into the microwave, or when I take that potential Molotov Cocktail back out again.

I say practically because, even as we speak, somewhere, out there, someone is heating a tea bag past the plasma stage just to prove me wrong, and in so doing, they've caused their microwave to crack, thus sterilizing themselves and anyone stupid enough to be around them while they attempted this experiment.

You see kids, trying to prove me wrong is just silly.

And so, once again we see that marketers are a wretched hive of scum and villainy. More importantly, we see that I'm right, which is what blogging is all about.

Truth in Advertising

Today I realized that even though Snickers is packed with peanuts, it doesn’t really satisfy. It doesn’t provide the warmth and love that I need to feel self-actualized. In truth, the peanuts are about the same number you get on an airline flight, if they give you peanuts. And the chewy-nougaty center is just empty promises.

Maxwell house is NOT good to the last drop. Coffee generally tastes like someone burnt something, and the last drop is cold, stale and forlorn.

Red Bull doesn’t give you wings, it gives you the shakes.

I’ve managed to eat just one Pringle. Once I've popped, I can and have stopped, especially if there's a dead rat inside. I know it’s more than three licks to get the center of the Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop. I’ve never been cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. And I don’t want that damn leprechaun’s Lucky Charms. He can keep them. I want the gold, damnit.

There is a wrong way to eat a Reese’s Peanutbutter Cup, and no, I’m not going to explain.

I will never, ever wake up with that freaky, big-headed king from Burger King. I have nothing against big-headed people in general. I’m sure they’re lovely. Just not interested in finding them in my house, in my bed, and wearing that crazy, psychopathic grin after a night when I clearly have not been drinking.

Or after I have been drinking. Either way, I'm not waking up with the King.

If it was my way, right away, it would be surrounded by $100s, with a cashier’s check for $2 million, the keys to a Porche 911, and Lexa Doig in the passenger seat.

Some days I don’t want to think outside the bun, or make a run for the border. Some days boring is good, cheap and tasty.

If they were really friendly skies we were flying, the airline stewardess would serve free alcohol and wear far less clothing. This also proves that Delta doesn’t really love to fly, and that there’s more than one way to fly than . . . that company who's slogan was that this is "The Only Way To Fly". Clearly a slogan that sold me many of their tickets.

If quality were really job one for Ford then my Ranger wouldn’t have had eight recalls already.

And finally, if Radio Shack really had the questions to my answers they wouldn’t need my phone number when I buy batteries. They also wouldn’t have taken a restraining order out against me, now would they? I mean honestly, how hard is it to come up with the nature of God?