Gary The Gull’s Blog

I was flying down El Camino the other day, thinking about how I feel about Prius Drivers, when this monstrosity sidled up next to me.

I was preoccupied with the Prius directly in front of me (they’re known to move erratically due to their drivers’ poor mental health), so I didn’t immediately give the green blob the attention it deserved. Shortly, however, the Prius braked hard, swung around 180º to face me, and swerved backwards down El Camino for about 100 feet before flipping on its back in the center divide where it burst into flames. As I passed it, I heard the passenger scream, “I TOLD YOU THE ARROWS WOULDN’T GO BACKWARDS IF YOU DID THA—OH MY GOD YOU’RE ON FIRE!” My attention released, I turned it to the mysterious green car that hovered in my periphery.

Now, I’d like to take a quick break. We all know I’m going to say horrible, terrible things about how ugly and stupid this “car” is while insisting upon referring to the “car” with quotes like that. Don’t worry, we’ll get there. But first, I’d like you to look at ZapWorld’s web site:

It looks like these people might make and sell electric vehicles, but because their website was raped by a 1999 Yahoo portal concept, it’s hard to tell—they might just buy the vehicles from more innovative companies in third world countries and resell them in the US. This fugly-induced ambiguity is relevant, because it’s reflected in the company’s vehicle design as well. Let’s go back to that.

To clarify yet again, I object to Prius drivers, not the Prius itself. Although it’s not quite my aesthetic, I think the Prius is a decent vehicle. I cannot say the same for the green Xebra Electric Sedan from ZapWorld (or “ZapCar” or “ZAP!”…they’re not very consistent on their site). This thing looks like a Yugo H-1600, a BMW Isetta, and a Piaggio MP3 got together and did something obscene in a poorly-lit parking lot.

It certainly is a disaster of function without form. It’s so ugly, it seems to defy gravity. Obviously, it must be stable, right? They must have tested it, but the industrial design does not convince me that if all four passengers leaned the same way to fart, it wouldn’t tip over. I suppose that doesn’t really matter though. With a top speed of 40 miles per hour and a range of 25 miles per charge, you wouldn’t likely be hurt nor would you have far to walk should synchronized flatulence spoil your trip.

In other news, Prius drivers continue to marry.

I don’t think that should be legal, as it implies they’ll procreate. Public Service Announcement: Prius drivers, if you have children, remember that they must be properly nourished. Though a strict diet of Kale and Tibetan yak dung might work for you, your children need more lipids and proteins in their diet to keep them from growing up and buying zapcars when they’re unable to afford Priuses because you’ve wiped out your inheritance saving the Tibetan Yak.

The Palo Alto post office at 380 Hamilton Ave. has decorated one of its outdoor collection boxes as R2-D2, the lovable rapscallion droid from the Star Wars movies.

The USPS is known for its boundless creativity—always pushing the envelope, they are. Having already brought us Voting for Elvis in 1992, the term “go postal” in 1993, a streamlined new eagle logo in 1994, and statutory monopoly, we weren’t sure where they’d go next. But the reaction to the latest promotion has been mixed.

One postal employee spoke on the condition of anonymity:
“It’s terrible. Just terrible. What were we thinking? This town is full of dorks. Now they think we’re one of them. It’s made service counter wait times worse because they all want to talk about Star Wars. I didn’t even think the movies were very good.”

Two dorks had this to say:
“Why does it have legs? Artoo doesn’t have legs. He has rocket thrusters and a triambulatory wheel-based drive system.”
“Yeah. But triambulatory isn’t a word.”
“Is so. It’s just not commonly used.”
“My iPhone says it’s not a word.”
“Your iPhone is wrong.”
“Take it back!”

And a woman from Casa Olga worded a common confusion:
“I thought it was a stamp machine. I don’t watch the Battle Bots show, so I didn’t know it was a joke. This branch still doesn’t have a stamp machine. You have to buy a whole book from the window. Now what am I going to do with that many stamps? Plant them in a garden? HAH! I think not.”

The R2-D2 box sports the URL, www.uspsjedimaster.com, which appears to simply bounce to usps.com. Perhaps it did something more at the promotion launch, but it’s rather boring now.

Once the Star Wars stunt has ended, there is but one final frontier for USPS promotional creativity: Vote for the Seven of Nine stamp design — Borg or Bust.

The problem with living in Palo Alto (well, besides the Prius Drivers) is that you can’t tell the crazy people from the Stanford professors. They look and act very much alike here. A few days ago, I watched a professorish-looking older gentleman walk into the middle of the street and stand in a traffic circle. He looked around approvingly at the cement circle surrounding him. With a slight nod of satisfaction, he began doing Tai Chi.

I think it was Tai Chi. It also looked a bit like Air Guitar, but he was doing it pretty slowly. Most people tend to shred when performing Air Guitar, so I think it was Tai Chi. Of course, this is all conjecture based upon my brief, superficial observation. In his mind, he might have just finished collecting the Seven Runes and was performing Agnar’s Abbreviated Transportation Spell to open the Portal of Knoth. The portal did not open, however, and after just a few minutes of Tai Chi or Spell Casting, he walked away looking ever so slightly dejected.

So, was this guy crazy people or a Stanford professor? Or both? The fact that some of our differently-abled inhabitants drive Mercedeses (the others drive Priuses) and have laptops that they use to maintain web sites when they’re not running for city council compounds the problem.

You just never know whether to avoid eye contact or to strike up a conversation about quantum electrodynamics. A reasonable solution seems to be to act a little off yourself & scream, “String Theory is correct!” with a few Tourette’s embellishments. Professors will impulsively list twelve reasons why you’re wrong, while the crazies tend to scream back, “I taste blue!”. Occasionally you might get the professor with synesthesia who does taste blue, but he mostly hangs out in Mountain View.

Whoo! I got my TV converter box coupons, which are actually pretty hefty plastic cards.

I don’t have a TV, but I signed up for the maximum of two cards because I’m greedy and I pay taxes. If the federal government is going to spend $1.5 billion to ensure our great nation can continue to sit on its ass and watch TV, I want my fair share. I’ll probably buy two boxes and take them apart—I’ll bet they have neat stuff inside. If they don’t, I’ll soak them in salt water and bleach and then take them back to the store, where I’ll act all confused: “No, I have no idea why they smell like that. I think it started when they internetted on my TV.” Actually, I heard a rumor you can exchange the boxes if they’re defective, but you can’t return them for a refund because the government doesn’t want everyone getting cash back. That’s not mentioned in the FAQ that accompanies the cards though. The FAQ contains helpful information such as:

Where can I redeem my Coupon? At any of the participating retailers listed below or on our website, www.DTV2009.gov, or at any of the retailers near you listed on the previous page. Call ahead to make sure the converter box you want is available.

When does my Coupon expire? It says on it, fucktard.

Can I use the Coupon to purchase other products? No, the Coupon may only be used towards the purchase of a single coupon-eligible converter box.

I have 12 televisions in my house. Can the Coupon be used for 12 converter boxes? If you have more than 2 televisions, you are fat and you are compounding the nation’s healthcare problem. So no, you may not use the Coupon for 12 boxes, fat fucktard.

I’m poor and hungry. Can I have $80 worth of food stamps instead of a TV converter? No. You need TV more than you need food. Hey, stop gnawing on the Coupon; it contains chemicals known to cause cancer.

The accompanying flier does refer to the holy Coupon with a capital ‘C’ like that. Funny. It also lists the “eligible” converter boxes, introducing me to some new brands. I’m sure that AccessHD, Artec, CASTi, COSHIP, Goodmind, Insignia, Mustek, Philco, Skardin, Tivax, and ZINWELL are all names I can trust.

Well, overall I guess going digital is a good thing as it frees up bandwidth and stuff. It seems like there’d be a better way of handling this transition though. I wonder, if the sun went out, whether we’d all get Coupons for night vision goggles. That’d be kinda cool.

If I ever get old or useless enough that combing a beach with a metal detector strikes me as something worth doing, please smother me with a lavender-scented pillow. I make this request assuming I’ll like the smell of lavender by then. I guess you should check my house first just to be sure—if you find lavender candles and tea and crap, proceed with the lavender; otherwise, use a meatloaf. I like meatloaf now.

The biggest problem with beach combing, coin shooting, treasure hunting—whatever you call it—is that losers publicly look the part. Macramé, whittling, glue sniffing, and other loserish hobbies can be done in the privacy of one’s own home; whereas, metal detecting is out in the open. You’re likely out on a beach in front of hundreds of hot, scantily-clad people who are judging you.

There you stand in your jeans and plaid shirt, brandishing your cherished BigFoot-based detector and your sieve scoop. The True Value® tool belt that you’ve repurposed as a collection girdle passes the time by restraining your heaving gut. It’s been a long, fruitless afternoon & you’re about to call it quits when your detector squeals loudly. You swipe around a bit, listening carefully to ensure it’s worth a circumnavigation of your stomach. Convinced, you exhale, strain down, and scoop. Sifting through the muck, you find a slimy black object. You rub it with your thumb, smudging away the slime and revealing a bottle cap (circa 2007—nothing interesting). You flip it back into the sand and look up, locking eyes with a female sunbather who wrinkles her nose disapprovingly. It’s a disappointment but the adrenaline is now pumping, so you move on down the beach for a repeat performance in front of some surfers and a smooching couple. “It’s okay,” you remind yourself, “remember the 1916-D Mercury dime? That was worth $50. What a day that was.”

There’s something kinda creepy about scavengers in general. They walk around the beach—practically following you—looking for things you’ve dropped, which then become theirs. I’d describe them as buzzards, substituting “pathetic” for “macabre” in the description.

Check out this “White’s metal detector” ad that tries to glorify the hobby:

At the end of the ad, the fat guy says, “My wife said I needed a healthy hobby. She’s proud of the weight I’ve lost and really proud of this,” as he holds up a garish diamond ring, implying he found it. Ladies, would you actually be proud of a ring that your fat husband found while drinking beer at the beach all day? I don’t know who they’re fooling—well, besides the lavendar-huffing elderly. But they’ll buy anything.

I need to share this before I forget:

Either T BAGGR really likes tea, or his weekends are more exciting than mine.

I’m not the only one to have noticed this. Check out this blog.

Is it me, or are girl scouts getting homely? I just bought a package of Peanut Butter Sandwich cookies featuring squinty, braidy, and a readheaded nun—all laughing at a really slutty owl.

These 8 year olds aren’t wearing nearly enough eyeliner. Their hair “product” appears to be mayonnaise or Vaseline and they don’t seem to know about Wavefront Lasik. The redhead is freaking me out. I can totally picture her at 80, wearing a habit and rapping children’s knuckles with a ruler. Luckily for the girl scouts, you generally don’t get to see the box in great detail before placing your order, so the photo of Sister Mary Raggety Ann of The Order of Astigmia and her dowdy followers doesn’t impact sales. Still, the overall customer experience would be greatly enhanced if the boxes featured supermodels or anime schoolgirls in short skirts.

Hey, why do people go crazy over girl scout cookies anyways? I don’t think they’re that great. Yet, people go bonkers for these things—hoarding them, stressing over how much weight they’ll gain because of them, selling their bodies for one last box of Thin Mints. What’s up with that? Is it some perceived preciousness due to their seasonal nature? Are people not aware that the cookie aisle at Safeway has many on-demand treats that taste almost the same, if not better? Girl scout Peanut Butter Sandwich cookies, for example, taste like Nabisco Nutter Butters; Thin Mints taste like Keebler Fudge Shoppe Grasshopper Mint cookies; Samoas taste like smushing a macaroon and a Twix together. So, there are alternatives. The next time you’re biting into a cookie and a pasty redheaded nun scrunches her face at you from the box, causing nausea and appetite loss, remember that Keebler has cute little elves on their packaging.

National Geographic’s demographic information must be confusing—after all, what do 13 year old boys and middle-aged women have in common? Well, for the 13 year old, a strategically selected spiral bound notebook excuses the graphic photographs of sagging, aboriginal breasts as a school project. For a middle-aged woman, a strategically selected National Geographic helps offset the embarrassment of the accompanying shallow romance novel covered in man-titties. At least the boy has a chance of learning something from his purchase.

Romance novels are hardcore pornography bound in softcore pornography placed on shelves for women to giggle at publicly and then buy in secret. They’re filled with unrealistic expectations of emasculated men who act tantalizingly, but safely mysterious. These men are temporarily allowed penises for frequent, but managed trips to the bedroom, where female protagonists are placed on pedestals and violated repeatedly in French or Spanish.

The covers of romance novels traditionally feature men with exposed washboard abdominals gazing lustfully at women who hardly seem to acknowledge their existences. The men, who invariably have too much blond hair on their heads, are bald in the other areas not left to the viewer’s imagination. Weird. do women really want this? The publisher Silhouette Books seems to think they do not.

Silhouette Books, in their Silhouette Desire series, has a different view of what women like—shiny things.

According to Silhouette, women still like ripply, exotic abs; however, they also like diamonds, belt buckles, martini glasses, and cuff links—provided they’re shiny enough to produce lens flares.

In fact, they seem to think that women really, really like shiny cuff links.

Or maybe those are watches…it’s hard to tell because the lens flares drown out most of the detail in those illustrations. In any case, I can’t imagine women are really that attracted to spots of light. I’ll have to try dangling well-polished spoons in front of women to be sure, but I’m really inclined to think the publisher’s illustrator just discovered the lens flare filter in Photoshop (for the rest of you budding pornographers, it’s under [Filter], [Render], [Lense Flare...] and it only works in RGB color mode) and went crazy. The resulting covers made it past marketing because marketing is either trash or apathetic. I’d feel sorry for Tessa Radley, Brenda Jackson, Yvonne Lindsay, Barbara Dunlop, Katherine Garbera, Day Leclaire, and the rest if I didn’t find their “works” as shallow as the hyper-sparkly cuff links, watches, martini glasses, and belt buckles that adorn them.

Of course, if these novels really do keep women climbing into bed with their fat, balding, middle-aged husbands, then more power to them. I’ll take my National Geographic and a bottle of K-Y Solo®, thank you very much.

Our friends at Blue Q continue to crank out the cat-butt related products. With the new Cat Butts Mini-Kit, I finally have something to do while I’m chewing my Cat Butt Gum.

The handy field guide allows me to amaze and amuse my friends by identifying cat breeds from their arses alone. The cat butt magnets I find to be highly therapeutic.

I’ve been wearing “Siberian” and “American Shorthair” for about a week and now I don’t suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome. I don’t have lower back pain or muscle spasms. I also don’t have cystic fibrosis. It’s amazing. I do still get the occasional bout of explosive diarrhea—but I’ve started taking Mighty Putty for that.

I picked up my Cat Butts Mini-Kit at my local Border’s bookstore. It was on the rotating impulse-buy shelf, which I compulsively sorted while standing in line to buy a book. If you don’t have a local Border’s, it looks like you can get it from Amazon:

My one New Year’s resolution this year was to be a more positive seagull. Instead of ranting about things that piss me off, I was planning to post fuzzy bunnies and people helping each other and kittens and run-on sentences that ooze cuteness from their rambly-toddler structures alone. Alas, I’m a negative bird at heart—and something pissed me off.

I was wandering around A.G. Ferrari’s Palo Alto store, wondering how to justify the $12 sandwich I’d just ordered, when I came across a $21 tube of cookies.

In the off chance you can’t read that price tag, here it is embiggened:

Now, my first thought was, “for $21 they could spell ‘pistachio’ correctly…or at least consistently” My second thought was, “I’m horny.” My third thought was “HOLY FUCK THESE COOKIES ARE 21 DOLLARS!” And indeed they were. A.G. Ferrari was trying to sell about a half a pound of cookies for $20.99. Prompted by my outraged squawks, an employee chick snootily informed me (as snootily as is possible when one is on one’s hands and knees, arranging almond biscotti), “well, they are imported from Italy”.

“BITCH!” I screamed, “Aerogel is less expensive and it’s imported from OUTER SPACE.” (it’s not really imported from outer space, but she didn’t know that & the situation required some major hyperbole). I continued, “And I’ll bet Aerogel tastes better than these nasty-ass pistacccccchio cookies!” She started crying and between heaving sobs she admitted that I was right and that she was so sorry and that she was going to quit her job right then and return to prostitution because she couldn’t stand to work for someone who charged $21 for a tube of nasty cookies.

Actually, I didn’t say anything. I wish I had, but when someone says something snootily enough, I feel too put-in-my-place to respond. I should go to therapy for that. I need a lot of therapy. And A.G. Ferrari is a total rip. My $12 sandwich was mostly stale bread. There was hardly any Tuna Capresioli Venti Pompino—or whatever their bastardized Italian word for tuna & mayonnaise is. And I hate them for making me break my New Year’s resolution.

Damn them. Well, here’s a bunny: