hurling invective dot com

PostSecret is the single greatest repository of folk art of our time. Every piece is a demonstration of the crushing sadness and dashed hopes that we carry with us every moment of every day. Everyone carries with them an aching, withering regret. How any of us make it through the day, I’ll never know.

I wanted to share with you my favorite PostSecret postcard ever. I don’t know why, but it’s one of the most heartbreaking things I have ever seen. I hope someone saved you.

The missus and I took a trip to Ïkea yesterday. Or is it Ikeä? Or Ikëa? I don’t think I’ll ever get it right. Stupid umlauts.

Anyway, this Ikea trip is something of a bi- or tri-yearly tradition for us. The trip is always spontaneous. It begins with morning coffee, staring thoughtfully and frowning at a piece of worn-out furniture. Then, gradually, we come to the conclusion that Ikëâ is our only hope. Nowhere else could we ever find a piece of furniture that is both cool looking and cheap. And so, we resolve to spend a couple of hundred dollars on said piece of furniture, shower and jump in the truck, drive two hours to the Pittsburgh store, and spend approximately $4.5 million.

The Îkèá trip, however well-intentioned, is usually in vain. That is because, like women forgetting the pain of childbirth, we always forget the Four Ikea Rules.

1. Ikea only carries two types of items: really nice stuff you can’t afford, and crap.

See that Flürgen workstation, with the brushed steel, bold angles, and ample storage? It even emits a pleasing hum. It costs more than you make in three months. Silly person. You can’t buy that. No, you have to buy the Düm desk, which is made of sawdust, glue, and large stickers that look like wood called veneer. The only way to keep the desk from sagging beneath the weight of your PC is to put your PC on the floor beneath it.

2. Nothing in the Ikea store or catalog ever looks as good in your house as it does at the store or in the catalog.

You’re walking through the store, and you see a black leather couch descend from the heavens, tearing the roof asunder, borne on the light of God. In your mind’s eye, you see it in your living room, in all its soft, ebony glory, and it takes your breath away. It is the glorious centerpiece of your entire house, like that rug that really tied the room together.

You buy it. You even give the cashier an extra hundred dollars as a sort of reverent tribute. You hire movers to bring the couch to your house and a small security detail to escort them. You throw a “welcome home” party for it. You serve some really good Brie and trendy, brightly colored martinis. The people cheer as the couch, now powered by its own beauty, glides from the truck unaided and enters your front door, descending soundlessly to the floor of your living room. So perfect is your union, it knows right where you want it. You don’t have to speak.

And in the same way that the jizz-stained futon from your college dorm room would look pretty stupid at, say, the Palace of Versailles, your svelte, shiny new couch – sitting neatly upon your cat barf-encrusted magenta knotted rug, beneath your Fight Club poster, bookended by the non-matching end tables you found on the curb, which appear to have been beaten every weekend for several decades by a mob of angry grandchildren wielding wiffleball bats and Barbie dolls – looks pretty stupid in your living room. It’s like replacing a couch from the set of Roseanne with one from the set of Frasier.

Figure 1.1: The way a cool, modern Ikea chair looks at Ikea

Figure 1.2: The way a cool, modern Ikea chair looks in your hovel

Corollary: Unless every item in your entire house, right down to the handtowels in your bathroom, are from Ikea, none of it looks right. And those fruity martinis suck.

3. You cannot assemble, touch, clean, move, eat off of, look at, allow others to look at, wipe with a damp cloth, subject to loud noises, subject to soft noises, talk about, sit on, sit next to, or allow sunlight to reach the furniture you have purchased.

Upon breaking the packaging’s vacuum seal and exposing it to the methane and chlorine of Earth’s harsh, caustic atmosphere, whatever firmness Ikea furniture possesses promptly gives up the ghost, and your new Blümgürm TV hutch adopts a rigidity suggesting it has been soaking in a pond for several years. Soon, you will no longer be able to enjoy even a minute of Are You Smarter Than A Plankton? as your eyes are drawn down to the growing bend in the shelf, withering beneath the weight of your lighter-than-air flat screen. It is the Ikeagod, manifesting Himself like the Virgin Mary making a guest appearance in a dirty church window, and His shelf-smile is mocking you for buying yet another of His diabolical, modular creations.

4. No Ikea furniture is packaged with all of the required pieces.

Ikea shelf? No screws. Ikea fan? No blades. Ikea car? No steering wheel. Ikea Death Star? No superlaser.

These are exaggerations, perhaps, but not far off the mark. And even in the off chance that all of the necessary parts are included – usually when a member of the quality control staff accidentally shows up for work – the instructions are missing.

But in the end, no matter your opinion on the quality of their furniture, we must all agree on one thing: they’ve got the best stale hot dog and loganberry juice combo meal in the Midwest.

I promised myself when I began writing that I wouldn’t write crap that was self indulgent. Recently, though, I’ve been tempted. I found a stray dog. Birds built a nest on the wreath on my front door. I started my own business. I planted an azalea. See? Could you give less of a fuck? Not me enough to write it, and certainly not you enough to read it.

I write in spurts. I find something or someone to heap abuse upon, chew the fat for a little while, then let it rip. I try to pace myself. By pace myself, I mean go on month long drinking and video game binges (lately it’s been the Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion Shivering Isles expansion and leftover beer from myriad backyard bonfires), suddenly remember I have a blog, then write on the topic.

A while back, I found a historical anecdote that was simply amazing. I wanted to unleash it on my world of non-readers the moment I unearthed it. “Patience, Moriarty,” I thought to myself. “Not yet. You never know when another Oblivion expansion may be released. You may need this for your down time.”

And then my lovely lady wife forwarded me a press release – don’t even ask me where she got it from – that was just too hilarious to not share.

Sadly, it’s hilarious in that “humanity is about to become enslaved by a cruel dynasty of ruthless malefactors” kinda way. And so now, with that exceptionally pointless setup, I have some good news and some bad news for you. First, the good news. According to Business Wire…

National Watermelon Association Partners with CHEP to Promote Shipping Efficiencies

“PLANT CITY, Fla.–(BUSINESS WIRE)–The National Watermelon Association (NWA)…”

Stop right there. NWA? Seriously?

For those of you who are unenlightened as to the use of this acronym in popular culture, NWA was a fairly revolutionary hip-hop group in the late 80’s/early 90’s. This by itself is not particularly remarkable, except for what the acronym actually stands for: “N-words With Attitude.” It launched the ubiquitous, wildly successful careers of Ice Cube and Dr. Dre, and was universally loved by its fans and loathed by their parents for its obscene, violent and hate-filled lyrics. NWA was the Twisted Sister of the hip hop/rap scene in those days, even though in a head-to-head comparison, NWA made Twisted Sister seem like the Starland Vocal Band.

Admittedly, if you weren’t a youth during the NWA days would likely not make the same association, no pun intended. But there are a handful of us who do, and snicker whilst doing so, mainly because we’re completely fucking infantile. It’s not too late, though. You could always be the Watermelon Association of America.

“…and CHEP, the global leader in pallet and container pooling, have joined forces to improve the way watermelon is transported from the grower to the retailer. CHEP is taking a vested interest in the trade group’s many activities as CHEP customers in the NWA continue to see the value and benefits of the CHEP pallet pooling solution.”

If you’re falling asleep reading this, this next bit will grab you by the bollards.

“‘This is revolutionary – it is changing a major supplier to our industry into a major partner. We’re very excited about the relationship and the potential benefit for both organizations,’ said Bob Morrissey, Executive Director of NWA. ‘This partnership between our organizations will provide benefits to everyone involved as our participating members experience the value of CHEP’s programs and service. We look forward to a long term program and partnership.’”

Okay, first: his name is Morrissey. Second, he’s the executive director of NWA. Third, he described advances in watermelon shipping as revolutionary. How, precisely, does this guy get laid?

“With CHEP’s assistance, the NWA will fund research, lobbying and consumer promotion activities, as well as ongoing operations at the group.”

All kidding aside, the watermelon lobby is a juggernaut – albeit a dark horse – in American politics. Are you really so naive as to think that oil put the Bush boys in power? Get your head out of your ass. Big Watermelon, as it’s called, has got the GOP by the balls. And there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it. And let’s not forget all the money they’re pumping into watermelon research. The rich and juicy get richer and juicier. And here’s Morrissey, just flaunting it. You son of a bitch.

To spare you valuable reading time, I’ll paraphrase a bit.

“‘Blah hyperbole yakkity-blah blah,’ said Bradley O’Neil, President of NWA and Owner of Coosaw Farms, Fairfax, South Carolina.

The CHEP pallet pooling program provides growers with durable shipping platforms that improve productivity and lower product damage. CHEP’s global reach also ensures a reliable supply of pallets.

‘Blibbity-hyperbole-blobbity yakkity-yak blah,’ said Brian Malloy, Senior Vice President, Sales, CHEP.”

There you have it, folks. Morrissey and O’Neil are so on the Republican ticket in 2012 it’s not even funny. And they’ll probably have Malloy killed during their first 100 days. He knows too much.

“About National Watermelon Association: The National Watermelon Association is a voluntary trade association made up of watermelon farmers, shippers, packers, brokers, suppliers (pallets, produce bins, seed, plants, chemicals, fertilizer, farm equipment, labels, machinery, agricultural labor, etc.), retailers, wholesalers, researchers and many others that have an interest in the watermelon industry throughout all 50 states and Mexico.”

And it goes on from there, with a bunch more boring stuff that I’m not clever enough to rip on. So, to sum up: Watermelonburton is making a balls-out power play to get watermelons to you, the consumer, more quickly, efficiently and in better condition, presumably. But why? And now the bad news.

Two words: vampire watermelons.

Roma folk legend contends that watermelons (and pumpkins, although the PWA is keeping tight-lipped on the matter) kept for longer than ten days, or after Christmas – presumably if you just got it another fucking Borders gift card and didn’t bother putting any thought into it – will become a vampire.

So how do you tell a garden-variety, non-anthropomorphic, juicy, delicious watermelon from its unholy, accursed brethren? According to Tatomir Vukanovi?, a Serbian-born historian that focused on the peoples of the Balkans: “…[they] make a sound like ‘brrrl, brrrl, brrrl!’ and begin to shake themselves. It is also believed that sometimes a trace of blood can be seen on the [watermelon], and the Gs. [Gypsies] then say it has become a vampire.”

Vukanovi? also states: “These pumpkins and melons go round the houses, stables, and rooms at night, all by themselves, and do harm to people. But it is thought that they cannot do great damage to folk, so people are not very afraid of this kind of vampire.”

Well, yeah. You have to feel kinda bad for the little guys. They’re probably trying to be really intimidating and seductive, offering the Dark Embrace to the people, but just not getting taken seriously.

Gypsy: “Hey fellas! Check it out! There’s a vampire watermelon in my stable.”

Vampire Watermelon: “How dare you mock Me? If I had fangs, and maybe a ramp, I would plunge them into your neck until you succumbed to oblivion!”

Gypsy: “Would you please stop rolling onto my feet? I have no problem turning you into one of those fruit salad bowls with the serrated edges.”

Vampire Watermelon: “I’ll show myself out.”

So the Roma didn’t sweat them. I mean, who would be afraid of the occasional random, undead fruit? I’m sure these delicious transmogrifications were mostly isolated incidents.

But think about it. You’ve got the NWA, the puppeteers of the GOP, which we all know is just another hideous tentacle of the New World Order, and they’re working on safer, faster, and more efficient delivery of watermelons to you, the consumer? How about you, the consumed.

It is clear to me that a handful of these diabolical pepos (known in their inner circles as Nosfruitratu) have survived the aeons, watching the whole of human history unfold, feeding on the blood of, well, cantaloupes presumably, building a fruity army of the undead, and waiting for their time to strike and enslave the human race.

Figure 1.1: The Blood Congress of the New Watermelon Order (NWO)

And now, with the implementation of their new delivery system imminent, it’s only a matter of time. They’ll be shipped on pallets to grocers worldwide and we’ll buy them and bring them unsuspectingly into our homes. The rest you can divine.

Morrissey and O’Neil may not even make it to the 2012 election. Soon, we’ll all be answering to Praetor Tsamma the Maleficent and his viceroy, Greenflesh the Seedless.

On the bright side, we’ll be the middle caste, between our cruel, mouthwatering rulers and the pumpkins. Filthy fucking pumpkins.