I Feel Doody-bound to Write About This…

So, this is a thing. Cottonelle is asking viewers of this commercial to come up with clever euphemisms for the combination of wiping your ass with both TP and “flushable wipes.” Gross.

Now, obviously, I could visit their site and add my own suggestions for this process. But I’m pretty sure that any entries with appropriate words like “shit,” “poop” and “excrement” will be filtered (heh) – not to mention, I don’t want Cottonelle showing up on my list of “Likes” on Facebook. So, here’s what I’ve come up with so far, presented without the stifling censorship of the Kimberly-Clark corporation. Feel free to drop (heh) your own suggestions in the comments section.

  • Crusty Crack Crap Crammer Combo
  • Dingleberr-E-radicator
  • Excrementary, Dear Watson a.k.a. No Shit, Sherlock
  • Bunghole Boogie-Woogie
  • Smears Johnny!
  • 50 Shades of Brown
  • The Origin of Feces
  • The Hole Shebang
  • Diarrhea-nother Day
  • Searching for Klingons on Uranus
  • Better Than a Corn Cob
  • The Number Two-Step
  • Rock, Paper, Shitters
  • From Shart Minds Come Shart Products
  • The Doody Free Shop
  • Shit’s About to Get Real
  • The Karl Rove

Also, just while on the subject of Cottonelle: their TP is the most dingleberry-inducing product I have ever used and it is banned from both my home and my bottom.

Keep Smiling, Keep Shining…

Drat – I realized I forgot to reattach my beam rack and trunk to my bike this morning. Meaning that despite packing my gym togs in my backpack, I don’t have my sneakers or padlock with me – thus being forced to skip the gym (again!) and instead spend the evening comparing the various models of Hoverounds and Jazzy Chairs to determine which is most appropriate for my active lifestyle*.

But, lucky for me, I’ve got friends who’ll help out. Or should I say, “lucky” for me, I’ve got “friends” who’ll “help out.”

Me: UGH. I forgot half my stuff for the gym, so now I can’t go. Actually, I have my clothes, but not my padlock. OH WELL – guess I’ll have to go home and finish off the Freixenet before it goes flat…

Compulsive gym-goer pal: I’ve got a lock. Here.

Me: Oh… Um, yeah. Thanks. But I’ll never remember the combination.

CGP: It’s (easily remembered 3-character alpha-numeric combo).

Me: Oh… Um… Well, I don’t have my flip-flops to wear in the shower. And my toenail is kinda effed up right now, so I’m sure I’d get a fungal infection immediately. It’s a total cootie vector.

CGP: I’ve got some extra flip-flops. Here.

Me: …

Me: …

Me: ALL RIGHT! I’LL GO! Jesus…

CGP: Have a great weekend!

That’s what friends are for!

Oh, and she also implied that I’m fat – which is actually an improvement. She usually just states it unequivocally. Also, her name rhymes with Shmemily.

Perche, Olive Garden?

I’m not a particular fan of chain restaurants – but I realize that they serve a purpose. I have even eaten in more than one – though typically in places like Honolulu, Dallas or the Cancun airport, where dining options are not on par with places like SF or NYC.  So, while they may not be to my taste, I don’t bear them any particular ill-will.

Save, that is, for the Olive Garden. I just hate them so much. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten in one – though I am quite confident that the food is lousy. But that’s not why I hate them.

I can’t stand that they portray themselves as serving food that is in some way authentically Italian. They crow about their “Tuscan cooking school,” which I was shocked (shocked!) to learn is fictitious. But one need look no further than what they actually serve to know that this food is the opposite of Italian cuisine, which often relies on fresh and simple ingredients – not factory-prepared, fat-laden, reheated gut-bombs.

Their latest “specialty” is something they call “pastachettis” – cheese-encrusted, cheese-stuffed pasta, served with sausage covered in a “sun-dried tomato Alfredo sauce” (whatever the fuck that is) and then topped with mozzarella. This single entree contains over 75% of the calories that an adult should eat in an entire day – and twice the fat. And don’t even get me started on the concepts of primi piatti and secondi piatti.

So, yeah, that’s all gross and annoying – but what chaps my hide the most is the pronunciation of “pastachetti.” Obviously, it’s just a made-up name (like an “enchirito” from Taco Bell) – but if they really want to stick to their ruse of “authenticity,” Olive Garden needs to at least learn the language!

As spelled, “pastachetti” should be pronounced with a hard “c”. In Italian, “ch” followed by an “e” or an “i” is pronounced like the “k” sound in English. But Olive Garden is pronouncing “ch” phonetically, following the rules of English. In Italian, a “c” followed by an “e” or an “i” is pronounced “ch” – for example, La Cenerentola, fettucini, ciao. (And as long I’m ranting, to all who order bruschetta in public, it takes a hard “c” due to the presence of the “h” after the “c” – “brooshetta” is not a thing.)

Also, to pluralize an Italian word, one adds “i” or “e” (depending on the gender of the word) – not “s”. So calling this grossness “pastachettis” is nonsensical – it is already pluralized.

Finally, the slogan, “When you’re here, you’re family” makes me hurl. Especially in extra-creepy scenarios like this one in which the mom seems to be hitting on her son…