Stupid is as stupid does

Sometimes the stupidity we humans display is mind-boggling, don’t you think? Potential causes are aplenty. Some can clearly be pinned on genetics, biology, and just plain ol’ fashioned bad luck of drawing the short straw. Yeah, that’s a pisser. But, what about societal stupidity – plain “learned” stupidity based on being self-centered and unwilling to sacrifice one iota for a more collective good?


Don’t think it happens? Let me present case in point #1 (and, it will be the only case, because I fear my martini will lose its chill, and that won’t be good for anyone).

You're certainly familiar with Sun Chips. You know, those chips you think are good for you because they’re called “Sun Chips” – evokes some kind of vegan utopia of natural ingredients and low fat content. Anyway, a little while ago they introduced new packaging – a completely biodegradable package; the first of its kind, made entirely of plant matter, not plastic.

Earlier this month, Frito-Lay announced they were going to abandon the innovative, eco-friendly, “green” packaging. Now, why would they do something that stupid, you ask?

Short answer: because people are stupid.

Long answer: Consumers complained vigorously. The roots of the complaints, however – in my opinion – didn’t lie with the bag, but rather consumers themselves. People just aren’t willing to sacrifice one bit of modern convenience and pampering. Frito-Lay is discontinuing the bag because of complaints that it’s too loud.

Yes, you heard that correctly, it’s loud.

Go ahead. Look it up online. Go to YouTube – there’re a lot of videos out there about the topic. True, the packaging is louder, I'll even admit it's just flat out loud, but for cryin’ out loud, it’s completely compostable and biodegradable. In no time at all, the package turns into fertilizer. Alternative plastic bags, on the other hand, continue to pile up in the oceans for generations. Not generations of marine wildlife; generations of stupid human wildlife.

So, what’s good for Mother Nature and the planet goes away because of bunch of fat, sodium-addicted, mental Neanderthals are too f’ing lazy to put their guilty pleasure snack in a bowl so they can better hear Jerry Springer while they sit on their vinyl covered sofas?

Are you f’ing kidding me?

I need a drink. Now, where did I put that glass?

This morning’s sign of the apocalypse

There are a few tell tale signals that society is going to hell in a hand basket. The first is that people sit around on bar stools all day criticizing others while offering nothing productive in return. Yes, it hits a little close to home, but it’s rather unavoidably obvious, now isn’t it?


An even more obvious sign that the apocalypse is hitting, though, lies with the simple observation of Monday morning habits in the office.

First off, it’s a generally accepted rule of a civilized society that the first person in the office – particularly on a Monday – does not make a pot of decaf coffee first.

Never!

Bloody hell, people, that’s a mortal sin.

But, wait, that’s not all!

Making decaf may have been a mistake. Granted, a mistake that earns one a non-stop, shinkansen bullet train ticket to hell; but, in the end, just a mistake. There’s still hope for saving your entire family from a fate of eternal damnation. That punishment is reserved for the cretin idiots who stop making coffee after their pot of decaf is completed.

WTF?

Would it kill you to at least start a pot of “real” coffee before you slink off to your cube and your miserable, decaffeinated existence?

There was once an age of civilization where people dressed up to fly on commercial airplanes, where restaurants, movies, and everyplace in-between weren’t disturbed with incessant mobile phone chatter, and when people had the collective common decency and courtesy to brew more than just their own shitty decaf coffee.

Yes, the apocalypse is upon us, and just one more reason to slip a little Bailey’s Irish Crème into your morning coffee.

Beer Provided By the Company – What’s Not to Like?

Whoa!

Wait a second.

A news story just aired about workers striking at the Carlsberg brewery in Copenhagen, Denmark. When you think of a strike at a mechanized factory, you tend to think of one of two possible roots. First, naturally, is pay. Everyone wants the check – a little do rey me for the weekend festivities. Second, particularly in light of industrial accidents and the like, is the working environment – safety. After all, who wants to die at work, even if you are well-paid?

So, imagine the surprise along the bar when the reasoning for the strike was broadcast – are you sitting down? - Workers are striking because they’re upset at the changes made to a drinking on the job policy.

Come again?

The only drinking on the job policy we have here in the states is “Don’t drink on the job!” Seems the Danes are a bit perturbed because now they can no longer drink whenever they want to while on the job (they actually used to have coolers spread out along the plant). Rather, now, drinking is restricted to the canteen during their 30-minute lunch break.

Oddly, drivers are exempt from the rule. Since they work primarily away from the factory, they actually get to TAKE THREE BEERS FROM THE CANTEEN WITH THEM WHEN THEY GET IN THEIR TRUCK!

WTF?

The company says there are alcohol switches on the trucks – if you’re drunk, they won’t turn on. I suppose it’s okay to drive a multi-ton truck in Denmark with just a slight buzz.

Previous to the new Draconian policy change, the rule only stated that you couldn’t be drunk at work. I wonder how many accidents they have at the plant? What about beer-fueled sexual harassment? I wonder the cost of beer guts alone to the overall health plan costs?

Those of you who know me know that I tend to be anti-union as it is. This just cements it. I’m of half the mind to fly over to Denmark and become a scab worker, just to take advantage of the 30-minutes of free beer that I’ll actually get paid to enjoy.

Note to Carlsberg workers: If you don’t want your jobs, there’s a bunch of dudes over here that will gladly take them (oh, and the beer too!). Now shut the fuck up and pass the bottle opener.

Tweet up your drink order @RayHartjen

Speidi – At Last, the Final Chapter

For a whole twenty-one seconds this week, talk in the bar was about the Speidi breakup. You know, Heidi whatshername and Spencer whatever. The couple that is, and if there’s a God, soon to be “was,” famous primarily for being famous. Why they’re famous, I’m not really sure. It’s from some TV show MTV – the beacon on riveting intellectual entertainment.

Google tells me it’s The Hills. It’s in its fifth or sixth season, which means they’re approximately one and a half million idiots out there who get more stupid by each passing episode. Unbelievable.

Now, I don’t know much about Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, but I do know just a little to really not care for them at all. First exposure was a commercial when they were on “I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here.” Please. You’re only on that show if you’re such a minor celebrity as to not be eligible for minor celebrity status of contestants on “Dancing with the Stars.” In the clip, they were throwing a tantrum, talking about how big of stars they were, etc. Huh? Heard that Spencer wanted to be a Navy SEAL. That was until he found out that the SEALs don’t take pussies into their outfit.

Anytime, Spencer – you and me. I’ll fight you in back yard. Just give me time to finish my martini and it’s on.

Second exposure to Speidi was the news this winter of Heidi undergoing a whole host of elective plastic surgery procedures. Like 10 or something. I didn’t know there were ten different parts of your body you could get plastic surgery on. Knowing her, she got one of SoCal’s hottest new procedures, the labiaplasty. Yeah. You read that right. Plastic surgery for a woman’s hoochie. People, I can’t make this kind of shit up – look right here for yourself. If one’s not desperate to appear on a “episode” of MILF Hunter, why would one opt for this?

Anyways, we all saw divorce coming when news broke that Heidi was replacing Spence as her manager, replacing him a psychic, of all qualified people. Exactly what kind of management does someone like her need? Here’s betting that before long, the only work Heidi will be able to get is the receptionist at her psychic/manager’s office.

As for Spencer, he’ll fade to some trailer park, working weekend shifts at the car wash and turning tricks at night along Hollywood Blvd.

And, with that, we can turn our attention to more important matters, like inventing the discreet urinal to place in front of a barstool – there’s just way too much up and down over the course of a night, right?

Tweet me your drink request @RayHartjen

Catching Tiger by His Tale

Thanksgiving is football.  It's as plain and simple as that.  It's the time of year that we can escape from the wuss sports - namely baseball and golf. 

Except this weekend, this year.

Across every TV in the bar, non-stop, scrolls the sound bite-sized story of Tiger Woods' "serious" car accident.  C'mon, give me a break.  He gets in a car accident and has some cuts to his lips?  Let's all take a deep breath, gather our composure, and cancel the planned candle-light vigil. 

Toward the end of yesterday, news broke that Tiger and his wife/"rescuer," Elin, declined a police interview investigating the accident.  Saturday, they played the same card, asking the police to please return on Sunday.

WTF?

I'm just imagining me getting in a car accident at 2:30 am, being found laying in the street "slipping into and out of consciousness," and trying to tell the police to please come back in a couple of days to ask me what happened.  Its says right here, if you're not a celebrity in our celebrity-crazed society, you're quickly two fingers into a full body cavity search down at the precinct before you can utter the words, "Miranda rights."

I'm interested in Tiger's tale, whenever he chooses to tell it.  First, how the hell do you get in an accident pulling out of your driveway?  How fast do you have to be peeling out of your driveway to lose control, bounce off a fire hydrant, and slam into a tree hard enough to 1) knock yourself "in and out of conciousness," 2) make a sound loud enough to alert your wife inside your mansion, and 3) require said wife to break the rear window with a golf club in order to rescue you? 

That tale outlined above?  Iimpossible, of course.  Rather, I will suggest the story will undoubtedly be the age-old story, told many times over the history of mankind.  It goes something like this:  Rich man meets hot nanny who works for a competitor.  Rich man marries beautiful woman, and has a rich, beautiful kid.  Rich man goes on a trip and end ups meeting another hot woman (or two).  Somehow the wife finds out, and confronts him.  Rich man tries to escape in his car.  Beautiful wife chases him with golf club.  Rich man wrecks car.  Beautiful wife clocks him with golf club. 

All I'm saying is that this Tiger Tale is building toward one huge divorce settlement, and should keep the tabloids busy long enough for them to forget how to spell "Lindsay Lohan."

Now, if you'll please pardon me - I need to get back to this one last gimlet before me and the boys head out to re-enact "the accident."  First stop, Las Vegas and the other women.

Backfiring the Fox News Boycott

A great thing about modern bars is the ubiquitous nature of WIFI connections.  Like a double tall, non-fat latte, you can get one on every corner.

Just now "stumbled upon" an interesting web page.  It's from the MoveOn Organization - "Democracy in Action."  Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.  Anyway, it's an online petition to sign that encourages President Obama to continue his boycott of Fox News.

Dudes, I think they're on to something.  Let's start a petition that asks every politician to boycott ALL networks.  We'd never have to see the lying bastards again!

Brilliant!

By the way, I signed the petition and left a comment asking them to keep Obama off all the networks.  Something tells me not to answer any knocks on the door at home.

Putting the Fun Back Into "Fun Sized"

October brings two things of cultural significance. One, is Octoberfest, and a great reason to get together and eat, drink, and be obnoxious. The other, of course, is Halloween, a great reason to get together and eat, drink, and be obnoxious, only this time wearing a goofy costume.

Remember trick or treating and stumbling across the "holy grail" - full-sized candy bars? It was paradise found, and you quickly circled to see if you could get to the house for a repeat visit before the bucket was empty and the front porch light turned off.

All too familiar were the little "fun size" bars. You know, the little bitty candy bars. I hated those damn things. Who said they were "fun" anyway? Fun, we all know, was full-sized. It's like that for everything, including candy. Especially candy.

But, now there's an option even smaller than "fun size." I don't think there's a name for it. It's just these little, tiny mini-bites. Not even a single serving. Taking a blind taste test, you might not even have a big enough bite to discern exactly what candy bar you're almost tasting. The only good thing about the little bites is that it makes the crappy little "fun size" way more palatable in comparison.

So, that's what it took to position "fun size" in a more favorable light.

There's a lot of things that makes being a kid better today than in years past - PlayStation 3, mobile phones, ubiquitous pizza delivery, etc. Little tiny packages of candy ain't one of 'em.