Company Mascots We Want to Send on a Death March

By Roode

I'm on a roll! To continue my "Things on TV I Want to Physically Hurt, Then Shit On" series, I'd like to expand my musings beyond brain hemorrhage causing jingle jangle commercial jingles. Yes, once they get into your head, you'll cut your own ears off to be free of the pain. But, we can do without ears. You tell me what the shit in this world is really worth listening too. Don't give me that artsy fartsy answer of "music." I love Alice In Chains just as much as Ren and Tresckow, but I would sacrifice hearing some of the best heroine and death oriented lyrics in the known universe if it meant no more shit grinning jingles.

Sure, Vincent van Gogh was batshit insane, but maybe there was a method to his madness.
He would only have to hear 50% of these ear canal rotting songs.

Our eyes, ladies and gentlemen... what would we be without our eyes? We would bump into shit constantly, be unable to watch Sons of Anarchy, and would miss out on some serious eye candy during the summer months.

Seriously, if I couldn't enjoy sights like this, I might as well be dead.

*Note: If you are blind and offended by my statement... No. Forget it. What the fuck are you doing on the web in the first place. This shit doesn't come in Braille.

Why would anyone even consider plucking out their own eyes? Seeing your parents bumping uglies on the kitchen table? Getting a glimpse of ANY man in a speedo? Well, yeah. But, what are the odds of that shit happening. Eh, the speedo thing plaques Europe, I'll give you that. However, there is a more sinister force that penetrates your inner sanctum like Michael Jackson... NO. Not this week. I'm nixing all MJ jokes from this damn column.

What the shit was I saying? That's right. There's a more sinister force out there that knows where you live and can get to you anytime it wants. It comes disguised as sequential images of douche bag wanna be celebrities, chefs, and (not enough) Hayden Panettiere.

Trust me. This Canadian is saluting the red, white, and blue.

Television provides another conduit for ass hair pulling, fucktarded bullshit devised to drive you tin foil hat wearing insane. What am I talking about now? Mascots. Company mascots, spokes people, whatever you want to call them, are an outright assault on all things ocular. Sonsabitches are everywhere. No matter where you flip to, there's always another one of those shit painting jackasses prancing around on TV. We want them to be deported to concentration camps. Admit it. I know you're thinking about it every time you see another asshat doing cart wheels for Vagisil. Shit like...

Burger King: The "King"
You know what's a brilliant advertising idea? Give up? How about creating a mascot that embodies every viewer's childhood fears? Smooth job, Burger King. You fuckers are making sandwiches without bread.

What is this thing supposed to communicate? It's sure as hell isn't the flame broiled taste of a grill kissed bacon cheeseburger. Using a stone faced, silent, pantsless creep with all the charm of a rapist doesn't quite hit the mark. The King is there, watching some dude sleep. He's there at some chick's bedroom window. The fucker is shoving his hand into random people's pants pockets on the street. Right, he's "giving money back." I'm sure it has nothing to do with copping a feel on an unsuspecting pedestrian's junk.

The King's next step to deflower Whopper "virgins."

Geico: Kash
While we're on the subject of outright nonsensical bullshit, let's devote some time to this bugged eyed, Mysto & Pizzi jamming motherfucker. Why, it's the money you could be saving with Geico! You asshole! That's cash you could have spent on porn, Quaaludes, or a hooker (sometimes the three come as a package).

This is another creepy bastard that just stares. It doesn't say anything, it's an inanimate stack of filthy 5 dollar bills. What the fuck does it want? So what? You opted for State Farm instead of Geico. Does that mean you're going to be haunted by this googly eyed prick until you switch? Here's an idea, pick the fucker up, rip his eyes off, and hit a strip club. Tear him apart, one bill at a time and cram them in a stripper's g-string. Now THAT makes financial sense!

Pictured: A much better investment than GM.

Geico: Cavemen
Geico is such a mascot shit generator, I had to put it on the list twice. I was on board the Geico caveman commercials in the beginning. They were short, funny, and semi witty. But, just like everything else on TV, the Man had to bludgeon our skulls with a once good thing. These mop heads are almost as tired and played out as Paris Hilton. Or, pretty much anything on the E! network (except The Soup, although McHale's NBC show sucks a massive amount of slug sphincter).

When did it all go downhill? The commercials were still bearable until around 2007. Shit, I was still drinking the Neanderthal kool aid when they launched their own micro site. Then, the executives had to piss all over it. They threw the caveman concept down on the ground, unzipped, and rained yellow all over its parade. You know what I'm talking about. This piece of rotting warthog shit: the TV series. I knew this was going to be the death knell for the whole concept. What made the commercials work was the quick timing and brevity. Stretch out that concept for a full 22 minutes and you have a televised suicide note. It redefined bad and not in the "so bad it's good" way. This was Teddy Z bad. OK, some of you children may not get that reference. How about this one? The show was "Jay Leno Show" bad.

Above: A crime against humanity.

Aflac: The Aflac Duck
How do you move insurance? Dub one of the most annoying voices in the history of mankind over a duck. I don't have anything against the duck, per say. I like ducks. Ducks are fine. I guess this is more of a hatred for Gilbert Gottfried.

Wikipedia identifies his "distinctively loud, obnoxious, rasping, grating voice" as a trademark. OK, fine. If that's the case, then sufferating pustules are the Bubonic Plague's tradmark. Barbed wire and zyclon b are Germany's. While we're at it, we can say male on male rape to banjo music is the trademark of the US South. No? Those aren't trademarks? Just because something's associated someone, object, or country doesn't necessarily mean it's a trademark. It just means Godfrey's act is a big old pile of annoying smothered in shit sauce. I wish that fucking duck would peck your larynx out.


Six Flags: Mr. Six
Take a good, long look at this fucker. That's right, take it all in. We don't even have a Six Flags within a thousand mile radius of here. But, that doesn't stop those corporate ass cracks from barraging us with this creepy, latex laden, fake geriatric ball buster.

Mr. Six, as they call him, dances like a scary epileptic patient to shitty Euro-trash pop music. If that wasn't enough, they gave the asshole his own bus to, apparently, roam around the country and pick up children. I wonder if this guy hangs out with the King. Jesus, now I feel unclean.

It's no wonder why these dill holes have gone bankrupt. Hey! Assholes! Your mascot is freaking everybody the fuck out! What the hell is wrong with you? You would have a better chance of dragging people to your playground of death if you advertised all the random animal attacks and appendage severing incidents.

I just don't have the words.

Sincerely,
Roode

Billy Mays - The Auto-tune Infomercial Ballad

By Tresckow

No, I haven't gotten off my ass to post another Tresckow masterpiece. But, we at the FWTC feel the need to pass along some pant-pissingly awesome YouTube tribute to the Great Bearded One in the sky (not God, the one in the blue shirt and khakis).

Congratulations, melodysheep. You have achieved the unachievable; a tribute worthy of the Church of Billy Mays.

(Keep an eye out for Scatman John kids)

Facebook: The Slum Lords of Social Media

By Ren

At some point in our lives, we've all lived in a shit hole. Whether in the projects of Boise or the academic ghettos of off campus housing, they all have one thing in common: the people who own it don't give a shit if the toilets flush in reverse or a family of possums set up shop in your underwear drawer. If you don't like it you can leave.

Pay your rent on time or you will be evicted from this paradise.

This is the 21st century (no shit). Slums aren't limited to real life anymore. There is "virtual" everything- virtual dating, virtual marriages, virtual mafia, virtual prostitutes, and even virtual homes. That's right, many of us have a particular place we "live" on the web. MySpace used to be the best neighborhood to hang your hat, but it's degenerated into the Old Detroit of social media.

Badly in need of ED 209.

The only really universal web community anymore is Facebook. I'll give you Linked In, but that's really more for business types who want to keep tabs on their competition, secretly looking for new jobs, or exploring another avenue of sucking up. OK, there are other social networks out there, but I think it's safe to agree that Facebook, for the time being, is the most popular and well used. I guess we can say Facebook is our interwebs home and landlord. Sure, everyone loved their digs. There weren't as many bullshit applications and outright spam like you would find on MySpace. It seemed more orderly and user friendly. Something about it make you feel comfortable and at home. But, behind that civilized, Norman Rockwell image, lurks one of the most corrupt and negligent slum lords you'll ever meet.

Something even worse than this.

Like millions of people who lack anything else to do, I built a Facebook page a few years ago. I fiddled around with the settings, privacy, and aesthetic shit. It wasn't without its charm. Then, the other shoe dropped and Facebook started ball tagging everyone with their random acts of bullshit.

1. Dicking with your profile settings:
This has happened to thousands of faithful users. One day, everything's hunky dory. You just finished joining every Jonas Brothers fan page that exists. You feel fulfilled. After changing your status message for the 50th time that day (everyone needs to know when you poop) you sign off, secure in the knowledge that your profile is worthy of some sort of Internet award. Something useful, not like that Pulitzer Prize crap. Maybe a lifetime supply of Irish whiskey, Trojans, and douche. I'm spit balling here.

Do they have whiskey scented?

Who are you kidding? You can't wait until morning to take another spin on Facebook. You're addicted, just like the rest of us. Go ahead. You know you want to. But, something is awry. Why the hell is only half my profile information showing? Why aren't the settings registering? Shit, none of the privacy settings I chose are working. No, asshole, I don't want my pic to be seen by people in federal prison. NO, do NOT give my address out to those serial rapists! For the last fucking time, STOP showing OJ Simpson as my grandfather! Who's fucking with me?

You've become the latest victim of something I like to call, "The Facebook-fuckedya." Sometimes it happens randomly. Other times it seems like you're the victim of a vendetta. All of the time, it sucks a mountain goat's ass. There's no rhyme or reason to it. It's Russian roulette. Sometimes the chamber has the bullet. Sometimes the revolver just goes "click." Once the Facebook fuckedya lands on you, it's hard as hell to escape it. It's a free social site. What the fuck do they care? You're not paying them. Maybe your profile was hacked. Maybe the server is fucked. Maybe Facebook hates your kind.

That's what I thought. Eat shit pug nuts.

2. Dicking with your pictures:

What's the equivalent of being robbed on Facebook? Having your pics swiped. No, no one hacked the system and stole your pics so he can print and show them off at the annual "Guess the bodily fluid stain" con. Facebook just decided to fuck with you.

Oh, fuck you.

Just one night they were gone. Again, no rhyme or reason. It lands on you like a glob of seagull shit. Go ahead, check. It won't do any good. Facebook has done its job well. Does this sound familiar?

Why can't I get into my photos? Horse shit! I just uploaded 5000 of my friend streaking through Mass after he got trashed on Listerine! What? "You do not have any photo albums." WTF? The hell I don't, mother fucker!

Or, better yet:
Why? What's wrong? Come on! Too much bare ass in it? Not enough? Fucking answer me!

3. Dicking with your access:
The aforementioned issues are bad enough. At least, you could gain access to the system to find out there was a problem. You can't even get in now. Correct screen name? Check. Correct password? Check. OK, I'll just reset the password, just in case. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Holy tap dancing Irish Jesus, what the fuck is taking Facebook so long to email me that confirmation code? Finally! OK, new password. SHIT! It's still cock blocking me.

Trust me. Pictures of actual cock blocking were horrific.

What?

What the fuck does this even mean?


That's the pot calling the kettle black, you sanctimonious assholes!

4. Outright not giving a shit:
Fine. Facebook is riddled with problems in the same way our national warning system it riddled with complete and utter ass pudding. We have a voice! We will be heard! Contact the administrators and give them an earful of your bitching.

Do it. Try to reach someone, fudge sack.

You follow the logical steps one would take in order to get to the "contact Facebook" page. The problem is that there is no direct route from A to B to C. If you want to get to the page with the feedback form, you first get dumped into what they call a Help Center.

All LIES!

Naturally, you select the "Contact Facebook" link. That's what they want you to do.

WTF? What does any of this have to do with contacting Facebook?

Nice try, but they've thought of that. Facebook and its bevy of third world tech agents don't want to actually speak to you. Instead, they throw you like a week old baloney sandwich into the trash that is their pre answered questions. Mostly, these FAQs are created to help the mouth breathing Velcro sneaker wearing mentally fuckedafied do basic things like log on and type. It's useless for the rest of us. No! I want real answers that don't read like Chinese stereo instructions, damn it!

Screw it. What's next? Hey, what's this?


Fucktastic. It's a Facebook users' blog chocked full of thousands of other confused and frustrated sons-a-bitches looking for a glimmer of hope. The blog is more of a sounding board about how much Facebook sucks leprechaun nuts than an actual helpful resource. Most of it of the posts are peppered with spelling errors that could technically put you in that windowless "special" class in junior high. Shit, shit, shit shit shit!

Me no git whi my profil cant be showed good.

The only way to contact Facebook is to stumble upon the "Hacked Profile" link. You saw it before, but you figured since your profile wasn't technically hacked, you had no business using it. Well, 45 minutes have passed and you're fuming with pipe bomb building rage! Fuck it! Fill the bastard out!

Why the hell would anyone want to be a "fan" of Facebook security?

You fill out the form and then Facebook slaps you in the face, yet again.

Working on getting this fixed as soon as you can?
When the fuck will that be?

Yuppers, they come right out and tell you that your problem is, in fact, your problem. They'll get to it if and when they have time to. Not a cotton pick'n moment before.

After some more wandering around the Help site, you finally find a bug report link. It's completely understandable why you were unable to find it in the two hours you've been trapped in Facebook help center hell. It's conveniently buried 27 aggravating pages in. Go on. Submit a "bug report" but the answer is the same.

"Although we're unable to reply to every bug report at this time, we may contact you for more details about the issue as we investigate the report. Thank you for taking the time to improve the site."

Translation: Fuck you.

Perhaps, one of the best examples of Facebook just not giving an elephant's shit comes from their own stock response. The same generic, automated script is posted to issues on the user blogs that are serious and can potentially deal the Dead Man's hand to your account and sanity.

"We are aware of the problem that you described and apologize for the inconvenience. Unfortunately, we do not have a specific date for when this issue will be resolved but hope to fix it as soon as possible. We appreciate your patience."

Thanks for contacting Facebook,
Catriona
User Operations Facebook

This is one of many automatic "piss off" responses spat out at the masses. This particular one was posted in October of 2007. The bug was posted in March of that year. The fucking problem still runs rampant all over Facebook over TWO YEARS LATER. Thanks for nothing Catriona, if that is your realy name.

Catriona?

What's the best thing to do when your Facebook profile is plagued with glitches, errors, and overall fucktarded problems? Well, this little Irish girl burned the city to save the people. My account is FUBAR? Fine. I'll level its ass.

Pictured: Lesser of two evils.

I deactivated my account and started over again. Sure, that was a complete pain in the ass and I lost a couple of years worth of electronic memories. Hindsight tells me that Facebook isn't a necessary part of life. Mankind existed before it, right? In theory, we don't need social media to function. Don't you remember what I said in the beginning of this article? Facebook is like heroin. I may not need it, but I fucking NEED IT!

Yes. Now give mama another fix.

4 Bad First Impresions: Facebook Request Disasters

By Adel

More and more of us old farts are getting into social media these days. I denounced MySpace years ago, until I got bored and opened an account. It wasn't so bad, actually. Then the "war" between MySpace users and Facebook users heated up. I swore that one social media site was more than enough. Consequently, I was wrong and, soon, was assimilated by the Facebook collective.

Exactly like this, but without the constant surveys and fan pages.

Those of us born in the 70's were harder to turn to the dark side. We're naturally suspicious of computer technology (as 1984 and The Terminator taught us to be). Slowly, though, the ice melted and we began to dabble in the Facebook universe. Occasionally, we find old friends. More often than not, we end up "friending" people we speak to on a regular basis. Either way, I've learned that the friend request process is a very delicate one. Both the requester and requestee have to watch their steps. This is especially true if this person is someone you haven't spoken to in a decade. The first thing you type will immediately tell the person on the other side of that DSL line who you are today and what level of crazy you've reached.

It takes talent to type without using your hands.

1. Friend Request: Stalker
"Hey! I haven't seen you in a long time! How are things? Are you still single? Living alone? I heard you're living at the same house we all used to hang out in. That's two miles on the left from the Sunoco, right? Do you have an alarm system? See you soon!"

What this says about the person
Having given up his passive creepy staring at people from across the room, he's graduated to proactively peeping from the bushes with a pair of high powered binoculars. This just may be the time to up his game and start jimmying his long lost friend's back window with a crowbar and seeing for himself if the whole "Squeal like a pig" thing is true.

How funny running into you here! At your house. In your bathroom...

The Proper Response:
Erase your hard drive, move to Idaho, and live under the assumed name of Stanley Finklebottom. You might want to get in gear before he's outside your front door with a can of Cool Whip and Vaseline.

This wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

2. Friend Request Response: Suicidal
"Hey, thanks for the friend request. How are things with you? Things suck here. I've been married and divorced twice, out of work, and they're going to foreclose on my house pretty soon. To top it all off, my feet smell like cheese. The doctors don't know why. I use half a bottle of Goldbond in each shoe, but it doesn't help. I'm so happy you friended me. Just the other night I was sitting at my computer cleaning my loaded gun thinking, 'What is there left? Would anyone notice if I just painted the wall with my brains?" Then, BAM! I get your friend request! That is just awesome!"

Does this mean Barney Fife was trying to kill himself the whole time?

What this says about the person
You were just surfing the net at 2 in the morning, because you heard you should never go to bed drunk enough to choke on your own vomit. Hendrix died that way. In an effort to sober up you wandered around Facebook and found this guy you haven't seen since freshman year in college. What made him different than the six thousand other friends you have on Facebook and never actually speak to? Well, it seems that you've accidentally became this guy's only reason for living. You were just hoping to sober up and not blow chunks all over your keyboard. Your plan went awry. Enjoy getting dozens of daily wall messages from Suicidal Sammy and living in constant fear that if you neglect to respond to one he may cancel his account with a syringe full of Clorox.

Sucker

The Proper Response
Click the "like" button for every one of his posts like you've never clicked before. You better not forget to accept his gifts on Farmtown. Not joining his Facebook Mafia may end up in the police finding a week old decomposing corpse sitting at the computer, a mouse in one hand and gun shot residue on the other.

Why haven't you accepted my Farmtown cow yet?

WHY HAVEN'T YOU ACCEPTED MY FARMTOWN COW YET!!

3. Type- Friend Request: Obsessive breeder
"Wow, it's you! I haven't seen you in forever! I just had to friend you. Do you still see the old gang? I don't much, these days. My family keep me busy! We have four children with number five on the way! They are my life! I just don't have time to keep track of our old friends. It's just go go go with the kids. Timmy has soccer practice, Sally is our cheerleader, Ralph has hockey, and Billy always has some sort of performance. I don't know how I lived without them! Do you have kids? Will you? When? I hope it's soon so you'll be able to understand the joy and live a life of purpose and meaning! Keep in touch!"

I can't believe this bitch found me.

What this says about the person
Her life completely revolves around her kids. She was living a shallow, meaningless existence until 8 pound children started shooting out her vagina. Now, it's no crime to love your children but, when it becomes a religion on par with Scientology, there's a problem. She's trying to make up for getting knocked up in junior year by immersing herself and living vicariously through her unruly, belligerent brats. Following this path could potentially lead to another Dana Plato or Michael Jackson. Yes, they may be successful for a time, but it ends in tragedy. Compared to this pompous baby factory, being raised by the totally heterosexual guys from My Two Dads would yield better results.

That's right, Mister Sweater Vest and Mister 80's Beard.
(Totally heterosexual)

If that wasn't bad enough, there's the end of message bitch slap. You cannot possibly know what fulfillment is, unless you have a few booger eaters. What's that? You don't have kids? Why not? Don't you feel useless? Shouldn't you throw yourself in front of a truck, then?

We do, so appreciate the subtle kick in the teeth.

The Proper Response
Tactfully remind her that you are completely aware that the father of her first kid was that functionally retarded guy from wood shop. Also, make sure to tell her that you can't wait to get together for a drink one night. Oh, wait, she has a litter of children. The closest she'll get to setting foot outside her house for a night on the town will be carting her brats to Chuck E Cheese's where their constant screaming will blend into the screaming of dozens of other whiny pizza eating bastards.

Pictured: fulfillment.

4. Type- Friend Request: Hopeless loser still clinging to high school
"Well look who it is. Mr. 'I'm too big to come to homecoming!" Just kidding. Man, you should come back! It's still crazy here. Nothing has changed. The old hangout is still nuts. Yea, I chill there most nights with the seniors. It's great. Just like old times! I'm still working at that 7-Eleven across the street. I'm so in with my buds, because I'll slip them cigarettes on the DL. Remember when we all hung out after that homecoming game in '94 when we all were like, whoa, and we totally stole that six pack of Meister Brau from Nate's dad? Shit, it doesn't get any better than that! Dude, I heard Nate got like a job being a doctor or something. Can you imagine? All that school stuff and no time to party? I hate it when guys lose their perspective like that. Gotta keep it real! You totally should visit! It'll be like old times. I'm pretty much free all week. Except for Saturdays. I have to take my mom to her electrolysis appointments then. Peace, bro! Seriously, dude, you can reach me anytime. I'm home right now if you want to call."

Before we get into the finer details, the office thought that it would be a good to present you with a simple, yet important mathematical equation. See if you can follow this.

This + That= Keep'in it real!

This + That= Complete sellout.

Or success, depending on you point of view.

What this says about the person
Saying this tosser peaked in high school is an understatement. There have been plenty of people who have done the same that, at least, managed to have families or hold down a job that doesn't require pumping gas or making change for a twenty. It's as if a space-time vortex opened over this guy and he is forever stuck in 1994. Only, he has a lot less hair and a lot more gut today. His class has moved on; even that functionally retarded guy that was in wood shop had a kid and works part time sweeping hair at Cost Cutters. Another issue is that a thirty- something guy probably shouldn't be hanging around 17 and 18 year old high school students. That's how one ends up running into that pesky Megan's Law.

Better study this map. It may be your only chance.

The Proper Response
Smile and nod. Who are you to judge, right? Sure, you work 50 hours a week, have a mortgage, and have friends over 18. Hell, you're even married to a real life woman. Maybe you aren't "keeping it real" like that poor Nate bastard that has been stricken with an MD and financial success. The sudden impact of your high school buddy's crash into the brick wall of progress surely left him somewhat brain damaged.

The truly tragic thing from the accident was that he is permanently stuck on 1994 colloquialisms, fashion, motivation, and events.

"Dude, what's the haps with the Lewinsky trial? Ehh, ehhh. Any more official late night presidential packages that need to be handled?"

*Sigh*

Throw the guy a bone and accept his friend request. Just make sure he doesn't get a hold of your email address or telephone number. You may want to keep your visits home under wraps, too. Be forewarned, sometimes this type of Facebook illness can be communicable. If you happen to run into him when you are in the area visiting your family, don't panic. Although, socializing with him for more than twenty minutes is a slippery slope. It starts out as a short catching up, but can easily turn to you hanging out at the gas station drawing penises on the Cosmopolitan magazines. Don't get too deep into this tar pit. Struggling only makes you sink faster.
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When not writing for The Fuse Was Too Cold, Adel enjoys slaving over research day in, day out to support her book. A book few will read. A book that may never be taken out of its original plastic.

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