Now that another year has closed and we reminisce about things in our lives from 2007 that we would like to forget, I would like to propose a list of three items/ideas that pop culture should eliminate for 2008. All of the following items have become excessive, annoying, and debilitating towards humanity’s hopeful progression, and should be purged and burned without hesitation for sentiment or fond recollection. No remorse or time for such behavior, for if these items/ideas do not vanish now that the ball has dropped in Times Square, the consequences of their existence upon society may endure even longer than the consequences you are personally enduring from insisting on a stranger’s kiss after a mind loaded with cheap champagne.
The Butterscotch Scarf
Who did this? Was it the GAP, Nordstrom, or some greater manufacturing whore? Nobody can be sure, but if I see the plaid patterned layering of yellow, orange, and white with thin red and black lines winding around someone’s woolen neck-cover in the coming year, heads are going to fucking roll. This garment seems to adorn the nape of every high school prep, wallflower business yuppie, and fallen fashionista in a blustery climate from late-October until mid-March. Someone has to be found responsible for presenting a piece of fabric to society that is unable to serve as a complimenting counterpart to any article of clothing; not even, your father’s camel-skin bomber with a brown corduroy collar matches this eyesore. So I ask upright members of society to grab and pull each end of the butterscotch scarf, if it is found around someone’s windpipes in 2008. Sweet release will ensue, and progression will applaud.
Dancing with the Stars
Oh my fucking God! When did viewing unheralded E-List celebrities waltz and samba on our television sets become the one commonality every human being’s existence shares? I refuse to have lunch with my co-workers during the fall months when this television show airs, for fear that I may have to subject my mind to the idea of them all watching Master P stumble over his size thirteens to the brass blares of a twelve-piece band, and having the sense to pick up their touchtone phones to pay three dollars to ‘cast a vote’ that will move him into the quarterfinals to face the ever-competent brother of an obscure member of Maroon 5. Oh my fucking God! I ask anyone who encounters a supporter of such vile trash to immediately discredit their reputation and dignity; only your favorite family members are allowed sparing to the societal exile you must cast.
Wolfgang Puck
The Butterscotch Scarf
Who did this? Was it the GAP, Nordstrom, or some greater manufacturing whore? Nobody can be sure, but if I see the plaid patterned layering of yellow, orange, and white with thin red and black lines winding around someone’s woolen neck-cover in the coming year, heads are going to fucking roll. This garment seems to adorn the nape of every high school prep, wallflower business yuppie, and fallen fashionista in a blustery climate from late-October until mid-March. Someone has to be found responsible for presenting a piece of fabric to society that is unable to serve as a complimenting counterpart to any article of clothing; not even, your father’s camel-skin bomber with a brown corduroy collar matches this eyesore. So I ask upright members of society to grab and pull each end of the butterscotch scarf, if it is found around someone’s windpipes in 2008. Sweet release will ensue, and progression will applaud.
Dancing with the Stars
Oh my fucking God! When did viewing unheralded E-List celebrities waltz and samba on our television sets become the one commonality every human being’s existence shares? I refuse to have lunch with my co-workers during the fall months when this television show airs, for fear that I may have to subject my mind to the idea of them all watching Master P stumble over his size thirteens to the brass blares of a twelve-piece band, and having the sense to pick up their touchtone phones to pay three dollars to ‘cast a vote’ that will move him into the quarterfinals to face the ever-competent brother of an obscure member of Maroon 5. Oh my fucking God! I ask anyone who encounters a supporter of such vile trash to immediately discredit their reputation and dignity; only your favorite family members are allowed sparing to the societal exile you must cast.
Wolfgang Puck
The other night I am shopping for a frozen pizza to cook at the abode and what do I see, but the pastry face of this incompetent, womanizing fool of fortune trying to sell me an eight dollar pie, which is equivalent to one single serving. Puck you! I accepted your face invading the canned soup aisle, and only grimaced when I first noted your name slapped on the marquee of restaurants in seemingly every airport. But now you are trying to “Eat Love Live” in the frozen food aisle at the Safeway in Charles Village. Go away! Nobody should justify paying this amount for a cheese pizza, unless seven of the dollars go towards some undermining fund that supports George Foreman’s desire to develop an affordable rival to your ninety dollar rice cooker. Wolfgang, it’s one-part grain and two-parts H2O, you rapacious knockoff.
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