D-Trump Dropping it Like it’s Haute (and Song of the Day)

If you haven’t seen it, Donald Trump took precious moments away from his 2020 campaign to shower Puerto Ricans with American generosity.  Nothing says “White America is here to help you” like mushroom tipping a bunch of Puerto Rican Oompa Loompas in the face with the Brawny Man.  Who cares about delivering internet and power, I won’t sleep until we’ve cut down the entire Amazon Rainforest to get these mother fuckin’ Puerto Ricans, on these mother fuckin’ paper towels.  Those are going to be some chaffed assholes down there and they haven’t even digested their pension obligations yet.  Oh it’s going to be a surprise, A RUDE, PAINFUL SURPRISE.

Now time for some self awareness:

Are you fucking kidding me?  These guys couldn’t land a touchdown with their wives.  Or side pieces.  Speaking of having a main bitch, and a mistress, and a couple of girl friends, being so hood rich, today’s song of the day is Head of the State by Baracka Flacka Flames.

An image for my girls still at the office tonight:

And finally, the McLaren P1, because a girl can dream, right?

Roping off a $1.2 million car with a plastic barrier chain?  Nice, McLaren.  Maybe it’s time you Brexit from the auto industry and focus on pushing cheap hats and questionably sourced keychains like Ferrari.  AHHH SKEET SKEET SKEET!

And finally, Chick-fil-A has been rubbing off on Jimmy Johns (assuming the Bible says that’s okay):

Nothing bespeaks “thank god we live in America” like a black guy desperately trying to strip himself of ownership-administered shackles.  I don’t know, that meat and bread on the right looks a little gay, over under Chick-fil-A walks from the deal?

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Random Bidtits (10/2/2017)

Already one posting in on the day and we already have too many updates for our dear Supreme Reader.  And that is absolutely NOT an allusion to LRM (lil’ rocket man). But still, this is all the news that’s fit to print (read: publish and hope some lonely fool stumbles upon MAM).

First off, this is for my foodies.  Who likes my dancing carrot?!?

Clever, right?  I feel like all other carrot jokes are old, tired, and are often rooted in stupid plays on words.  Speaking of bad jokes, Donald Trump is in the news again.  This time, he’s ripping on gun violence on the third coast.  Chicago can’t catch a break – just look at the images from the #1 police scanner app:

“Police shooting in Chicago.”  Really?  Attacking Chicago, again?  Easy political points to be won, so I get it.  And the police in Chicago need to stop targeting based on racial profiling.  The blacks in Chicago have it nearly as bad as those in London:

I read “enhanced background checks” and I see visions of Rummy at Abu, cracking the whip at a mountain of male flesh, precariously balanced on top of a well lubed twister mat since replaced with an original copy of the constitution.

And a penultimate thought, shitty ass packaging:

“Enlarged to show texture.”  A) hardly enlarged, see accompanying cookie and B) texture?  What texture?  The photos are yellow shapes with dots.  Ya heard?

And finally, a thought from our very own Meditative Mandarin: there is some beautiful irony in a staunchly anti-marijuana attorney general whose last name is “Sessions.”

The Most Embarrassing Private Jet Flight Of All Time

This story is stolen from this source.

Before a company goes public, the highest level executives embark on a multi-city tour with their investment bankers to drum up support for the upcoming IPO. This trip is called a roadshow and since the group will typically visit dozens of cities on a tight schedule, a private jet is the preferred means of transportation. During a roadshow, it’s not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesn’t mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild night out in whatever town they are in, complete with thousand dollar dinners and endless alcohol. No matter how hard the group parties the night before, the private jet will lift them off to their next destination very early the next morning.

Just for a minute, pretend you’re an investment banker traveling with some very important clients on one of these roadshows. Now imagine that you spent the previous night drinking way beyond your limit only to be startled out of bed by a piercing 6:30 am wake up call. In an attempt to get your head and body feeling remotely human again, you scarf down some waffles, eggs, bacon and at least two glasses of coffee at the hotel’s breakfast buffet before jumping on the shuttle to the private airport. Within a few minutes of arriving at the airport, your entire group is seated and the plane begins to taxi down the runway. At this point you might feel a bit of relief as the morning’s blur subsides. All you have to do is sit back and relax for the one hour flight to the next city.

There’s just one problem. In your rush to get out of the hotel, down to breakfast and onto the plane you forgot to do one very crucial thing. Go to the bathroom. And I’m not talking about peeing. You have a stomach full of dinner, desert, drinks, eggs, waffles and coffee churning around your lower intestine at 30,000 feet. But that’s not the worst part. True horror sets in when you realize you’re not on a spacious 20 person G5 with couches, beds, lay-z boys and a fully tucked away private bathroom. No, on this day you are traveling on a six-person puddle jumper sitting shoulder to shoulder with your clients and co-workers. But wait, somehow the story gets even worse…

This following nightmare is a 100% fully verified true story. It that happened to a very unlucky investment banker who has asked to remain anonymous for obvious reasons. He sent the story in to the amazing satirical twitter page “Goldman Sachs Elevator” (@GSElevator) which you need to follow immediately if you aren’t already. GSElevator was kind enough to let us re-post the full account of this incredible real life horror story below…

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it’s percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn’t more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to shit my pants. “Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five” I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can’t afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don’t see a door?” I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, “Well, we don’t really have one per se.” She continues, “Technically, we have one, but it’s really just for emergencies. Don’t worry, we’re landing shortly anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency,” I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, “There. The toilet is there.” For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, “If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it’s under there. There’s a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that’s it.” At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.

I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The “toilet” seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our fucking client. Our fucking female fucking client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” That’s all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I’m doing.

Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I’m joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.

I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet’s virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.

I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It’s an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I’m going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that’s not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” briefly comes to mind.

I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren’t sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.

Random Bidtits (8/30/2017)

Banging through some life observations and cool shit from the last few weeks:

1)  Here is an article from the Wall Street Journal with some stunning photos of undersea life: Into the Deep: The Underwater Photography Awards.

2)  Here is an article from The New Yorker that is absolutely worth your time but will take a while to get through: Donald Trump’s Ghostwriter Tells All.  You won’t find a single surprise throughout the article.  Orange you glad I found this?

3)  Incoming book recommendation!  As a rule, I typically don’t read self-help books but this one came strongly recommended and I pass that on to you.  It’s: The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck: A Counterintuitive Approach to Living a Good Life by Mark Manson.  It’s a quick read and worth your time if you’re open minded.  Check out the Amazon reviews in the link.  I finished this last week after reading four Agatha Christie books last month.  Yes, Agatha Christie is the Goosebumps of adulthood but it’s easy and light and quick.  I did see a great Arrested Development shout out in the back of one of her books (also, look at those prices!):

And the Arrested Development connection:

4)  Quick, somewhat terrifying side note.  I cringe when I see the words “clinger” and “loosening” used in the same sentence:

5)  I spent last weekend in the back country of Virginia and West Virginia and it was absolutely gorgeous.  World renowned white water rafting, spelunking, The Greenbrier (including A TRUE CROQUET COURT!!!), the Omni and it’s surrounding thermal springs, and the New River Gorge Bridge (as seen on the back of the West Virginia quarter).  The Greenbrier is well worth your time.  However, there was some subtle racism under the banner of “southern charm”:

Which in reality looked like this:

There was also a memorial highway in honor of the armed forces…sponsored by the one and only West Virginia Garden Club, Inc.  You know, that’s an obvious overlap.

Also came across a new food group that may need to replace pork rinds at our next bro-get-together:

As well as a gas station WITH RACING FUEL:

And the nerdiest corner I’ve ever walked into:

My neckbeard grew three sizes that day.

6)  And finally, I saw the license plate below which reminded me of a terrific scene from Family Guy.

EAA AirVenture Oshkosh 2017

Happy flippin’ Friday!  I had the wonderful opportunity to partake in the EAA AirVenture Oshkosh event this year out in Cheese Country, USA.  Below are some of the photos and videos from the event (if anything, make sure you watch the four short videos).  Videos are video one, video two, and video three.  Oh, nearly forgot video four.  DEFINITELY watch them – they’re about 8-10 seconds each.  The videos don’t do the experience justice; I can’t begin to describe just how loud these things were during the fly-bys.  And for the record(ish), I may or may not be an FAA certified pilot.  When my flight club hears about this, the shit’s gonna hit the fan!

Today’s song of the day has to be Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins.  These beasts of burden are capable of bombing North Korea back into the…North Korean age.  ‘Merica.

“Oh, my! Artoo! Can you hear me? Say something!”

Look what they did to Artoo!  I felt like I was pissing into his mouth.  Separately, I stumbled across an amazing boat name:

If you can’t read it, it’s “Wasted Seaman.”  Try and top that (okay that sounds worse than expected).  Speaking of great names, came across another one this week:

Also, came across the worlds best company name and logo.  How perfect given that National Day of the Cowboy is celebrated on the fourth Saturday of every July.  How baller is this:

Reagan be praised.