Random Bidtits (10/4/2017)

We begin with this:

I’m assuming this readership is aware of the term “honey pot.”

Next, a stellar quote from our Dealmaker in Chief: “The press is very powerful but it lasts for, both good and bad, lasts for a finite period of time. The one thing about the press is that it’s fleeting. It’s Fleet Street. You know, that’s why they called it Fleet Street. You know that, right? I just actually made that up.”  That’s pure gold.  Speaking of Trump,

I guess this means we won’t see Trump Torre any time soon.

And finally, Bazzers removing the logos on their bottles:

Turns out the San Fernando Valley cares more about intellectual property theft / economic espionage than the Chinee and Ruskies.

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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.”

Song of the Day (10/2/2017)

Salutations!  It’s my fancy way of saying…hello!  Today’s song of the day is a new one: it’s What Lovers Do by Maroon 5 and SZA.

So we all know of Martin Shkreli (aka Pharma Bro) and how much of an anus he is, but did you know that he has two unexpected doppelgängers?  The first being American conservative commentator Ben Shapiro:

And the second being Steve Burns’ replacement on Nick Jr’s Blue’s Clues, Donovan Patton:

Eerie, isn’t it?  Moving right along to this:

Are you a self-proclaimed coffee aficionado?  Lover of chocolate chip cookies?  Well!  Then you’ll detest this shit.  Admittedly, I’m one for the flavored creamers – some of them are too good not to enjoy.  But this chocolate chip cookie shit is disgusting.  Don’t buy, don’t try.  Speaking of not trying, make sure you don’t try to go to key west in the next two weeks.

Unless you’re looking to go south, see some sparks fly, and get wet.  Am I right, girls?  And finally, some car stuffs for my autophiles.  The first is a Ferrari with some epic decals (remember, racing stripes make a car go faster):

And a final thought for my AD thrill seakers:

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 (9/20/2017)

The below is a urologist…and an actual person:

For those of you not getting it, that’s Dr. Dick Tapper, Urologist.

WTF is going on with all of these hurricanes in the Gulf?!?

First there was Harvey.  Then there was Irma, which was below initial expectations.  Then there was Jose…following the media spectacle that was Harvey and Irma, Jose never garnered the same attention – getting national coverage is tough and that’s one wall Jose couldn’t climb.  And now Maria.  But how do you solve a problem like Maria?  You stand up to it and stare it down in the face.  You make it your property, like vintage Batman did:

And finally, Warheads flavored lifting supplements followed by blatant concept theft:

I’ll leave you with a thought: I love the idea of colored toilet paper but then I can’t wipe effectively in low-light situations.  Amirite.

Happy Ides of the Ides of March!  And Happy Ides of September, brah!

Yo, home girl!  What’s good?  Happy Friday!  Random thought a good hombre shared with me this week: you can’t spell “advertisements” without “semen” between the “tits.”  Now you know!

Like that joke?  Well, Reagan be with you.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been taking creatine or because I’ve been pounding my clamhammer more than usual, but I’ve been having some serious issues with drippage while peeing over the last year.  I can’t stop pissing on the bathroom floor when I stand to pee and it’s really upsetting my cohabitants.  Well I came across the below last weekend and it added insult to injury.

This is no joke.  I keep pissing on the floor, whether it be a result of a spray action or multiple stream action dynamic.  Who wants to take a “piss funnel” to shark tank?

Before I forget, the quality of reporting at the Wall Street Journal is really falling apart:

They screwed up the article title with that extraneous “to” in there.  If he sees it, I doubt Woo Beijing is going to be very happy about this.

And finally, the topic about which I know both of you care profoundly: poop.  Yesterday, I dropped off the Cosby kids at the pool (I know they’re Cosby kids but they were lucid and conscious when I dropped them off) and wow, we’re talking MJ, funk of forty thousand years musk.  Much like the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1990, I stormed in, tore shit up, dropped mortar rounds, decimated the local flora and fauna, and GTFO.  Unfortunately for those in the stalls next to me, I didn’t set my deed on fire during my hasty retreat.  The experience reminded me of a shit I found in a gas station bathroom this summer:

Spend some time on that photo.  Notice anything?  AS IN, HOW THE FUCK DID THE GUY PINCH ONE OFF THAT HIGH UP ON THE BOWL?!?  Seriously, how did he do it?  1)  Does he have a second anus at the top of his crack with a strong horizontal trajectory?  2)  Did he thrust it out with such great force that it literally bounced off the water, breaking all known laws of molecular cohesion?  3)  Did he angle his buttcheeks as to bank it off the side and rim it around the bowl only to land on the top of the back?

He needs this (I took this photo back in May – finally using it):

Overheard a line this morning by David Feherty that “the ball went into the cabbage and is now swallowed up.”  Hopefully that’ll be a good omen for my Friday night.  David also said that the golfer was really working hard on the slope…that’s how my friend lost his virginity!

And finally, because I can’t leave both of you with a thinly veiled racist comment, I ordered a pizza a few weeks ago that sounded a lot like I was filling out a dating preferences profile:

“Half baked” and “cut” are spot on but I’m missing the fromunda cheese option.

And because Arch Stanton likes redheads, this one is for him/her:

Today’s song of the day, for those of you who have the patience for my cow dung, is 679 by Fetty Wap.  Happy Friday and have an absolutely, positively terrific weekend!!!  Remember, it’s Labor Day only one day of the year but it’s Capital Day 364 days a year!