This Week in Rage – 4/5/14

This Week in Rage – 4/5/14

This Week in Rage – a blog about the top three things that pissed me off this week.


Underwear Packaging: I went on my bi-yearly, nay, bi-decade, trek to purchase some underpants recently and I have a couple of thoughts/complaints.


First I never understood boxers.  It’s cool if you’re going down to the lake to swim with the chicks, but not if you’re at home alone and your dick is hanging out of the fly.  That opening is like a compressed pita or one of those 1960’s rubber/plastic change purses that you squeeze to open.  I don’t know about you, but my ding-a-ling would always pop out of those.  So I’d have to do that two finger move where you grab the fabric and do a little butt dip to pop the dick back in.  And briefs ride up on you.  Never been a fan of the tighty-whitey. So you end up having to go with the midway, the boxer-brief.


When I was looking at the pack of boxer briefs I noticed something.  I had to bust out the jewelers’ loop to figure out the size.  The lettering on the box that tells you the size was literally less than an 8th of an inch.  So I started thinking about it.  They use the same Marky Mark model on the cover of all the underwear no matter what size.  Size 28 to 32 or 48 to 52 has the same chiseled guy with the six-pack abs on the cover. What gives?  On the size 44-52 it should be a fat guy and he should holding an actual six pack of Strohs.  It would be a hell of a lot easier to pick out your size.  You’d be like, “yep, that’s what my fat ass looks like in the mirror.


The new law should be that the model has to wear the size underwear contained in the box.  It’s a job creator too.  This way it won’t be the same hairless gay guy for every box.  Let’s get some of those unemployed plus-sized male models some work.


A nice bonus would be that it would motivate you to exercise.   If you see a guy looking like John Goodman on the box of underwear you’re about to purchase you may decide not to hit the Cinnabon on the way out of the mall and go home and do some crunches.


My new app:  This past weekend I was at another one of my vintage races and had the bad luck of having to make a number two in the port-a-potty.  Oh, the humanity. That is a fate worse than death.  We all know the smell is terrible but what I realized this time was that even more disconcerting is the sound.  The worst noise a man woman or child can hear is when your ass hits that wafer-thin seat to do a little offloading and the dook doesn’t make the splash sound.  It just sounds like you shit on a hot rock.  That splash sound is comforting as opposed to that awful “flop” sound.  I’d rather hear a dentist drill.  You get this in the airplane bathroom too.  You don’t realize how much you need that sound.  So fear not, I have a new app.  I call it the Kerplunk app.  You put your earbuds in and at the appropriate time hit the button and it plays a nice splash sound, like dropping a charcoal briquette into a bucket of water.


Floating Garbage Island:  When they were looking for that missing plane recently there was a lot of news about that floating garbage island in the Pacific.  It’s about the size of Texas and has all the soda cans, diapers and plastic bags and bottles that we’ve dumped into the sea.


Well there’s always a lot of talk about what to do about prison overcrowding and the death penalty and all that.  So here’s my solution.  That’s how we should put people to death.  We just tow these guys out there and drop them in the middle of it. We can make a nice reality show out of it. If you can get off it in the four days before you die you get to live.  We give them a few Nature Valley granola bars and a moist towelette and if you can swim to safety you get to live.  Maybe that’s God’s will.  Otherwise you sink down to Davy Jones’ locker and we don’t have to worry about feeding your ass for the next 40 years like Chuck Manson.


– ace