I once received an email from a customer, where the subject was "Please go and" and the message was "fuck off and die." So charming. It was in response to receiving a mass email which he had signed on for. Isn't this what unsubscribe buttons are for?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
This is perhaps one of the strangest marketing ideas I have ever seen. Hand dryer with a screen with advertising. Okay, I can dig. But when you start drying your hands, it automatically starts playing the video with sound...
Maybe whoever designed this contraption didn't realise that hand dryers make noise. So you can't really hear whatever it is they are playing. Hooray for silly items!
Posted by Paige X. Cho at 5:31 AM
Thursday, January 27, 2011
I hate lending things to people. So much. It's not that I'm stingy and don't want to share. It's just that 90% of the time I lend my possessions to people - particularly loved items - they don't really return to me. Or they do, somewhat damaged. And I'm not talking about a Nine Inch Nails song.
Like lending a girl a beloved cardigan that I've owned since I was eleven because she didn't like the clothes she had at home. Then she just literally would not give it up because she didn't think I wanted it back. Hmm, not sure whether she learnt what the word "loan" meant in junior school. (But had the audacity to get really upset when someone returned her own shirt crumpled.) Or lending another friend an extremely expensive pair of designer pants to never see them again. Or lending my boyfriend-at-the-time my favourite-novel-at-the-time, to discover it torn up, spine broken and growing mold under his bed with a hunk of seafood sushi rotting in the middle of it. I guess the book was "growing" on him.
So this is why I will say no politely if you ask to borrow something personal from me. It's not you, it's me. I just like having undamaged possessions too much.
There was once a teenage girl. She went to the doctor's office for whatever reason - let's just say a cold for the sake of this story - and her doctor looked at her, terribly worried. "Dear girl," he said, "we need to run some blood work, stat!" Apparently she was so orange from the fake tan she was using that the doctor thought she had severe jaundice.
True story. This is why I like being pale.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
When I was seventeen and eighteen, I had really low standards for men. Or "boys", because to be honest unemployed nineteen-year-olds who still live at home are not really adults. A couple of months ago, I received a phone call from a particularly inferior specimen of the male species (I'm allowed to say that because he was a disgusting liar, and a pathological gambler who once made me wait for him outside a casino for an hour while he spent the money I lent him, and then nearly killed me in a car crash). I hadn't heard from him for literally five years.
After mistaking him for a different guy with the same name, I found out that the creepy bastard had Googled my name and discovered I was a music journalist. He then proceeded to ask - as straight forward as a cricket bat - if he could send me a list of bands that he wants free tickets to. Not one, or two. A fucking list.
Insulted, I pretty much told him no. At which stage the cocky dip shit implied that I wasn't a very good music journalist if I couldn't get free tickets, so I set the record straight and went through all the big name concerts I had been to. And mentioned that I give away loads of free tickets to my friends and my boyfriend (he must've been deaf, because he kept on sleazing onto me).
I also mentioned that sometimes I have to write something up about the band to get media passes, so I wasn't going to waste my time, request tickets, keep my night free, go to a gig I might not particularly enjoy and write up a gig review for a "random". He then pointed out that it wasn't any work for him, just me, so I shouldn't feel bad because he could enjoy it... What. The. Fuck.
Hot tip for men: don't go calling up old fuck buddies you haven't spoken to in years and ask them to pull favours for you off the bat. At the very least be a little polite and try to take them out for dinner or something. Oh wait, here's a better tip. Just try not to be a cunt.
Friday, January 14, 2011
This is a story my Grade Eleven physics teacher told me.
There was once four university students who, in typical university student fashion, went on some all-out bender the night before an exam. They awoke the next day, hours after their assessment was scheduled and in an attempt to not flunk the course lied to the professor. Their story was they went out for a country drive the day before (some good, clean fun of course), and were unfortunately inflicted with a flat tyre and had to walk home. Much to their surprise and delight, the professor smiled and told them it was all okay. No problems. They could sit the test right that moment. Rather pleased with themselves, the young men each sat eagerly at a desk as the prof handed out the exam.Or what they thought was the exam. There was a single question.
"Which tyre went flat?"
Saturday, January 8, 2011
You'll love Salvadore Dali? I tried out the feature in Etsy that allows you to look up your friends interests on their Facebook profile and it links you up with possible gift ideas from the website. Not sure how much Spice Girls have in common with the famous artist.
Also, yes. I am dating a grown-up male with a penchant for the The Spice Girls.
I saw a bird shit on another bird yesterday. It was epic shit. That is all.
Monday, January 3, 2011
It seems to be a societal hobby to make fun of hipsters. I've heard my non-hipster friends chortle at their high-waisted pants and (perhaps on other people) tragic op-shop fashion. I've sat in cars where the drivers poke fun at their vintage single-gear bicycles, and then attempt to run them over. Highly respected publications like TIME have taken note and consider this social group of enough weight to publish analyses of them (claiming that the conformity of their non-conformity is a little ridiculous... not sure how this is different from most youth groups like emos and goths, but thanks for pointing out the obvious TIME) as do less respected outlets.
Secretly I think all of the naysayers are just a little jealous that they don't look quite so rad in their pilling granny cardigan, and because they can't have five-hour debates about why Foucault's own deviant sexual practices validate his philosophies.
Now watch this cute car commercial and laugh.
This blog post was written for your eyes by a dorky (but more like an Asian, badminton-playing bookworm rather than a hipster) girl who may secretly wish she was a hipster so she can pull off that hideously horrific thrift shop lace dress that has been sitting in her wardrobe for four years.