Michael, Farah, Ed . . . and now Billy

At about noon today, I heard that Billy Mays, of "OxiClean" and "Mighty Putty" fame, died.

I'm not gonna lie, Billy Mays annoyed the everloving shit out of me. He was always screaming about OxiClean, his mustache-beard combination pissed me off for some reason, and he was generally a loudmouthed obnoxious dude.

But in being that loudmouthed obnoxious dude with the strange mustache-beard combo, he accomplished exactly what he set out to - brand recognition. You wouldnt' even have to hear the words "OxiClean" or "Mighty Putty" - but as soon as you heard "HI! BILLY MAYS HERE!" you knew he was going to do his damnedest to sell you some crazy shit that ranged from highly asanine to slightly useful. You knew that Billy Mays was first and foremost a salesman, and he must've been effective because he kept getting on these commercials.

This is not a good week to be a 50-year-old celebrity.




RIP Billy Mays
July 20, 1958 - June 28, 2009
May you whiten angel wings to a more brilliant white with your OxiClean, and may we have the strength of Mighty-Putty to continue on without you.

And as for you, readership?

Stay classy

Pregnancy Tests - Yup, ANOTHER WTF?

Hey readership. I just realized that something very, VERY stupid has slipped past my "very, VERY stupid" sensors. Allow me to explain.

There are many questions in this world of ours, some more important than others. For example, the question of "what time is it?" can usually wait a little longer for an answer than the question of "who killed that guy?" Similarly, "do you want fries with that?" is a little less important than "do I cut the blue wire or the red wire?"

However, there is one question that, at least in my mind, ranks up in the top five questions a human being can ever ask. What is it, you ask? Oh, such a curious lot you are . . . makes me smile.

Anyway. The question.

"Am I pregnant?"

A VERY important question asked countless times a day by potential mothers. And how does one go about answering this question?

Usually, a woman will go out and buy a home pregnancy test. Then, you're in for a bit of jumping through hoops. Because depending on which brand you buy, you might have to pee on the test for 2 seconds, or 5, or ten, or pee in a cup and then pour it out onto the test, or use an eye dropper to put drops on the test at a rate of 1 drop every three seconds - you get the idea.

But once you've "taken" the test, it's not over by a long shot. You want the results, right? Of course you do.

Good luck getting them. You have to look at control boxes for red bars indicating the test was done properly, look for pluses or minuses or blue bars or pink bars - it's ridiculous. You have to fight with the damn thing to make sure you take the test perfectly and exactly as instructed or else your results might be adversely affected - and even if you DO take the test exactly as instructed, in some cases you need a freakin' PhD to interpret the results.

Something so simple - either you are or you aren't pregnant - but to discover the answer you need to go through all these hoops. Only recently have there been digital home pregnancy tests, which give results in clear, easy to read English - either "Pregnant" or "Not pregnant." At that point, you just have to worry about illiterate people.

But we all know that illiterate people shouldn't be having kids anyway, because, after all . . . if you can't spell "sex," you probably shouldn't be having it.

I apologize to all the women who have to deal with these ridiculous pregnancy tests.

And to all the men who have to deal with those women.

Stay classy.

The Falling of a Star . . .

It's official. The King of Pop, multi-platinum recording artist Michael Jackson, died today, at 2:26PM PDT (5:26PM EDT). He was 50 years old.

Say what you want about the little boys, the black-to-whiteness, the dangling babies out of windows, naming his kid "Blanket" - whatever. Michael Jackson revolutionized the concept of what a music video could and couldn't be with "Thriller" and inspired a generation of dancers with the moonwalk. Without Michael Jackson, there is no Justin Timberlake. Without Michael Jackson, there is no Chris Brown. And we ALL know how much chicks be lovin' on Justin Timberlake and Chris Brown. Michael Jackson paved the way for them and many more stars with his signature dance moves and "make ya wanna move" songs.

Eccentricities aside, Michael Jackson was an amazing musical artist, dancer, and entertainer. He will be missed.

Christ... it feels so odd talking about him in the past tense . . .



RIP Michael Jackson
August 29, 1958 - June 25, 2009
Stay Bad, MJ


And as for you, readership...

Stay classy

Okay. I'm Gonna Hear it from a lot of People

Hey there readership. I've made a hard decision today. Let me explain.

As you all know, I have made my feelings perfectly crystal clear when it comes to the idea and implementation of Twitter.

I hate it.

A lot.

However, that said, I'm not one to ignore its potential for reaching the masses almost instantly. Even if 99% of the people who use it are probably updating it every five seconds on some dumb shit like "taking out the trash" or "OMG muffins" or "doing math hw" or whatever have you, that's not how I plan to use it.

That's right. No need to adjust your television sets, people, I'm openly admitting it - I have a Twitter account.

Or, I should say, Legally Blind Observations(tm) has a Twitter account. As sole proprietor (an absence of communication from Cletus has led me to fear that the poor old guy finally succumbed to the Beard Cancer . . . RIP), and Chief Observationalist of Legally Blind Observations(tm), I will be the one updating the Twitter ("tweeting," as it were) within moments of new Observations being posted, giving a teaser snippet of what the new post is about, and a link to the post itself, provided for your reading pleasure/disdain (I'll let you pick. It's only fair).

By the way. I am NOT a hypocrite, as the reasons and arguments I cited in the link above outline uses of Twitter that I do not condone and will not perpetrate personally. So I'm free from hypocrisy. Bitch.

So yes. Log on to your little Twitter accounts and start following fredtheobserver.

I will be using Twitter to promote a blog wherein I bash and openly despise Twitter.

Pray the world doesn't implode.

And as always, but especially in these troubled times of Twittering tweets (and alliteration used in bad taste) . . .

Stay classy

I Refuse to Call it That, Ma'am

Okay, so tonight I was out with my friend Natalie and her boyfriend John (something I usually don't do - I last hung out with Natalie late last August and I usually don't participate in self-third-wheelification), and we went to Dairy Queen for some ice cream.

Now apparently there aren't any Dairy Queens in New York (according to my lovely lady Rebecca aka R n' R, anyway), so I dunno how many of you are familiar with Dairy Queen and their menu.

Anyway, we parked and went up to the window to look at the menu (which is in the window and is about seven or eight feet wide and about three feet tall). The names for the ice cream thingies are next to their respective pictures, and John made a very good point - they're all named some ridiculously queer shit.

For example, the Banana Cream Pie Sundae. Uh . . . seriously? Can you imagine ordering that?

"Hello, can I help you?"
"Uhh, yeah, I'd like a Banana Cream Pie."

You want a banana to cream pie on you? That's some borderline weird porno shit man.

Then there's the Xtreme Chocolate Blizzard Flavored Treat. What the fuck? John ordered it exactly as that - "Yeah, can I have an Xtreme Chocolate Blizzard Flavored Treat?" He sounded ridiculous, but it was hysterical because the chick that took the order (a high school classmate of mine and Natalie's) looked at him like he was insane.

It just seems like you're forced to order ridiculously-named shit in order to make you sound like a little kid. John even went so far as to say that people might be forced to actually order other things out of shame.

"Can I have the uh . . . SuperduperFudgeSundaeDeluxeHappyFuntimeTreat?"
"Excuse me sir?"
"Uhh, ahem, hot dog. I'd like a hot dog."

Fucking ridiculous.

Oh. And something that we thought someone should try. Go to Dairy Queen with a banana. Order a banana split, and ask for a discount because you have your own banana. Obviously this wouldn't work, but argue with the fucker for as long as you can anyway. Get it on tape and upload it to a video hosting site, and message me the link on Facebook, and I will give you eternal respect.

But whatever you do . . .

ROOT AGAINST THE METS!

And of course.

Stay classy

Facebook Apps Suck Donkey Scrotum

Hey readership. It's been a while since I've gotten a new reader (one that's announced their presence, anyway), but that all changed today, with my homeslice Osokow aka Bovice. Welcome, ya cunt (inside joke).

Bovice brought up a topic that's pissed me off for quite some time now, that being the Facebook notifications for random applications.

When I get a notification, not gonna lie, I get a little bit excited. As my lovely girlfriend Rebecca (aka R n' R) says when she gets a notification - "Ooooh! Somebody loves me!" I expect someone to have written on my wall, or commented on or "Liked" one of my pictures or statuses, or tagged me in pictures from awesome times I've had recently, or something to that effect.

But no. I've been invited to take a quiz to find out what type of hard liquor I am, or what kind of gun I am (and seriously what the fuck. There's a GUN that equates to me? Shut your mouth), or invited to be "bought" by a friend (what kind of friend buys another friend?), or someone's compared me to someone else and thought that the other person had better hair (like I give a fuck?).

I mean I know there are some people who would LOVE to know that type of shit, but I'm definitely not one of them, and it seems like there are a lot of people who feel the same way as I do. Nine out of ten times the application or quiz is absolutely retarded, and is just a waste of my life.

Here's a tip dumbasses: right after you take a quiz, there's the screen where you pick four friends or five friends or however many friends it takes - BUT there's a link to "Continue to Results" or "Skip." Do the fucking world a favor and click that. Otherwise there might be an angry mob outside your house ready to kick your ass.

And please, people, whatever you do.

Stay classy

Oh, Modern Music . . .

Let's play a game. I'm going to take a modern song and break down its lyrics. It'll be fun for everybody!

Well, everybody except Waffles.

Anyway.

The song is "Tattoo" by Jordin Sparks, and I'm going to focus on the chorus. Enjoy!

I can't waste time so give it a moment
I realized nothing's broken
Except your dreams of having a child! Read on!

No need to worry about everything I've done
Live every second like it was my last one
Oh, you'll be worrying in a little, trust me. And you should live every second like it was your last one, because after this, you'll see that it just might be! Read on!

Don't look back got a new direction
I loved you once needed protection
Yes, protection would've been a good idea, but noooo . . . Read on!

You're still a part of everything I do
You're on my heart just like a tattoo
Just like a tattoo
I'll always have you (I'll always have you)
In this, the heart is a metaphor for a vagina. And the tattoo is a metaphor for HERPES! Damn straight herpes is a part of everything you do!

JORDIN SPARKS HAS HERPES!

Stay classy

Note: Just in case some stupid fuck-head tabloid writer sees this and puts it in the National Enquirer or some other gay-ass magazine, then gets sued for defamation of character and points the legal team back here to try and say I was his source, LET IT BE KNOWN THAT I AM KIDDING AND HAVE NO IDEA OF THE HERPES-STATUS OF JORDIN SPARKS' VAGINA. Thank you.

The Best Job in the World . . .

. . . HAS to be a meteorologist. I mean, sure, you have to go through a shit-ton of training to work with the equipment, and constantly be going to seminars and shit to stay abreast of any new technology that comes out, and make sure you know how to use it (and if it's worth your organization's money to buy it for you), and all that shit.

But you know the one thing you NEVER have to do? The one thing that you SHOULD do, but will STILL get paid for even if you don't do it?

ACCURATELY PREDICT THE WEATHER.

Think about it. How many times has your local weatherman been wrong? A bajillion. How many times has your local weatherman changed for reasons other than retirement or death?

NONE.

I mean, why the hell do they even try? If I was a weatherman, I'd predict sunny and 70s every single day. Why should I give a shit if I'm right - I'm still getting paid, aren't I?

Stay classy

Twitter Needs to Die a Terrible Death

Now, I have a very strong feeling that this is gonna piss off quite a few people among my readership (as I know for a fact that at least two of them have twitter accounts), but at this point I could give a shit. This has to be said.

Twitter is fucking retarded. There it is. I said it.

Telling people - notice how I said "people" and not "people you know" (because there IS a distinction being made here) - what you're doing. Every second. Of every day. Seriously? Granted, not everybody who uses twitter is THAT retarded, but there are definitely enough people who fall into that category to get me all fired up and a-blog-writin'.

The whole idea of twitter is to update (or "tweet") your account every time you start doing something different, or if something important happens. The stupidass twitter homepage lists things such as "I'm going to be late for the meeting" or "I just landed at the airport" as examples of things you would "tweet" about. Two things that you can much more easily (and DIRECTLY) convey through a text message or phone call.

"Oh no, I'm gonna be late for the meeting . . . better update my twitter so my co-workers know."
NO ASSHOLE GIVE THEM A FUCKING CALL.

"Wow, that trip to *someplace* was fun, but now I just landed back in JFK. I have no money for a cab and a lot of luggage, so . . . I'll update my twitter to let my ride know that I'm here!"
NO ASSHOLE GIVE THEM A FUCKING CALL.

Stupidasses and phone calls aside, here's where it gets creepy - people can "follow" you. "Following" means that you get notified whenever the person you're "following" updates his or her twitter.

Uhhh . . .

The fuck?

So any random ass dude could find you on twitter and start following you online . . . and then start following you in real life, and you wouldn't know, and then he'd kidnap you and eat your liver or something fuckin' weird like that.

Well fuck that, puta sucia.

Let me put it this way. If I WANTED you to know what I was doing, I'd TELL you what I was doing - and if you were THAT fucking interested in what I was doing (and you weren't an idiot), you'd CALL me, or TEXT me, or send me an IM or SOMETHING. And if you didn't have my number or my screenname, then I probably made a conscious decision not to associate with you - let ALONE to have you know what I'm doing every waking moment of my life. What is this "following" shit? Where I'm from, following someone on the Internet is fuckin' weird (not to mention probably illegal). I'm half tempted to sign up for twitter (yuck!), and just make stupid tweets, like "is whackin' off in the shower" or "is 'bout to go drop a load" or "granny porn?" or some other such dumb shit.

Plus, a twitter is just like a Facebook status. If you're really that into telling everybody what youre doing at every fucking moment of your life, just get Facebook mobile and update your status every five seconds like those herbs on the Disney Channel do. Fuckin' tweetin' bastards.

If you're tweetin' right now, it's gonna be hard, but I still gotta say . . .

Stay classy

I've Had an Ephiphany

What's poppin' readership.

Literally two seconds ago, I had a freakin' epiphany - I've been rebelling against the English language since sixth grade. Allow me to explain.

In sixth grade, me and my homeslice Matt Borelli began adding the suffix "-abeth" to words - usually names. The first name we plundered was that of our classmate Bart Nevin, who became known forever as "Bartabeth." Then we did our own names. He became "Mattabeth" and I became "Fredabeth," a name that would stay with me as my AIM screen name (with "90" added at the end) until a few months ago, when AIM decided to bleed out of its metaphorical digital vagina and lock me out of that screen name. But still, PMS-ing AIM or not, "Fredabeth" was a big part of my life.

Then, there came the suffix "-onzolo," which was started by my homeslice Ivan and his bitchass sidekick Joe, and I just sort of got roped into it. They called me "Freddonzolo" (pronounced "Fred ON zoh loh"), and Ivan was "Ivanzolo," and bitchass Joe was "Joeonzolo." The school was "the schoolonzolo," the car was "the caronzolo," and the door was "the dooronzolo" (and that weird guy who wrangled all the carts at Stop and Shop was "Johnny Clang"). In the H-Town 'hood, "-onzolo" is quite prevalent still. But there's also another.

The most powerful suffix I've ever used has to be "-ski," which is as versatile as it is powerful. I can end any wordski I wantski toski withski "-ski," and even do large strings like I just didski, without it sounding stupidski. While some might feel that this is me making fun of Polish people, rest assuredski, that is not the case at all. This stems from my homeslice Jon "Broski" Marunich, who blessed me with the "-ski" in high school (that sounded a lot gayer than it was supposed to - which was not at allski).

Put simply, since I've understood the concept of suffixes and their power for rebellion, I've been suffix-rebelling it up.

So if you ever meet a Spelling Whore, Diction Commie or Grammar Nazi, you tell 'em that Fredabeth said to shut their mouthonzolos before he slaps his ballskis on their chins.

And whatever you do.

Stay classy

A Salty Encounter

Hello there readership. I've just had a painful experience.

In this great culinary world of ours, there are many, many things that can be enjoyed right off of a spoon. Peanut butter, apple sauce, yogurt, and even chocolate syrup are things that can be included in that category.

Soy sauce, however, is not.

Stay classy.

"Have Fun!"

Hey readership. It's been a while since I've had something to bitch about (besides the fact that I need a job - but that's something I share with the estimated 27,145,000 other Americans that are unemployed as of April 2009). But now I'm back!

Anyway.

The phrase "have fun" has become a drastically overused stupid thing to say. I mean, there are times when "have fun" is a perfectly acceptable and proper response - and then there are times when replying with "have fun" makes you sound like a doofus. I'll give a few examples of both below.

PROPER USE OF "HAVE FUN"

1. "I'm gonna go to Six Flags today!"
"Have fun!"
2. "Dude, my girlfriend's visiting for the night and we haven't seen each other in forever, do you think I could have the room for tonight?"
"No prob man, have fun."
3. "Well, that's the last of my packing, I'm off to college."
"Be safe, and have fun!"
etc. etc.

Notice how each and every one of these situations has a high potentiality for fun - Six Flags is just a bundle of fun, you assume if you haven't seen your significant other in a while that you will have some fun (whether it be good-natured . . . or naughty), and college . . . well college is a shitton of fun (rhymin'!)

Now, let's look at the flip side of the coin, where saying "have fun" puts you in danger of getting beaten with a stick.

IMPROPER, STICK-BEATING-WORTHY USE OF "HAVE FUN"

1. "I'll talk to you later, I'm gonna go take a shower."
"Okay, have fun!"
2. "Dude, I'm prairie-doggin', wait for me, I'm gonna go take a shit."
"All right man, have fun."
3. "Yeah, so I'm gonna go to bed. I gotta get up at like 5 tomorrow morning to make my flight home."
"Haha okay, have fun."

Notice here that the potentiality for fun in these three examples is SIGNIFICANTLY LESS THAN the first three examples I presented. Let's look at them case-by-case.

1. "I'll talk to you later, I'm gonna go take a shower."
"Okay, have fun!"
Ohhhh man, don't worry, I will! I have my go-kart track, my arcade, and my moonbounce in there, so I'll be having a hell of a time in that shower. Seriously, dumbass? There are really only two times you can expect to have any kind of "fun" in the shower. Either you're by yourself, or you're not. I'll let you fill in the details.

2. "Dude, I'm prairie-doggin', wait for me, I'm gonna go take a shit."
"All right man, have fun."
You know, had you said this to me when I was about 18 months to 3 1/2 years old, then it might've made sense. But seeing as I haven't been in the Anal stage of psychosexual development in fucking 16 years, no, I most likely WON'T be having any fun taking a shit - and with the amount of fiber the average American gets, it'll be even LESS fun, because the shit's gonna be hard as hell and it's gonna feel like a rusty metal pipe sliding out of your ass.

That got a little graphic. I'm sorry. Last one.

3. "Yeah, so I'm gonna go to bed. I gotta get up at like 5 tomorrow morning to make my flight home."
"Haha okay, have fun."
Where the hell is the fun in waking up at 5 in the morning to get on a plane full of crying babies and smelly people!?

Clearly, people are either completely retarded, or they have a definition of fun that is VERY different from my own (and from Webster's).

Sheesh.

Stay classy