What’s up with those little cookies they sell in those tins?  You know, the ones that look like pretzels?  Pretzels, nor pretzeloid objects should be sweet like that.  Imagine the public outcry were someone to sell something that looked like a steak but tasted like Dr. Pepper?  That outcry would be one of awesomeness, because a Dr. Pepper steak would rule all-encompassingly.  But not so with pretzel cookies, they are an abomination unto the Lord, just like it says in the lost sixth book of the Pentateuch, The Book of Moses and the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

            If someone sold you a Welch’s grape juice beverage and then you never paid them for it, it would be extremely ironic, yet subtle.

            The following is absolutely true: In a talking Elmo story book sold to thousands of children before Christmas, Elmo clearly says, “Who wants to die?”  When will the world at last see the truth behind this monster?

            In Williamsburg, they have all this extra historic stuff all over the place, but all their tour buses are all modern and boring looking.  Now, clearly it would be difficult and totally sweet to just make everyone ride around in coaches or worse yet, expect all them lazy crackers to just walk a mile now and then, but what about if they painted all their buses to look like stagecoaches or something?  And they could put some mechanical horses sticking out of the front of the bus, and then the driver could sit up on the roof and wrangle them.  It wouldn’t be historically accurate, but at least it would be ridiculous, which is at least halfway the same thing.

            My usage of the word wrangle immediately above has just spawned an entirely new and magical grammatical error message from MS Word.  Apparently there is such a crime against English as “Verb Confusion” and I am found guilty of it by none other than Azathoth the Desktop Paperclip of Eternal Annoyance.  Like so many hypocrites though, he is quick to judge me, but offers no suggestions on how to redeem myself from literary purgatory.  I swear, if Word doesn’t stop inventing rules that don’t exist, I’m going to wrangle it in the face.  Hey, it worked, it didn’t call me on it that time!  W007!

            I was in the bookstore the other day, and they had all sorts of “For Dummies” books in the religion section.  You could get Islam for Dummies, Catholicism for Dummies, Judaism for Dummies, pretty much anything you wanted.  I noticed, however, that they had no Scientology for Dummies.  You know why?  Because for dummies is the only flavor that Scientology comes in.  Take that, Aston Kutcher!

            You know how over the past decade there has been a great proliferation of sucky Monopoly ripoffs?  And most of them have names that aren’t the least bit witty because the room full of monkeys that made them just sticks the suffix –olopy onto the end of whatever it is the game is thematically unified under and hell with the consequences.  It is because of this that we have such lyrical gems as Virginia Techopoly, Crimean Waropoly, and Keanuopoly.  None of these words lend themselves in the least to such violence, so I was surprised when I saw a Batman-themed variation for sale the other day.  You might suspect that it would have been called Batmanopoly, which would be both funny and appropriate, seeing as how the last syllable of Batman and the first of Monopoly are similar, suggesting a name both fitting and euphonious.  But no, they called it Batman Monopoly, I kid you not.  Their one chance to create Batmanopoly and thus redeem their wretched franchise, and they failed as a sea of hummingbirds fails to stop a Sherman tank.

            If you ever have to get someone a generic Christmas present for the office party or anything, just get them wine, unless you work at Recovering Alcoholics Incorporated, which would be a silly premise for a corporation anyway.  The key is, don’t get anything where the bottle has a handle on it, and do get anything with a whimsically foolish name.  Boone’s Farm, is not a good gift wine.  Iron Kumquat Josef Stalin wine, is a good gift wine.  If all they have though is something called Plaid Rutabaga Tsunami but it comes in a bottle with a handle on it, then I’m afraid that the very laws of the universe have at last shattered to tiny little bits and fallen about your ears like so many wiener dogs flung from off the Empire State Building which, for purposes of this simile, you must be standing directly at the base of, and preferably on whichever side the wiener dogs are falling on today.  In any case, you have no recourse but to flee screaming from the store, an empty shell of a man, and tear off into the darkness where you’ll be raised by bears.  And by raised, I mean eaten.  The moral of the story being, don’t go to the office Christmas party unless you’re a bear, which you probably aren’t.