People Who Buy Hard Rock Cafe Merchandise
There's nothing like travelling halfway around the world to go to a socially acceptable tourist destination. You're paying hundreds of dollars a day for you and your annoying family to crash at some Marriott in Shitsville, USA, and the only thing you can think of doing for dinner is to shove down prefab buffalo wings at the local Hard Rock Cafe. All because you're too stupid to go to hardrockcafe.com and buy the T-shirt from there.
I mean, do you really think Hard Rock Cafe's standards of good taste are so high, that if you went to their website and said, "You know what? I'd really like the opportunity to give you my money so that I can wear a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt", that Hard Rock Cafe would tell you "no"? Hell, no. You can buy a Hard Rock Cafe butt plug if you want one.
Now, you might say, "Yeah, but you can't buy Hard Rock Cafe Bangkok merchandise on the website. You can only get that in Bangkok."
Sure. But I have four words for you: Go to fucking eBay! And how about this. If you have such a passion for telling every random stranger you meet on the street where you went on vacation, then why don't you at least be honest? Wear a T-shirt that says:
"I went to Bangkok to do nothing but fuck Thai whores for seven nights straight. In fact, I got so many diseases, my fucking dick fell off. But at least I got a Hard Rock Cafe lapel pin. Save the planet, man! Save the planet!"
"Save the Planet." This is the Hard Rock Cafe's slogan. Save the fucking planet. Hard Rock Cafe. Spreading peace, love, and understanding all over the world, one nacho at a time.
Here's what I think you're saying to the world if you have a Hard Rock Cafe logo anywhere on your body:
"I am a fucking sheep with no brain of my own. I don't even have the balls enough to violate such a simple social norm as where the fuck I'm supposed to go on my trips to Orlando and Los Angeles, and not only that, but I'm actually proud of my goose-stepping ability to follow the herd.
"Do you think if someone asked me to shut the door to a gas chamber and flip on the switch, I wouldn't do it? Fuck, no! I am proud! I am proud that I am nothing but a cog in a wheel, and that I have the ability to obey society's orders with no questions asked! You know why? You know why? Because I didn't even fucking eat at the Hard Rock Cafe! I just bought the goddamn T-shirt! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a Disney Store to go to. There's a really cute stuffed Donald Duck with 'Remember 9-11' on his stomach that I want to buy."
Here's an idea. Since there's a market for franchised restaurants as vacation destinations, which basically are nothing more than Houlihan's or T.G.I. Fridays with a bunch of soiled rock star undergarments and other crap from celebrity garage sales plastered to every square inch of their walls, then why should we stop at mere restaurants? I say we franchise entire cities. Then you can visit the exact same city in every state and country on the planet. Same stores, same buildings, same restaurants, same museums.
Every Hard Rock City should contain at least one of the following:
- Disney Store
- Bennigan's
- Red Lobster
- Ripley's Believe it Or Not museum
- Olive Garden
- Tony Roma's
- Madame Tussaud's
- Statue of Liberty
- Guinness World Records museum
And of course, let's not forget the Hard Rock Cafe. Remember. You can get a "Hard Rock Cafe Hard Rock City" T-shirt only at official Hard Rock City locations.
Soccer Moms and Dominoes Pizza
I keep hearing the term "soccer mom" to describe a certain annoyingly wholesome group of people. What does the term actually mean? As far as I understand, it means a white, middle-class female who drives her kids home from soccer practice a few times a week, and who probably couldn't tell you the difference between her ass and a midfielder. She might know how to slice oranges, or how to put bottles of Gatorade in the back of her SUV, but if this is how we're defining what it means to have an active role in your children's lives, then we're better off buying them video games about carjackings and leaving them the fuck alone.
Basically, a soccer mom is someone who knows how to fuck and drive. That's it. The term "soccer mom" is like the Dominoes Pizza slogan, "The pizza delivery specialists". Dominoes sure as fuck are not "pizza" specialists, which the slogan seems to reveal that they understand. They're "specialists" in pizza delivery. Dominoes, and soccer moms, are both specialists at driving cars. And if you ask me, they're both pretty fucking bad even at this.
World's Strongest Man Competition
You know what I love about the World's Strongest Man Competition? When the announcers interview the competitors.
"So, what's your strategy from here on out?"
"Well, Bob, my strategy at this point is to lift a lot of heavy shit. Preferably, without dropping it. And after that, lift more heavy shit, without dropping that. All in all, I plan to keep lifting lots of heavy shit, keep not dropping it, and if everything goes right, I'll win. What the fuck do you think my strategy is, Bob?"
It's like the announcers think that picking up a big fucking barrel is somehow similar to playing chess against an IBM supercomputer.
The winners of the World's Strongest Man always seem to come from places like Norway, Sweden, and Finland. What I want to know is: what the hell is so heavy in Scandinavia?
And then it occurred to me: the Ikea headquarters is in Sweden. It's all that goddamn furniture. I bet you could get a pretty good body lifting a couple dozen Svenbjork china cabinets every day.
Commercials for Home Gyms
According to home gym commercials, all it takes is twenty minutes a day, three days a week, and you, too, can have the body you've always wanted. Yeah. Twenty minutes a day, plus lots of fucking steroids.
Ever think about that phrase, "The body you've always wanted"? If that's not a bullshit phrase, I don't know what is. If it's the body "you've always wanted", why have you been sitting on your ass twenty-four hours a day eating potato chips, drinking beer, and watching the World's Strongest Man Competition? Does the word "want" really have any meaning in the phrase "the body you've always wanted" when every single action you've ever taken in your life has been geared specifically towards having a five-hundred-pound pile of flab without a single non-atrophied muscle anywhere to be found?
How many dollars a year do you think a company like Bowflex makes from people who use their machine once, before letting it gather dust in their closet right next to their Thigh Master, Ass Mistress, and Tits Tyrant? And you know they have to talk about this at the Bowflex board meetings. How could they not? It's got to be a significant market segment. They must be asking themselves, "How do we attract more fat, lazy do-nothings to buy a machine they'll probably never use?" I guess the answer is: make them think they will use it. And show as many testimonials from ex-fatsoes as possible.
