Mental Mental Radio Rental…

This post is just pure sarcastic vent, you don’t have to take it seriously.  Really, I wouldn't ask a mortal enemy to take it seriously, I’d shoot him instead.  It would be kinder. 

As I said yesterday I’m starting in on the restoring the old VW for a daily driver, beginning with getting some fresh tires mounted on confirmed rims under me old friend.  This of course involves taking the old paint off the rims so fresh paint can take its’ place.  A bit of a chore that is, not so challenging in a technical sense, just brute force applied delicately with patience.  So into the garage I went, set up an impromptu work table out of two saw horses and a chunk of left-over three-quarter plywood, strung the extension cords and spooled out the air hose with the blow chuck, got the Big McNasty wire brush on the angle grinder, went and bought a new pair of safety glasses (you don’t run an angle grinder with naked eyes) and while I was there picked up a couple of little mean McVile brass brushes so the cordless drills could get in the game working the crannies and crevices. In short, I set up the job. In the course of digging around I found an old ghetto blaster that hadn't felt fire in a dozen years, plugged it in and damn, it still worked!  Just commercial FM, but what the hell, it’s Tunes!  I fetched a HUGE cup of soda pop from the quick-rip and man cave restored to minimum functionality settled in for some serious garage time expecting to rest psyche and soul from the running river of bullshit that is modern society.  Wrong.  It chased me in the door.

It was the radio turned traitor on me.  Well, not exactly the radio, just the station.  I’m not gonna specify which station I was listening to, but it plays oldies and classic rock, it’s out of OKC and by the call letters you’d think it had been out cold on life support for quite a while.  Radio stations have commercials, of course, and of course the radio station will broadcast what pays the bills, and yea, that’s how the dam got broke and my attitude got soaked.

Her name is… nah, I’m not gonna tell you her name, it’s the name of an adult boutique (read toy store for the they-think-they’re-grown-up kids, aka, sex toys) and I’m not in the mood to put in a plug for her business… (plug… hehehe… he said plug).  Oh, jingly cute little tune and a voice just dripping an invitation to fifteen variations of decadent delight, oh yea, she sounded like the kind you could bang just for whoops and grins with no risk to your conscience at all because what the hell, she’s not gonna remember you anymore than the last two dozen guys she laid down just for feminine bragging rights.  She ended her pitch by informing the region she now had everything needed in stock to satisfy your curiosity about the whole fifty shades thing.  Somehow I think there may be a slight shortage of leashes and dog collars down to the squallmart store, but that’s beside the point.  She has the right to run her business as she sees fit. 

But it wasn't her commercial that got to me, it was the dichotomy of the totally transparent piggybacked theme of the commercial that followed hers, followed hers every time they played commercials, and the comparison was, well, just flat puking puppy sad.  Boys and girls can we say guaranteed overlapping market demographic?

You see, right behind Miss Seduce a Profit came the oh-so-sympathetic sincere masculine voice of Dr. FixYerDick who made a distinct point of saying he works with the Infernal Medical Group trying to convince everyone of the male persuasion that of course you’re not a burned out aging infantile insecure hedonist jaded to the point of literally not being able to give a fuck, of course not, you’re just suffering from low testosterone and modern medicine can fix that (if your insurance company doesn't pitch a bitch and refuse to pay for the lab work). Sure thing.  

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE??!!!?!?!?!  WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THESE IDIOTS MAJOR MALFUNCTION?  Do they really think they’re fooling anyone ?  Ah, what the hell, they’re not gonna do any more damage to society than has already been done by blaming the whole mess on a lack of the hormone the feminists have already demonized by blaming it for everything  else.

Gentle reader, I’ll let you take a swing at answering that if you’re interested, I’ve got better things to do with my time than waste the next twenty hours beating this keyboard to scratch the surface of what is wrong with that picture.  I’ve got a bus to rebuild, and all I have to do to fix my problem is either change the station or better still dig the appropriate splitter out of the junk drawer of such things to jump the mp3 player into the old ghetto blaster… memory serves it had a set of standard RCA input jacks on the back, and I know the amp and speakers are working just fine.  They proved that proving to me that social insanity, like rust, never really sleeps, it just changes pajamas and goes on.