My popularity is waning, according to the hoards of blog readers who email me constantly begging for new post-y goodness (read: "Mom"). Apparently I've failed to provide you with quality entertainment while you sip your morning coffee or pray to God that our long, national nightmare / your current STI will come to a dramatic end soon. For that I am genuinely sorry, but thanks to an upcoming television appearance, a well-rounded diet of peanut butter + lemonheads + Miller Lite, and my own God-given and goddamned ability to drive the ladies batshit crazy, I've been so self-absorbed and so energy drained that I have been just utterly unable to have a single creative thought emerge in this last week. I believe the kids call it "living la vida loca," which I absolutely do not understand and find truly offensive (we mock what we don't understand, doctor. Doctor? Doctor.). Damn kids with their rock 'n roll and their makeout parties....
Fortunately for you/me the weather has turned a rosy cheek, and it's now gorgeous as all get out. In related news, hordes of college women (let's say "graduate students" to avoid any hints o' Nabokov in my narrative) are getting out as well to sun their firm, youthful shanks while nerdy CS majors rubberneck and crash their Segways into each other. Jesus it's a beautiful season. In short, I, your humble ("crass/perverted/hyperactive") narrator, am beginning to feel the faint tingle of a good mood coming on.
A quick check 'o the medicine cabinet reveals that yes, in fact, my good mood is organic in origin and has absolutely nothing to do with the handfuls of prescription drugs I jack from jock assholes who grope my ladyfriends / have the bad luck to invite me to their crappy parties and grope my ladyfriends. [See, I TOLD you I was in a good mood again! Ho HO!] Nope, my glistening aura comes courtesy of Grandmama Nature, herself. Thanks, Geritol.
Why is my mood important? Well, it's really not, and if you think it is, then please send $5.00 in cash to:
That Assclown, Mike Huckabee
P.O. Box 2008
Little Rock, Arkansas 72203
But you SHOULD be happy to know my brain is cranking in high-gear with greasy-slick serotonin lubricating all my happy, dendritic cogs. I, my friends, I have an idea, and you're privy to it first (they say you gotta git in on the ground floor... that's how you build an investment portfolio). I came up with this idea while trying to think about companies that have been so successful at branding, we refer to all products from multiple manufacturers by one copyrighted title (e.g. Kleenex, Band-Aid, the Baldwins).
Speedo is another company with a monopoly on branding. I say "Speedo," you say "leathery, old Europeans." Or you say "Michael Phelps," in which case I owe you a slice of pizza. In any event, we say "Speedo" when we mean "low-profile, competition quality bathing trunks" or some such old-timey lingo because it's easy to remember, ubiquitous, and conjures up thoughts of swiftness. SPEEEEDO. SPEEEEEEEEDO. Whisper the name and watch your words slip away on the wind. SPEEEEEEEEDOOOOOO.
How does one break through the stiff marketing ceiling Speedo installed to keep the entrepreneurial folks like myself out of the biz? Huddle up, and I'll tell ya. You use their own marketing tactics against them. You take "speed" and make it "speedier." You make it warp speedier.
My friends, welcome to the age where the cruel tyranny of Speedo has been replaced by the glorious springtime sponsored in part by "WARP-SPEEDOS, FOR WHEN 'FAST' JUST ISN'T NEARLY 'FAST ENOUGH.'" Observe:
 |  | ||
| Speedos | WARP-SPEEDOS |
I think we can all agree we will look back one day and say, "forget the internet, WARP-SPEEDOS truly made the world what it is today." Hell yes, they did. Hell yes.
Note: so much of this post was made up, please don't send me any emails warning me about the dangers of taking prescription drugs. I don't even like using moisturizer, and that's on the outside, people. The outside.
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