No Floppy Disks Were Harmed in the Making of This Music Video

From the Annals of Improbable Research.

Keys? Check. Cell phone? Check. Baby? Oh...shit.

Heat addles the brain; we know this. In Florida, where minds are already tender and over-medicated, skyrocketing temperatures becomes a unique concern -- especially when children are involved.
In response to an unprecedented number of Children Left in Hot Car stories, a company devised a product to sell to Florida housewives. It's basically a phone cord that attaches to keys on one side and the child's car seat on the other. The logic is that you won't be able to leave your vehicle and simply forget your baby.
Go Florida.

Going Postal

Willy DeVille, photographed by Jonathan Postal

While in Memphis, we ran into veteran photographer/musician Jonathan Postal. He's started a blog for LivefromMemphis.com where he's showcasing an assemblage of his pictures called: People Who Died.
You'll be floored.
From Frankie Fix to Wendy O Williams, Postal's personal photos of writers, cult figures, and punk rock royalty even includes a pic of Sid Vicious taken ON the night of his death.

(Yes. He took all of them.)

Blingee Dee Williams

Myspace Glitter Graphics

The First 48

Overheard in Memphis: "Hey, why don't you get me some ice?"
"Hey, why don't you suck my vagina?"

Sweaty Updo: So, So Like Yeah took a rock 'n' roll ladycation to Memphis this weekend. On the way through East Texas and Arkansas, we passed hotels whose marquees simply read "American owned," sad steakhouses boasting wi-fi access, and a lot of domed buildings.

Kind Robot: Names of counties we drove through: Fate, Hope, and Friendship. Friendship looked sketchier than its name alludes.

SU: There's a lost photo from Memphis of a couple riding an electric wheelchair down the street. Memphis, you truly lived up to your reputation on my favorite A&E show, The First 48.

But Does it Double as a Glowstick?

So many things can go wrong with potential love interests, but having a gal gleefully break out a musical vibrator during business time shouldn’t be one of them.
Worse still, you can bet her mood mix is most assuredly loaded up with foreboding jams, like “Put a Ring on It,” “Maneater,” “Smack My Bitch Up,” or anything by Phil Collins.
The terror.

Monkey Hate Dress

The British show about perfectly sane people who prefer to dress up monkeys as their children makes its American debut on TLC October 4. I'm pretty sure I saw the woman in the photo on a Dateline episode about having a monkey baby, and she let it drink soda for breakfast and it probably has monkey diabetes. America!

Uncool, bro. Uncool.

Put on your imagination hat and envision the most frightening thing that could ever happen to you.
Take your time; this is your waking terror.
It would probably involve: you in the safety of your bed, snakes, and talon-like evolutionary mutations. Right guys?
Dean Qiongxiu agrees! "I woke up and heard a strange scratching sound. I turned on the light and saw this monster working its way along the wall using his claw," then she understandably killed it with a shoe. Yep,the snake grew an arm with a talon claw. What's left of the pre-autopsied corpse is shown above.

Is this article true? Probably not. Will it haunt me forever? Certainly.

Send Me an Angel

No more loitering around traditional Austin hot spots (plasma centers, the dice section of the Dragon's Lair, foreclosed roadside taco shacks) for this girl. Now when I want to get hit on, I'm going straight to church!
It seems that in God's house, everyone's a hottie -- especially for sex-starved spiritual leaders. You could probably improve on the odds of advancement (currently 1 in 33 for female churchgoers) by flashing a little cleavage and wearing a big hat. The combination is like clergy kryptonite.

Florida Declares the End Officially Nigh

Nowhere is apocalyptic foreshadowing as blatant as it is in Florida (also known as the Nation’s Urethra.) This evening one of our SoFla gals called me in a panic.
“I was driving down the road and I heard a radio commercial for vaginal rejuvenation surgery, then I looked up and saw a billboard that says ‘Need a Hip?’” Her concerns here were multi-fold: “First, I’m being told that I need surgery to tighten up my labia. Next I’m being sold body parts on billboards. I’d really like to go to Europe before Earth implodes.”
Thanks, Florida. You are the canary in the coal mine.

That's What She Said

So, basically, this video made my week. I don't know if the car was supposed to keep driving through the store, but it makes the whole thing worth it. I think I had a dream like this once.

Pie for Life

(The above-pictured pie features a pecan filling, topped with chocolate chip cookie dough.)

"For example, a 30-year old in Texas would pay $23,498 and would be set, pie-wise, until they die. It's non-transferable, making it something of a pie-insurance policy. Live forever, and you beat the system: discount pies. Die tomorrow, however, and Royers makes out like bandits." -- from EatMeDaily.com

The Fall of Rome, as Told Through Cat Food

I once stayed at a Four Seasons and learned a very important lesson: Rich people are AWESOME. The room service menu had all of the accoutrement you'd expect: proteins poached and slathered, then drained and fluffed. But it also had something unexpected: a menu for cats.

The truly wealthy don't travel with small dogs! Humph! So passé! They take their cats with them. And do you know why? Because they can. That's why. And when little Chairman Meow has downtime between his whisker extension appointment and kitten mitten yoga hour, you know what he does? He has his butler order room service. Sure, the menu was limited and included things that would probably be funnier to watch cats eat -- like fresh berries in whipping cream -- than things cats actually want to eat, but that's not the point. The point is that the menu exists. But even there, at the Four Seasons, there was no mention of appetizers, or of any progressive course order for that matter. Thankfully, Fancy Feast is on top of it.

Forever a trailblazer in the cat food arena, Fancy Feast has boldy ventured beyond even its line of gourmet varieties, like Spinach Florentine, and into a truly brave new world: Appetizers for cats.

To be paired with gourmet main courses from teeny tiny tins!

Served on asymmetrical plates!

With tarragon!

Who cares if you’re eating Ramen?

(a note: Someday, many generations from now when our world is eroded and crawling with roach-like aliens, they will uncover a cat food appetizer can, wrapped in a Dog Snuggie, and simply climb back into their space ships and leave. Knowing instantly that our story was a junk paperback in the leatherbound library of the universe.)

Secret Hoarders, Yeah, That's What We Are

Me: So, what are you doing today?
Mom: Well, there's this great show on Lifetime later tonight.
Me: Mmm-hmm....
Mom: It's all about hoarders.
Me: Oh, yeah. I saw a preview for that. Looks depressing enough for Lifetime.
Mom: Wait, no, it's on A&E.
Me: The new Lifetime. So, yeah, you're excited about this?
Mom: Well ... I think your dad might be a hoarder.
Me: Hmm. A small-scale hoarder, maybe. America is probably the only country where storage units are so abundant because no one can throw shit -
Mom: I want to burn it all.
Me: Oh...

I didn't tell her about the show I watched this weekend about people with OCD, lest another family secret come tumbling out. I especially didn't tell her about the woman who is so germaphobic she has to masturbate with a rubber glove. Or the show about the 650-lb. virgin. Man, Labor Day weekend programming really reaches for the stars, and then throws those stars in your eyes, like Chinese stars.

If you want to wash your sad sandwich down with a glass of uncomfortable juice: HOARDERS.

Going There, America

You Haven't Got the Guts

Ugh. Whenever I see a preview for a new Tyler Perry movie, I have to watch this immediately.

Insert "Computer Virus" Joke Here

According to tourism futurologist Dr Ian Yeoman, in oncoming decades pleasure travel is going to get hot. Robot sex hot.
Yes! While you've been holding out hope for hover boards, flying cars, and machines that magically make snacks materialize upon request, Dr. Yeoman is taking the futuristic path less traveled. He believes that within our lifetimes we'll be able to order up some robot prostitution in germ-free hotel rooms.

More depressing than the nether regions of Yeoman's mind is certainly the mental image accompanying the phrase "robot prostitution." It conjures up a rickety robot with a pink, faux-bunny stole wrapped around its shoulders while it monophonically bleeps out phrases like "let. me. turn. you. on." On the bright side, your no-good, lazy, do-nothing Roomba could finally start pitching into the family budget.