Time To Get Up

BY TRACY GOLDMAN

I have two alarms. Now as I think of alarms, it sounds so aggressive, alarming even. I wonder, what has happened to our civilization when we need to be blown out of our fucking restful slumbers, cozy beds, and weird dreams by a blaring, beeping, screaming, cocksucking piece of electronic asshole-ness. I mean, c'mon! Can you think of a single other electronic you own that comes close to that despicable prick? Didn't think so.

So, I don't know about you, but my relationship with my alarm clock is less than amicable. I set my alarm about an hour or so before I need to get up, because I need to press the snooze button a minimum of six times. Why I extend the torture is beyond me. Each time it goes off, as I struggle to find the goddamn snooze button, eventually jabbing it angrily, I find myself muttering half-conscious obscenities, as though I can somehow make it back off, somehow penetrate its cold, stoic exterior into submission.

"You fucking bitch, this is bullshit!" I say, before my eyes roll back for another uncomfortable nine minutes.

I must not be the first to feel this way; otherwise they wouldn't make alarms that have different sounding alerts. In an attempt to thwart the maddeningly unpleasant wakeup call, I purchased a way-too-expensive one that has 22 (yes 22) different sounds. Wildly elated in the gadget section of Kohl's, I thought, "This is it, no more daily morning eardrum rape for me!"

So, I raced my newfound glory home to set it up and happily and forcefully threw my old one into the garbage, feeling like I had just won the gold fucking medal. I plugged the new one in, marveling first at its sleek, modern design -- it looked as though it promised to release sounds nothing short of a gentle hand job in a cool summer breeze. Questions raced through my mind. Which of the 22 sounds would I choose? Would I alternate? What if they're so good I can't decide? The only way to answer them was to test each one, carefully deliberating their effect on my delicate pre-conscious.

Can you tell by now that disappointment was looming? Yeah, well, I couldn't. Of course it had the standard "Beep," for those piece-of-shit assholes that love nothing more than jumping out of bed ready to meet the morning with an annoying chipper outlook on life. Next please! I ran through a bevy of water sounds. Too many in fact. There was the "Ocean," "The Bay," "Soft Rain" --  stuff like that. But they all sounded so false. Like they should, I suppose, but mired by a veil of what sounded like subliminal electronic static. This isn't soothing, I thought. This sounds like shit. Besides, what if I piss myself? I'm constantly fighting the urge to pee in the pre-dawn hours so I can get a few more minutes of sleep, and I certainly don't need the sound of rushing water helping my subconscious to go ahead and release the bladder button.

Then it started to get weird with "Foghorn." Why? Am I sleeping on the outskirts of some misty, mysterious 18th century port? Indeed I am not. Not to mention, it sounded more like a broccoli fart than anything else. I prefer to be awoken by the farts of my loved ones, if I have to wake up to a fart at all, thank you very much.

The next was probably my favorite. "Heartbeat." Are you fucking kidding me? Am I part of an Edgar Allen Poe story here? Have I done something irrevocably heinous in my sleep? Am I lying in a hospital on life support? I'll pass, thank you. That's just plain fucking creepy.

Another that I found disturbing was "Steam Train." Why on earth would anyone want to wake up to that sound? Were you a hobo in a past life? Some eating-beans-out-of-a-can, handkerchief-on-a-stick, sleeping-on-a-burlap-sack-of-rice fucking vagabond, where the chuga chuga chuga of the train actually helped lull your toothless bum-ass into sleep? Um, yeah, I can think of nothing more zen than the sound of a train.

Eventually I came across "Aviary." This was certainly the most pointless. The sound of birds chirping. But not just a few tweeting beautiful melodies like in Snow White. This sounded like several hundred in a fucking eight-ball-induced frenzy. Having a mass bird orgy. Under the threat of certain apocalypse. Besides, is there anyone on the planet with the exception of people in Antarctica and the fiery pits of hell, that can't hear the irritating noise of birds chirping outside already in the morning? Like I said, pointless.

Moving right along, we have "Roadside." Not as bad as it sounds, surprisingly. Just cars on a highway in the distance swishing by. Very softly. I've lived in audial distance from both Queens Boulevard and the Southern State, so this for me was not such a bitchslap to the face. "Roadside" is in some ways similar to "City." Although the sounds of "City" made absolutely no sense to me. Don't ask me to try and describe it. I'll continue.

There's one called "Fireside." I rather liked this one. I'm a huge fan of the sound (and smell) of crackling wood fires and don't you fucking forget it. I mean, who isn't?  Being a peon without a fireplace of my own, I'll do almost anything to replicate its ambiance in my life. I even have a 60-second video on my camera of an actual woodburning fire. I'm not kidding. It's like that yule log channel they have on TV around Christmastime. I have bonfire scented candles with wood wicks that really crackle. They smell all musky and shit. I fucking love them. But alas, the alarm clock version sounded too contrived and not really loud enough. Anyway, "Fireside" is a drowsy, trancelike kind of sound. Was this a funny joke to the clockmakers where they threw one in that would actually make people oversleep and be late and lose their jobs and go into foreclosure and get divorced and only see the kids every other weekend and develop a drinking problem and die alone? Well it's not funny clockmakers. That's serious shit. I have half a mind to call the Better Business Bureau.

There's also one called "Everglades" and one called "Night Woods." They are essentially the same, which is really odd because one brings to mind the swampy bogs of Florida, where the other the crisp pine forests of Vermont. You'd think they'd make very distinctive and different sounds. Well you'd be wrong if that's what you were thinking, because both are just the sound of crickets. Loud, mind-numbing, buttfucking crickets. I'm not sure if crickets mate by buttfucking, hell they might even be asexual for all I know, but if they did buttfuck, this is the atrocious sound that would be the result.

I'm sure I've missed quite a few here, but I want to tell you what I finally decided on. "Windchimes." It's not the greatest, but it's certainly the least offensive in my opinion. It's still loud and stupid and jerks you between the two worlds faster than a hooker in Bangkok, but hey, we all have to find the off button and face the day eventually. Unless you're a pot dealer. Then you can wake up at noon, sans alarm, and just pack yourself a big fat bong, watch cartoons, and basically be just content with life.

Tracy Goldman can be reached at: goldmantracy@hotmail.com.

Happy Brand Plastic Trash Bags (White, 13 Gallons)

BY PETER DICHELLIS

After careful review, I cannot give this product a high rating. To start with, the bag is made of clingy folded plastic, making it tricky to open. I rubbed, grabbed, pulled, and pushed on the plastic, then waved and snapped the bag in the air before it finally opened. Doing all this made my hands sore, requiring me to purchase a pain-relieving ointment, which also was an unsatisfactory product, and will be the subject of a future review.

After I got the bag open, I found more problems. Specifically, the bag is square with corners, but my trash container is round. This means the bag will not fit snug and proper in the container. Even worse, the garbage does not go all the way into the bottom corners of the bag, so you cannot actually use the whole 13 gallons the bag should hold.

To overcome this obvious product defect, I had to reach deep down to the bottom of the bag and squash little chunks of garbage into the corners so the space there would not be wasted. But all the reaching and squashing gave me a sore back and arm, requiring me to purchase yet another ointment. (I will never buy that first ointment again, watch for my upcoming review.) The second ointment also proved unsatisfactory because it makes little bits of garbage stick to your skin and smells funny, as I will describe in a second upcoming ointment review.

Because of my sore hands, back, and arm I have not tried to remove the bag from my trash container yet. When I am able to do that, I will update my review.

On the plus side, I found the white color of the bag goes well with most types of garbage. I especially like the festive look when I throw away banana peels and carrot shavings.

Overall rating: One star.

Also, if I did not mention it above, watch for my upcoming reviews of two ointments. Both were unsatisfactory products.

Peter DiChellis likes to write, but hates hotel bedspreads. He takes out the trash every night, even if the bag isn't full. His humor has been published in the anthology The Net's Best Satire (under the pen name norbert b. snortwhistle). His personal finance and investing articles have been published by Morningstar. When not writing, he divides his time between reading and loafing around.

How to Collect the 100 Free Cell Phone Minutes You Receive in the Mail

BY KATHRYN A. HIGGINS

Place the ad you received in the mail for 100 free cell phone minutes on the pile of bills on your desk that require your immediate attention.

While performing occasional triage on this pile, which is threatening to take over your desk, ignore this ad several times because you are suspicious that there must be some catch. Suddenly notice, on the eighth run-through, that the expiration date is imminent, and follow up with the ad.

The ad says to call a number to activate the free minutes, so make sure you've gone to the bathroom and taken care of all other necessary bodily functions in preparation for a potentially long engagement.

Use your cell phone to call the long-distance number, in the hope that it will recognize the phone and automatically assign the free minutes. Per the prompt, press one to speak English, and then hold because of the high caller volume.

Listen to the recording advising you that you could have done this much more easily on their website.

After several minutes, a customer service specialist will come on the line and ask you for your cell phone number (they didn't recognize your phone), the last four digits of your social security number, and your mother's maiden name. Supply this information. Then she will authorize the 100 free minutes.

Ask her, just by the way, how many minutes you have on your plan, and how many you use on average. She will tell you that you pay for 900 minutes each month, and use about 150. Ask her about reducing your minute plan so you can save money each month. Just as you get started on this, your call will be dropped because of poor cell phone service.

Shout "Goddamnit!" and then repeat steps 4 through 6.

Explain to the new representative on the line that you have discovered through calling that to collect your 100 free minutes, you will need to reduce your minute plan. She will immediately say: "Well, you don't get your 100 free minutes then."

Tell her that you need to figure out a reduced plan anyway, and ask about the options. It will turn out that she is in the wrong department, because she only authorizes the 100 free minutes, and she will transfer you to customer service.  Just after you have told the new customer service representative your cell phone number, social security number, and mother's maiden name your call will drop again because of poor cell phone service.

Shout "Goddamnit!" again, add a few other expletives, and then call back, because now you've realized that you're spending an extra $30 to $50 a month. (Repeat steps 4 through 6 again, only this time use your land line so you don't get disconnected.)

Ask for customer service. After supplying all of the security information once again, explain that you need to change your plan. The representative will help you analyze your phone usage over the last year and will recommend the most economical plan for you. You decide to switch to that plan.

The representative will then tell you that you cannot switch to that plan over the phone, that you will have to go to a store to do it, because you are reducing your minutes instead of increasing your minutes.

Say "thank you," because you are polite despite it all, hang up, and go fix yourself a martini.

Kathryn's book Snide Remarks in Sotto Voce, is available on most ebook outlets.

My Eighth Stroller

BY WHITNEY COLLINS

With my first child, I went through about seven strollers -- all of which could suck a whole cantaloupe through a coffee straw. Some of these pieces of shit were pawned off on me by older moms, a few were gifts from people I'm now pretty certain hated me, and one I bought from consignment; that particular stroller actually turned out to be fairly functional, despite the fact that it gave us all hand, foot, and mouth disease and what we're just going to agree to call scabies. So, when I found out I was expecting my second child, I decided this time around I'd find the perfect stroller, even if it cost more than Las Vegas fellatio and required me to drain myself of plasma.

For the final four months of my gestational period, I spent about 700 hours surfing the Web, reading customer opinions, and deciding which baby-mover to buy. It had to have a snack tray, a parent console, a 180-degree sunshade, full-recline capabilities, a lightweight frame, inflatable tires, rear-wheel suspension, an adjustable handle, a travel system, a peekaboo flap, a front swivel wheel, quick-folding abilities, a foot brake, water repellency, a safety leash, and a gear tray. I also wanted it in metallic coral, but I wasn't about to get picky. That's just not like me.

Anyway, I finally found it. This beaut had 5-star reviews and all the crap I mentioned above. Plus, it even came with something called a "crotch restraint." Fabulous! I haven't known many whore babies, but you can never be too safe.

Five weeks and $500 later, THE CHOSEN ONE arrived in all its polyester-and-fresh-rubber glory, and after some minor assembly, I put the baby in that baby and set off to test drive my new Rolls.

Which turned out to feel more like a Kia.

I'm not gonna lie. I denied the stroller's suckage for a long time. I mean, if I ever meet George Clooney, and my husband allows me to sleep with George Clooney, I'm gonna sleep with George Clooney over and over and over again, even if it's horrible sex, because I'm just not going to be willing to admit that sex with George Clooney is horrible until the parent console breaks off of George Clooney. Because that's the final goddamn straw, George! You can't look the way you look, and cost what you cost, and be THAT hard to fold up and put in the trunk! UNACCEPTABLE.

So, I digress, but what I'm getting at is: FUCK YOU, STROLLER. It's been 10 months of trying to love you, and I'm finally ready to admit that I made a terrible mistake. You're impossible to push around, you move like you're drunk, and you always spill my drink. And that's not cheap vodka, dickweed! Also, I'm pretty sure your mother was a bitch-ass wheelbarrow who screwed an old ghetto shopping cart and pushed you outta her sweatshop vagina. Not to mention, your color was advertised as "Chili." Which looked like a lovely persimmon-maybe-shrimp bisque online. And seemed VERY CLOSE to coral, if not metallic coral. Well, you know what? You're not even close to CHILI. You're more like SCAB or TONSILLITIS or HEATHER PLACENTA. And I HATE you.

I know. I should probably write Customer Service a mature letter, explaining what is wrong with you and why I'm disappointed. (Because, hey! Free tire pump!) Or, I could take lots of pictures of your sagging, sun-damaged gear tray at the beach and send them to US Weekly. (I think that's what Clooney's ex-girlfriend did.) But instead, I've decided to douse you in lighter fluid, set you on fire, video that shit, and post it on YouTube.

But not before I take the baby for a walk in you. It's a nice day out, and I was hoping you could sever one final finger of mine.

To read more of Whitney's humor click here.