Empower this, assholes

So, I've been watching for several years now as the word "empower" rapidly loses credibility. First women were empowering themselves to buy uncomfortable shoes, to get breast implants and go to tanning beds, etc.

But it's reached a new low and damnit, and I can't stay quiet any longer.

Enter the newest model from the Hoover line of vacuum cleaners:

The EMPOWER!!!

That's right ladies! You are officially EMPOWERED to vacuum where, when and how YOU want! According to the commercial, you can even put it into "hush" mode so as not to wake your napping hubby as you vacuum around him! Then, you can run to join your hubby on the beach because you were EMPOWERED enough to finish your housework early! Good wifey! Good wifey!

Also according to the commercial, "Hoover gets it."

Okay, CLEARLY Hoover does not get it. They are so far from "getting it" that I think they should be charged with false advertising for using the words "gets" and "it" anywhere in the same sentance. Much less right 'effin next to each other.

Let me explain, Mr. Hoover Man:
1. Co-opting feminist terminology to hock housecleaning products is really not cool.
2. If my hubby is napping while I'm doing the housecleaning, I WANT to wake his ass up. I'd rather invest in a vacuum that plays Iron Maiden's Greatest Hits on full volume than one that has a pansy-ass "hush" button.
3. If it really allowed me to control "how, when and where I want to clean" it wouldn't be called a vacuum, now would it? It would be called the Super Clean Bot 4000Z. In other words, women, in general, don't ENJOY cleaning.
4. My husband and I just spent a fat wad of cash on a new Dyson Animal so nyah nyah.

Okay, that last one wasn't really a marketing tip. But it felt good to say nonetheless.

I sent all of this information, via a curse-filled email, to the good people of Hoover. The last time I complained to a company based on feminist ideals, the low level email receptor signed me up for a whole bunch of bestiality spam mail. I can't wait to see how this one turns out.

uuhhhhhh

Calzone... arrived...

so... full...

must... nap...

Waiting for my calzone...

So, I'm a vegan. And I'm sitting here at my desk patiently awaiting the delivery of my cheesy, crusty calzone.

I never said I was a good vegan.

See, the thing about being vegan is that, well, you can't eat cheese. I've tried to find loopholes in the definition of vegan-ation, but there just aren't any. Who knew it was even in the dictionary? I was hoping I would be able to co-opt it for my own evil cheese-loving purposes.

Nope.

And cheese-consumption obviously isn't reserved for rare occasions. I tried that, and failed. Suddenly, every day was a made up holiday where cheese was the traditional main course. So, I've given up the fight. And I'm tempted to write a stirring, Pochahontas-style tribute song about the journey. Something to the tune of Paint With All the Colors of the Wind..." but, you know, about cheese.

So now, fraught with guilt, I wait. Can you drown guilt with cheese and drool? I'm certainly going to try.

Wankershanks' political play of the week!

So, I know you are all hungry for some serious political analysis. Well, I won't keep you waiting any longer.

Welcome to the Wankershanks Political Play of the Week!!

This week's play focuses on our much beloved veep, Dick. Apparently, Mr. Cheney was

quite the potty mouth this week.

That's right, folks. He used "the eff word!"

This would clearly be a major problem for the republicans... if it weren't for the CIA leak to the Weekly World News that produced

THIS news sensation.

So, obviously, this ends up being a win-win situation for Dick. He gets to prove his humanity AND mouth off to a senator he hates. He just may have screwed himself out of the maple syrup christmas basket though...

Bring it on, pizza purists!

I love the California Pizza Kitchen.

There. I said it.

I know it's an evil chain bent on destoying the 'art' of making a traditional pizza (NY, Chicago, Sicilian, what have you.)
I know that I'm a lost soul in the world of pizza and if I just try this great little place down on 5th and what-the-hell-ever street, I would abandon this mockery of pizza.
I know that the people at CPK probably dine on newborn children and laugh when people get herpes. Or something. (just kidding, CPK! Don't sue me! wanna talk about it over a pear and gorgonzola pie?)

But boy howdy, do I love that pizza anyway.

New York pizza sucks and you all know it. I don't want people to look at me like I have a third head when I order artichoke hearts, eggplant and portobellos on my freakin' pizza. And Chicago style pizza, while adequate in the toppings department... well, I don't eat that as a matter of pride, you see. One slice is a meal! If I can't kill a good 1/2 pizza in one sitting, I will hang my head in shame the rest of the week. No, sorry Chicago. You're out. As far as traditional Italian pizza goes: I'll admit I've never been to Italy. But I'm sure there's something wrong with their pizza by the way Mario Batali makes it on the Food Network. Seriously, that man needs to be stopped. I can just see the freakshow now: "We put extra pig fat on it for you! You know, the good kind that's right above the hoof!"
Great...

But the California Pizza Kitchen- THAT'S a pizza I can dream about. Japanese eggplant on a pizza? BRING IT ON! Broccoli, goat cheese and roasted corn? I'll take one, with a side of another! And don't even get me started on the appetizers, folks. I'll be here all day.

So, hate me if you must. I've spoken the unspeakable. Life's too short to avoid yuppy pizza on some ill-conceived notion of "authenticity."

Now, proceed to tear me a new one.

Slacking and Cartridge Power

So, I'm avoiding a nasty homework assignment while my sister (who is visiting me today) is playing on the Gamecube. I like the Gamecube. It's pretty self explanatory: a cube that has games. Self-explanatory is good. But there's something missing from it.

I'm talking about cartridge power.

Anyone from my generation knows damned well what I mean. Sure, the minidisc things are nice and small and contain about 81 gajillion times what a cartidge can hold. But where's the challenge? I miss the days of having games that took, not only skill to play, but skill to turn on. For instance:

You're sitting around with a bunch of friends, getting ready to start the Super Mario Showdown. It's a select group of diehards so you don't have to hear the old "The 'A' button isn't working" excuse. Every one is psyched for the match as you slide the cartridge in and are rewarded with... nothing.

"Blow on it!!!"
"Jiggle it!!!"
"Pull it out and push it back in, leaving exactly 1/8'' of cartridge exposed!!!"
They all shout at you simultaneously.
Everyone has their own method, from hitting "reset" to breaking out the titanium micrometer to ensure ideal cartridge placement.

But it doesn't matter how many times you swear that your method has worked on Maniac Mansion. It's a mad dash to become the Master of the Cartridge.
"You're blowing on it all wrong!!!"
"Let me do it! I Knooooow how to do it!!"
"Q-Tips and rubbing alchohol! Someone get the Q-tips and rubbing alchohol for god's sake!"

But whatever method you used, you stood a bit taller that day if you were accredited with making the game work. You were revered, if only for the 30 second attention span that your friends had.

Until you got your ass kicked by a fire breathing flower, that is.

But now, all is changed. I guess there's no room in this world for an unreliable, expensive to produce and low- capacity cartridge. I guess the only character we build is the one on Phantasy Star rather than the one gained from determination and hard-won respect.
Well, fine, Nintendo Fat Cats. But you can pry my Game Boy Advance cartridges from my cold, dead fingers.

Blogging Etiquette

I'm new to the whole blogging thing, as I've already stated. So I don't know the ins and outs of the blogging world. I'm assuming that it's proper blog-style to ask permission before you link to someone else's blog.

So, how bout it folks? Right now all my "blog" links actually go to homestarrunner.com. I'd like to actually have blogs there.

At this point, I'm not being picky, so you don't have to fear the embarrassment of my rejection. Just say "Hey, you! Link to this blog!" As long as it's not blatantly offensive to women, minorities, chinchillas, etc, I'll link it.

Now, I'm not going to promise that I'll keep it forever. I fully intend to skyrocket into the blogger halls of fame and forget the little people along the way. So, you may still be crying yourself to sleep in a week or two. But wouldn't you love to be able to say "I was on wankershanks before wankershanks was cool!"?
Wouldn't you?

The Vaccum That Was

I'm not going to say that I had a profound relationship with my vacuum cleaner. It wasn't a spectacular vacuum, or even a particularly expensive one. But we did have an understanding, my vacuum and I. It did a reasonably good job of vacuuming the cat hair up and I repayed the favor by not overexerting it's vacuuming capabilities. AKA, I didn't vacuum all that often.

But a vacuum is something that you occasionally need. Sometimes, you just can't avoid it and life without a vacuum can be pretty rough indeed. So I had no bones about letting someone borrow it when my unfortunate, vacuum-less friend, asked.

That was three months ago. To this day, I don't know what has become of that vacuum, or my "friend."

I've called, left voicemail after voicemail, and emailed. I've yet to get a response at all. The boy and I have even stopped at her house, her car plainly in the driveway, and knocked. We've never gotten an answer.

Finally, a breakthrough the other night: I called her cell from a work line that she didn't know the number to. And she answered! Second ring. She was surprised to hear from me, I can tell you that. But she wasn't phazed a bit. Almost as if she had a script in front of her, the excuses came pouring out:

"I ran out of minutes on my cell phone and couldn't call you back!"
"I must have been in the shower when you came over" ... all three times?
"Of course I still have your vacuum! It's in my garage! I'll be home all day Saturday. Call me then and we'll arrange something."

Now, why I believed her, I still don't know. But I did.

Well, loyal readers. Saturday has come and gone, here on the east coast. Do I have my vacuum? ummm, no. Has she answered her phone at all today? ummm, no. Was she home like she claimed? ummm, NO! Imagine that.

Friends since we were 5, sworn enemies since a vacuum came between us. I always figured it would be something normal, like a guy or a major political difference or a nuclear war that would force us to part ways. But, alas. It was a Hoover.

Damn.

Be careful what you wish for...

More proof that this time-tested adage is true:

Just as I left work to pick up some dinner, I thought to myself, "Ms. Wankershanks, I wish stuff actually happened in my life so I'd actually have something to blog about."

Not five minutes later, my car is plowing into a field of queen-sized, pillow-top matresses. Nice ones too.

Apparently, the truck in front of me was transporting poorly secured mattresses at 10:30pm. In the rain. On a 6-lane highway.
Not a good idea, dude.

So, one flies off and gets stuck under my car as I swerve and careen and honk and curse. Mostly curse. My life, apparently a low budget indie flick, was flashing before my eyes. Of course, as I stop to trade information with the truck driver, I am told that it's clearly my fault because I was probably speeding/drunk/half-blind (take your pick, all were used.)

And here we go.

So, long story short, they refused to cooperate by providing me with the standard stuff: license number, insurance information, phone number, etc. What would have been a 5 minute annoyance turned into a pain-in-the-ass marathon since I finally had to call the highway patrol.
Once on the scene of the grisly mattress attack, the authorities agreed with me (surprise, surprise!) that when you drop a mattress on the road, and someone hits it, it isn't their fault. My car seems to be fine, other than the wafting smell of lightly toasted Serta.

And so I went along my merry way to pick up my crappy, late night, fast food. But suddenly, I've just lost my appetite. My 7-layer burrito is staring at me as if to say, "would you die for me?"
No, burrito. No I wouldn't.

The Blog Begins

So, I'm not really into the whole "writing" thing. And I'm clearly a delayed entry into the overwhelming world of bloggery. But I'm here anyway, mostly because I sit at my computer at work all day and have run out of things to stare at.

Now, I know that I've already attracted vast crowds of excited readers with my clever blog address.
Wankershanks? Eh? That is not a word!

No. No it isn't. But it IS what happens when you combine my last name with my husband's last name. Not a pretty site*, huh? But there's something playful and awful and slightly-fucked-up-in-a-non-creepy-way about it that I love.

Plus, it's a cool address because I said so.

So welcome to wankershanks.blogspot.com.

(*yes, that was an attempt at a pun.)