A little decorum, please.

Ewwww...

So we're sitting around watching football with the family - all ages, in-laws, etc. -  and we're subjected to a torrent of ads for men with (ahem) issues.  We wrote this open letter in response to these ads.


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Dear Big Pharma,

We would like to start by saying that we appreciate the effort you have expended to improve the lives of humanity. We acknowledge the fantastic contributions you have made to the health of people world-wide. We wish you continued success as you seek to conquer the diseases that endanger us.

But we need to talk. You see, every time we turn around we are seeing "male performance" ads, and frankly, we're sick of them. Setting aside the rather uncomfortable subject, these ads are just plain stupid. Sitting in matching bathtubs while watching the sunset? A NASCAR car flying around a race track? Getting frisky while doing the laundry?

Seriously.

And if the ads weren't bad enough, the accompanying warnings are making us nauseous. We're had it up to here with commercials warning us about blurry vision, dangerous increases in blood pressure, and the need to ask our doctor if we're healthy enough for sex. Like, what's he going to say? "No, Trevor, you better just make do with gardening?"

But the topper, the one that makes us want to run screaming into the street, is the instruction that we should call the aforementioned doctor if our, ahem, condition lasts for more than four hours. Here's a hint, Big Pharma. We ain't callin' no doctor to report that "the moment has been right" for half the night. Aside from the fact we'd die from embarrassment before we'd die from the diagnosis, we're scared to death of what the doctor might actually do to relieve our problem. How the hell do you fix it? Pics of Margaret Thatcher? Ice packs? Chain saws?

So stop it already. What's wrong with advertising a nice skin cream or something? We're tired of squirming in our seats every time we see a bathtub.

Sincerely,

The Entire Frigging Planet

Greetings Jingle Bashers!

If you're here reading this, it's probably because you scanned a QR code you picked up at the Etsy Dallas Jingle Bash (you certainly didn't wind up here because of this blogs' overwhelming popularity). "So", you're asking yourself, "what's up with this?"

Nothing but fun and games, actually. This is the official blog of Yellow Bug Boutique, an Etsy shop, purveyor of fine stuff with a slightly scientific bend since, oh, at least week before last. We occasionally use this blog to muse on things we find interesting, amusing, infuriating or otherwise noteworthy. Herein you'll find samples of our somewhat bent sense of humor, offered up in snibbets sized so that they can be read on your smartphone in an average bathroom break.

You may notice that occasionally sections of this blog are redacted by the Federal Witness Protection Program. You can get some background on why Agents Hotchkiss and Vickers pay so much attention to this blog here. Hi, agents! (HI BACK. KINDLY LEAVE US OUT OF THIS.)

Hope you had a good time at the Jingle Bash. This is a somewhat risky statement since, at the time of this writing, the Jingle Bash has not technically occurred. Hopefully there won't be a zombie attack or mass spontaneous human combustion at the event. If there is, kindly disregard the previous statement.

Assuming that the Jingle Bash was a success, as you read this Mrs. Bug and I are probably soaking our feet and trying to recover from the event. We're not used to spending that much time on our feet, unlike when we were on our mission together in Jakar- (REDACTED AGAIN. YOU GUYS ARE REALLY BEING A PAIN IN OUR PATOOTIE(S). DO YOU *WANT* TO BE HUNTED DOWN BY THE KG-)

PORTIONS OF THE PREVIOUS REDACTMENT HAVE BEEN REDACTED BY ME, SENIOR AGENT MAXIM OF THE FEDERAL WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM, WHO HAS TO KEEP TOO MUCH OF AN EYE ON A COUPLE OF GOOFBALL AGENTS WHO ALMOST GAVE AWAY A STATE SECRET. KNUCKLEHEADS.

What the hell is a shrift?

And why is it always short? Apparently, "shrift" is an old English term for a penance. Doing penances back in the medieval day was frequently a big deal - kind of like pledging a fraternity, just with more relevance and less beer. Being given a short shrift was a good thing.

However, it turns out that short shrifts were most frequently given to condemned prisoners. This was to allow the prisoner an opportunity to clear their sin docket before getting the infamous Haircut That's About Six Inches Too Low. Typically, if you were getting a short shrift, you were going to have a very bad day.

So somehow all of that got munged down into meaning that a short shrift was something that wasn't going to get a lot of attention. It stands to reason, then, that a long shrift would mean you're going to pay a lot of attention to something.

So why don't we ever talk about long shrifts? It's a mystery. I think I'll sit down and have a nice long shrift thinking about it.

Hitting the Big Red Button...

So after slaving away on the blog (well, slaving is probably too strong a term, seeing as how I wrote all of two posts), Mrs. bug has decided that her audience isn't the least bit interested in my technical suggestions. Instead, she believes that I should devote this blog to my ruminations on life in general.

This assumes, of course, that I know how to ruminate. "Rumination" is one of those words that only makes sense in specific constructs. Consider "feckless" - a word meaning something is futile. So when something is a slam-dunk sure thing, why don't people say, "I'm going to make a feck attempt at eating this peach."

Or "bode", a verb meaning "to signify." I'm waiting to hear this at a card game, "This hand does not bode well. Can anyone bode better?"

More later. Assuming Mrs. Bug doesn't change her mind. She better not fecking try.