Category: Great Ideas

It seems like you can’t rip a yuppie’s arm out of its socket these days without acquiring a few “care bands” in the process.

For those of you who have been too busy scouring thrift stories for Rubik’s Cubes and parachute pants to keep abreast of current trends, “care bands” are these rubber rings that people wear around their wrist, each of which costs about a ha’ penny to manufacture and sells for, like, five bucks. People are willing to pay the markup because some amount of the money is contributed to charity, and then the band itself serves as an homage for their largess.

Other weblog might pontificate about the ethical dilemmas posed by this conflation of philanthropy and fashion. But not us, oh my goodness no. We would never presume to judge you, not when there’s a buck to be made.

In fact, we’re willing to take things to a while new level, asking: if your sole purpose in giving to charity is to advertise the fact, why not just skip the whole “giving to charity” step?

That’s why defective yeti is proud to announce CareLess Bands. At only $1 a piece, CareLess Bands cost just a fraction of the cost of traditional care bands. Plus, you can have the message of your choice emblazoned thereon, allowing you to affiliate yourself with the demographic, social movement, or worldview of your choice.

How can we afford to offer a better product for less money? Because we contribute absolutely nothing to worthy causes — and pass the saving on to you!!

But don’t take my word for it — just look at these satisfied customers, all of whom are me:

defective yeti Careless Bands are made from only the finest materials available at Walgreens, and most will include illegible writing and misspellings — proof that each has been lovingly handcrafted. Don’t delay! Paypal $1 to defective yeti today, and get ready to show the world that you care … less!

Speaking of this, you know what I think they should do? I think they should make it so if you press an elevator button that’s already lit, it goes off. This would serve two purposes.

First, it would allow a rider to cancel a button pressed in error.

Second, it would thwart those A-personality types who enter the elevator and press the button for their floor even when it’s already lit. This would obviously be the greatest boon of the technology, because, as we all know, those people are totally fucking annoying.

I got stuck in traffic the other day. Sitting there at a complete standstill, and at a loss for anything better to do, I started counting carpool lane cheater. At one point six singly-occupied vehicles in a row zoomed past me.

Apparently they’ve just given up on HOV lane enforcement. I don’t really blame them, considering the number of violators. And, in a way, it’s kind of nice that all the aggressive drivers self-select themselves out of traffic and into the HOV lane. But, still, the Department of Transportation ought to do something.

That’s why I propose they simply rename the HOV lane the “Asshole Lane.” That more accurately describes its contents now anyway. Furthermore, drivers should have to apply a bumper sticker reading “I AM AN ASSHOLE” to their SUVs to indicate that they are an authorized user of the lane.

It will be nice to have all the assholes clearly labelled. And hey: if we can get them all into a single lane, those of us in regular traffic will only have to contend with, like, a dozen cars on our morning commute.

Speaking of which …

Last week on the freeway I got stuck behind one of the few idiots not in the asshole lane. Indeed, he was in the far right lane, and since I intended to take the next exit I had no choice but to follow him. The guy was in a pickup, travelling about 15 miles per hour under the speed limit, and completely preoccupied with something other than driving. He kept leaning way over to the right, so far down that I couldn’t even see his head anymore, as if he were reading fine print off of a clipboard lying on the seat next to him, or giving a blowjob to his imaginary passenger. During these periods he would drift wildly, and when he occasionally popped his head back up he would abruptly wrestle the vehicle back into his lane before disappearing again.

As we reached the off-ramp he again began to drift rightward, well out his lane. In fact, he was heading straight for the median between the freeway and the exit. In my mind’s eye I could see him slamming into the barrier at his oh-so-pokey 40 MPH and I was thrilled at the image.

Then I snapped out of my reverie and reached for my horn to warn him, just as his head popped up and he frantically jerked the truck to the left, missing the median by a couple of feet.

But, still: totally wishing death on some guy because he’d added forty seconds to my commute.

Dude, what’s up with that? And I know that’s not the first time I’ve felt The Evil creeping up on me in the middle of rush hour.

What is it about traffic turns us into rageaholic bastards? Or does it just trick us into revealing our true selves? Suzanne Necker once said “fortune does not change men; it unmasks them.” Maybe the same is true of Interstate 90.

Sweet Betsy From Pike
Folk Song
c. 1870

Oh don’t you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,
Who crossed the wide prairie with her lover Ike,
With two yoke of oxen, a big yellow dog,
A tall Shangai rooster, and one spotted hog?

Well Ike and Sweet Betsy attended a dance,
And Ike wore a pair of his Pike County pants …

I’m not one to overly romanticize the past — I like living in a world with more flavors of ice cream than strains of smallpox — but I think we can all agree that the tradition of every county having their own pants should be revived immediately.

That would be so awesome. Just image: me at a party, chillin’ with my homies, some young punk in low-riding jeans pimp-rolls over and gets all up in my grill, saying, “yo, what up wit the tan khakis, grampa?” And then I’m all like “best be steppin’ — King County pants repraZENTS!”

You know what would be really funny? If someone made a comedy movie and the bad guy character was named Richard and everyone called him Richard throughout the whole movie but then at the end when the good guys wins he (the good guy) said “See you later — Dick!” and the bad guy looked all steamed because in addition to being a legitimate nickname for people named Richard “dick” is also a euphemism for male genitalia. If anyone uses this be sure to credit me.

I’m going to make my New Year’s resolutions today and strive to break them all by the end of the year.

By getting all my capitulation out of the way now, I figure I can keep 2005 100% failure-free.

Have you seen that show Extreme Makeover, where they take a bunch of perfectly normal looking women and do plastic surgery on them until they look like something you’d purchase at a mannequin factor’s “Ding ‘N’ Dent” sale?

I think they should have a spin-off show where they try and make middle-aged men more attractive, and call it Extreme Combover.

With the Olympics in Athens this year, I think the organizers missed a golden opportunity to incorporate some Greek mythological events into the games. Like maybe the synchronized swimmers could sing hypnotic songs and lure passing sailors to a watery grave. Or the weightlifters would have to clean King Augean’s stables — I’d totally watch that on TV.

America would totally kick ass in the Eternal Uphill Boulder Push.

Update: Paul from funkwit writes, “Great idea, Matthew … but I bet the female archery competitors wouldn’t go for it.”

The Catholic Church has been a little down on its luck recently, what with the abuse scandals and the Pope running out of people to confer favor on, to the point where he has to resort to blessing breakdancers. What they need is something that will not only refill their depleted coffers, but also enable them to earn the goodwill of people across the world like they did during the crusades.

That’s why I think they should found What Would Atkins Do, Incorporated.

Here’s how it works. The church opens a series of bakeries across the nation, selling all varieties of grain products: bread, muffins, pasta, you name it. Each outlet also employs a deacon, who sanctifies everything before its shipped to locals stores. It would be sort of like the kosher food deal, but, you know, Christier.

And voila: moneymaker! The 96% of the American population currently on the Atkins diet could enjoy all those baked goods they’ve had to forego, without having to worry about meddlesome carbs. Thanks to the (literal!) miracle of transubstantiation, those WWAD cinnamon rolls and bagels will turn into the (literal!) body of Christ after consumption, thereby converting a carbohydrate-laden doughnut into a the relatively carb-free hunk of Messiah. Dieters get to eat bread again and stave off eternal damnation, all at the same time — it’s win-win!

If WWAD, Inc. is successful (how could it not be?), they could even branch out by opening vineyards and launching a line of sanctified wine for vampires.