… It makes more sense, plus that other name makes it sound a little… you know… nutty.
Regardless, whatever denomination of opiate you silly masses choose:
Happy Holidays.
Love, Conlan
See you next year. Or sooner.
And God bless us, every one.
… It makes more sense, plus that other name makes it sound a little… you know… nutty.
Regardless, whatever denomination of opiate you silly masses choose:
Happy Holidays.
Love, Conlan
See you next year. Or sooner.
And God bless us, every one.
Advertisers are notorious for being too subtle for their own good. Someone eats this jerky and is then is brave enough to tease Bigfoot? What are you trying to tell me? A guy sprays some mist on himself and every nearby woman races to rip his clothes off? What does that have to do with chopping down trees? Don’t you wish someone would take the time to just lay it out for you? Well, you’re in luck, my friends. Because you’re reading This is Conlan, and I’m here to help.
Of course there is advertising all year long, but The Holidays™ are a special time. This is when most retail businesses make most of their money, so it’s also when most advertisers spread their ambiguity around. And nowhere is it more ambiguous than jewelry commercials.
Take a moment to go watch a little TV. Not long, just enough for a set of commercials to come on, and you’ll see a jewelry commercial. It doesn’t matter which one; they’re all equally confusing. What are these jewelers trying to tell us?
Now I’ll break it down. Here is what jewelers are telling you, by demographic.
Women: You’re a whore. You know it, it’s no big deal. Maybe you’ve been married for 20 years, it doesn’t matter. You care about one thing: diamonds. You have to care about them, because they are the only possible symbol of love from your man. If he buys you something else, he’s basically calling you trash and wishes you would die. And he’d be right. If a man won’t buy you diamonds, you are worthless. But don’t worry, if you drop enough hints, he’ll get the message that you need this kind of reenforcement (and that he’ll never get laid again if he doesn’t give it to you). Additionally—and this is very important—if you have children (especially little girls) make sure they’re in the room as you sigh and moan in rapture over that necklace or bracelet. Make sure your daughter learns how to judge her self-worth.
Men: Come on, guys. You know what you have to do. It’s expensive, sure. But if you don’t buy that diamond, she’s going to be pissed. You want to sign her up for that adult education class she’s been thinking about and offer to take care of the kids one night a week while she paints pictures of fruit? Wow. What are you, retarded? OK, fine, I guess you can do that too. But you don’t need to. You know what she wants. Buy that necklace. Listen to the way she gasps with ecstasy when she opens it. She’ll makes sounds she doesn’t even make in bed. And speaking of which, later she’s going to do things for you that you haven’t seen since your honeymoon. Maybe not even then. We’re talking anything goes. She can’t say no, because you bought her something sparkly.
Everyone: You are so gee-effing stupid. We can’t believe this shit still works after all these years. Sure, we dress it up new. Maybe this year we make the chick deaf and the guy has to use sign language. Whatever. The point is, you’re still buying it. Literally. No matter how much we insult your intelligence, your sense of decency, your very existence—I mean, we can’t even put into words the disdain we have for you. Maybe you really are as idiotic as we make you look. I don’t know who gets the worst of it. The women, who we portray as sexually aroused at the sight of something shiny, or the men, who are just bumbling fools who can make up for their utter cluelessness with a couple rocks and some metal. Frankly, you make us sick. But you’re the ones we need giving us your money. So keep it up. And remember: every kiss begins with your kredit kard.
I hope that cleared things up for you.
She’s got tattoos on her arms; one on her leg. RC has been into tattoos lately, because he likes girls who are brave enough to do things he’s not. She’s pretty cute, I guess.
She’s a waitress. No, she’s a busboy. A busgirl… A… busser? You know, an empty-glass-picker-upper. She has great posture. She’s short, but stands tall. RC is too afraid to talk to her. I don’t know how he lives with himself.
When she’s picking up our glasses, I reach out and shake her hand. “You’re doing a great job,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says. “Do you want a glass of water?”
She thinks I’m drunk. “Yes, please.”
It’s closing time, and she hasn’t brought me water. I see her on the way out. “What happened to my water?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot.”
It’s the following week. I shake her hand again, and she remembers me.
“Sorry I forgot your water,” she says. I say it’s no problem.
Clearly she’s beginning to fall in love with me.
Me, RC, and our friends continue to sip our beverages and converse. The night wears on, much in the way you’d imagine a cocktail party of Great Gatsby-esque sophistication.
She comes around again, to pick up our empty glasses.
“Hey,” I say, before she walks away. “You have really great posture.”
“Thank you,” she says.
The end.
I’m not sure what’s up with this guy. For some reason he thinks I suck, or my blog sucks. It’s unclear. I think he might have me confused with someone else. I don’t have an office and I do have an appendix, so I don’t know what the deal is. I think it’s kind of funny though.
Currently, the guy seems to be in an argument with a commenter, which is pretty entertaining (he even suspects the anonymous commenter is me—ha!). Please note: the guy and his commenter lack the social graces of someone like me, so there is some strong language on the site. If you are over the age of 45, you may find it offensive; if you are under the age of 13, you’ve heard worse shit at school, so no problem; and if you’re in between… well, Goldilocks, this one is just right.
Check out “This is Conlan” Sucks.
A reader from Fresno, California writes:
I was recently reading one of Joan Hess’ murder mysteries where Arly Hanks is the Chief of Police (and only police officer set in the town of Maggody, Arkansas where Rubella Bee (Ruby Bee) is her mom)…Murder in Maggody.Com or maybe something else and one of the characters with varicose veins was developing phlebitis from standing at her window spying on neighbors…and that rang a bell…my question to Ask Conlan is: did the late President Richard Nixon have phlebitis in his legs too or is my memory mistaken?
As much as I hate to admit it, this may be the single greatest “Ask Conlan” question to date. I mean, look at the elegant construction… the twists and turns… the pure delirium of it. It is clearly the work of either a genius or a madman. In any case, by virtue of the Ask Conlan Code1, I will address this question presently.
Dear Ari: As you no doubt have learned by now, a phlebotomist is one who draws blood from your arm, when you go to donate blood or if you fall asleep on the bus. So it is only natural that phlebitis refers to an inflammation of a vein, usually in the leg region. When coupled with blood clots, it has the fun name thrombophlebitis. (If you would like to learn more about your circulatory system, please visit your local library and cut yourself. Ask for a razor or scissors at the circulation desk.)
A number of prominent personages have dealt with phlebitis: Dan Quayle (former U.S. secretary of the aviary), Truman Capote (a notable homosexual), Pablo Neruda (Capote’s secret lover), and Orson Welles (director and actor, best known for inspiring Marlon Brando to become fat and scary).
And indeed, your memory is taken correctly. The late, great President Nixon also suffered from phlebitis, although it was hardly the most troublesome of his ailments. Additionally he suffered from eczema, irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), evil, erectile dysfunction (which, at the time, was known as “What, are you gay or something?”), and polio (although during his presidency he hid this from the public using his jowls and sweaty forehead).
I hope that answers your question sufficiently. But I also wanted to address something else in your question. Something I believe may be quite serious. Specifically, “…and that rang a bell…” Unless you were hearing an actual bell (and I doubt this, as you do not live in Philadelphia) or are a Zen Buddhist, you may be suffering from a condition known as tinnitus, a phenomenon wherein the subject perceives sounds that are not really there. It can be caused by a number of factors: head injuries, Lyme disease, or the use of psychedelic drugs.
If your symptoms persist, please jam a Q-tip in your ear as far as it’ll go until you stop hearing the noises2. You’re welcome. Write back any time.
If you have a question for me (Conlan), write to me (Conlan) at conlan (Conlan) at thisisconlan.com. In the subject line write “Take, c/o yourself and others”. I’d love to hear from you!