Often when I am thinking about one thing, I get sidetracked into some other subject entirely. Very few of my posts end up being on the subject I originally intended. They might be inspired by a photo on Google that I saw when I was looking up something else for some other writing project, or they might just pop into my mind from other sources - an offshoot of the original idea, or from something going on outside my window. Or put in my head by the devil. Or simply bobbing to the surface of the green bubbling soup that is my unsettled mind. At any rate, I am about to digress in stages again. Those of you who have faithfully read my blogs over time know enough to quietly leave now.
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Many of my post ideas are Lidian at Kitchen Retro posts funny observations of old-time advertisements. What she does is, she finds old ads in old magazines, scans them and then makes fun of them on her blog. I didn't say she was deep, only that I thought she was funny. Kidding Lidian. Put down that kitchen retro butcher knife.
One recent old ad was for something called a "Radio Microphone." It was about... ummmm... a microphone that you could plug into your radio and talk to astounded unbelieving people. It said having one would make you the life of any party, and that it would also be good voice practice for you. Anyway.
As if this post by Lidian wasn't sufficiently droll enough on its own merits, it reminded me of another ad on tv about something called a "Mr. Microphone." By Ronco, of course. Ron Popeil is my personal idol, without whom we would never have had the Vegematic or the black string stuff you can spray on bald spots, and so much more. My absolute idol. I swear to god.In the tv commercial, a carload of obnoxious guys pull up at a stoplight next to a babe in another car and one of them harasses her by talking into a cheap plastic microphone that transmits a low quality signal over her car radio. Like she couldn't hear the creep anyway, since they are both in convertibles. You may remember the commercial if you were unfortunate enough to have been alive in the late 1970s and watched late night old movies. That is what the old ad on Lidian's Kitchen Retro reminded me of - that old Mr. Microphone tv commercial.
Right now you are probably thinking wishing hoping that this post is over so you can leave and go drop on someone else, but the Mr. Microphone commercial reminded me of my third digression: that of a carload of young males cruising main street for girls to pick up. Trolling trolls. Maybe you remember.
The way it works is to find an unpopular guy in school who has a car and cram about 15 pimply-faced male adolescents into it, so that several of them are forced to hang out the windows, and then drive slowly down the main drag hoping to pick up a pretty girl. Why? I don't know. Perhaps they somehow dreamed they could all make love to her in the back seat and then drop her off before they ran out of their $2 worth of gas. It doesn't matter because there never seemed to be any girls, pretty or otherwise, who were looking to jump in the back seat of an old car loaded with 15 pimply-faced vulgar-mouthed teenaged virgins. But it was a rite of passage, and I was reminded of it when I thought of the crass dope with Ron Popeil's Mr. Microphone. Which in turn was brought to mind by the even older magazine ad on Lidian's blog about the Radio Microphone that would help you practice your voice. Or whatever.
Here I should be plain, in case any of you new readers get the wrong idea, that Relax Max has never personally participated in any packed-car pimply-faced "Here Chicky Chicky" main street trolling rituals. For the record, Max was cool. Is cool. Whatever. He had his own car and wore sunglasses and smoked filterless Camel cigarettes and therefore never had any trouble getting plenty of sex whenever he wanted it. (This foolproof "Camel Cigarette Sexual Attraction" technique is outlined in another of Lidian's old ad posts.)No, Max was talking about other boys.
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Other announcements:
Angelika, please call home. Evan needs another punch in the ass.
Ettarose arrested in personal products blackmarket sting.
Those of you just arriving in Binghamton from DC who were intending to go to York need to turn around now.
Lidian honors frequent droppers; could care less about people like Max.
Sheila prattles on about the spelling of Althorp; ignores basic rule that blogs should be interesting to her readers.
Mr. and Mrs. B. Obama request you mail donations for last ditch effort to spend our way out of debt to: "Hedge Your Bets" in care of Citibank.
Candy casts doubt on what day of the week she was born; compares Monday to thickly buttered toast I think.
Bellyaching Briget loses last vestiges of lucidity; realizes she is too far gone for any hope of redemption and lies down in ditch to die. Or perhaps I misunderstood her.
Canucklehead posts 2 year old picture of himself and pretends he has grown another beard.
Catherine alleges that Drumcliff lies between Donegal and Sligo yet still writes a simply delicious sonnet. Only a complete and utter loser would miss the chance to go to her blog and read it.
Alison searches for a lost church.
Frostygirl confirms suspicion that Eiffel Tower is really in South Africa. Okay by me.
Obama says Teddy Kennedy has never stopped asking what he can do for his country. Max has the answer if Teddy is really interested.
Petra is back among the living but still touting the undead. I have personally seen evidence of life.
A decidedly not dead Lord Likely shows up on Facebook. They say. Max won't be caught dead on Facebook.
I haven't checked Twitter in 2 days but I'm guessing Claire is listening to something ungodly. I am still praying for Mumborg with all my heart.
Mesmerizing Debbie has apparently renewed her vows - to never visit Max's blog again. Max is heartbroken and lays plans to win her back.
