Daydreaming by Dove.

8 Feb

NASA needs to start engineering shopping carts. Whoever is designing them now couldn’t build a lincoln log cabin with step-by-step directions. There is no such thing as a perfectly functioning shopping cart. There’s either one wheel that doesn’t even touch the ground, or one of the front wheels is stuck sideways and drags across the tile the whole time, acting like a rubber stopper on a roller skate. Then you have the carts with their own sense of will that pull left when all you want to do is cruise down the frozen foods aisle in a straight line. Last time I checked, grocery stores weren’t designed like the Labyrinth. Aisles don’t curve in circles; they’re straight lines. If we can build intricate modes of transportation such as the common “motor vehicle,” the Segway, or the rocket ship, it can’t be too hard to engineer a simple four-wheeled wagon made to move Tide, 2%, and frozen pizzas from point A to point B. Get on it.

I hate to be “that guy” that leaves their shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot after transferring my goods into my trunk, but today I made an exception. I pulled the ol’ leave-it-between-the-Nissan-and-the-Camry number, acting like I was too distracted by the crazy action in the parking lot to remember to shuttle it into a cart stall. It feels good to have one less responsibility.

Whoever the author of the Dove Chocolate Promises messages is is sniffing glue and talking to their potted plants. These little haikus are made by people who eat rainbows and butterflies for breakfast and shit birthday balloons.

Listen to your heartbeat and dance.
I’m not Marlene Matlin. I don’t need to feel the rhythm of my right ventricle to move to the beat. Music will work just fine for me thanks. On that note, they thought of something else!

Sing along with the elevator music.

Smile before bed. You’ll sleep better.
If this were true, Valium would never have been invented. The only thing that makes me sleep better is a shot of Bourbon and a handful of Tylenol PM.

Age is nothing but a number.
That’s what Joe Francis thought, and look where he ended up.

Be mischievous. It feels good.
You know what else feels good? Dine and dashing. Back scratches. Escaping speeding tickets. Try again, Dove.

Laugh uncontrollably. It clears the mind.
This actually works. How do I know? Homeless people cackle to themselves constantly, and they’ve completely lost their mind. This one is true.

Smile at yourself in the mirror.
The only reason a person should ever do this is to check if there’s food stuck in their teeth.

Be fearless.
That’s what Amelia Earhart did, and where is she now? Exactly.

Smile. People will wonder what you’re up to.
There’s not much room for wondering. You either farted, or you’re about to.

There’s no excuse not to dream.
Yes there is. It’s called “welfare.” Dreaming will get you a lot of free time, but no paycheck.

When two hearts race, both win.
Not necessarily. If you’re in a room with another person who’s having a heart attack and then you get one simultaneously, you’re both fucked.

Wink at someone driving past today.
The only thing this might result in is an awkward wave, or rear ending the person in front of you.

Sometimes a smile is worth more than a dozen roses.
Have you priced a rose bouquet at Hy-Vee lately? Around $60. The homeless crackhead on the corner of 16th and Broadway smiles at everything, even light poles, and that’s for free.

Naughty can be nice.
Define naughty. Child porn is naughty. Embezzling is naughty (Martha). Assault? Naughty. Think about it.

It’s definitely a bubble bath day.
You don’t know me. Don’t tell me my hygeine schedule, you peeping tom.

I would appreciate realistic nuggets, not these loopy, cloud 9, acid tripping dream world quotes that grandmas with Alzheimers are coming up with. Maybe Gas prices are draining your bank account. or Write your meal bill off as a business expense today. Or maybe Today is a good day to call into work to watch Seinfeld. See the difference? All realistic, all probable. Stop telling me to smile at strangers, Dove. The only thing that’s going to get me is the stink eye.

WELP, it’s time for me to consume strawberry pie in celebration of having a biological father.

Happy father’s day, punks.

“It’s a can of SODA.”


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