Tag Archives: expensive

King Macklemore And The Game Of Thrones

macklemoreThe #poop tag comes back with a vengeance. –Ed.

You just can’t invent stuff like this. King, a county in Washington state, released a music video imploring the public to not put anything in the toilet except “human waste.” Swoon. I may have found a new home. Their song is a parody of Macklemore’s smash hit Thrift Shop.

I admit I’d never heard the song Thrift Shop. I admit I’d never heard of anyone named Macklemore. Is that his first or last name? Or is this a single-name-situation like Madonna, Prince, Sting and Digit?

In an urge to write a post about this parody song, I turned to Google to find a suitable image to adorn my writings. What? Macklemore also did a song about toilets?

Holy shitcans! Sometimes life can be funny. Behold, Simba, the circle of life! Everything goes full circle. Like water swirling down a drain.

But wait. The circle doesn’t end there. This circle has got levels replete with layers, yo.

As far as I can tell, Macklemore is turd. Turds go in toilets. That’s exactly what King County wants you to know. Further, their parody song riffs on the word “fucking” by replacing it with “flushing.” Yes, a government did this. And, finally, to bring it all back home, in his spare time, Macklemore raps about toilets.

Circle. Full. Flush. Repeat.

No crap about it, this could amuse me all day long. And, in an ironic twist of fate, some have criticized the $123,000 spent on the music video as governmental waste. Cover Oregon had their own famous example of this. Has the King of Waste finally been dethroned? (Reportedly $2.9 million was spent on the Cover Oregon TV and radio spots.) Rocky King, the former executive director of Cover Oregon, said that urgent time frames drove the need for the expensive campaigns. They didn’t have a lot of time to get the word out. Yes, King. (No relation to the county.) I told you this was all connected.

You can’t spell “crap” without R-A-P. Kick it! It’s time to tell you busters all about it!
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Nom Nom Nom de Plume

restaurantBullets pinged around me, hitting city buildings in little explosions of concrete. Ping. Ping. Ping, ping, pow. I dodged, then rolled around the corner and landed back on my feet. I adjusted my invisible tie, strolled into the restaurant and headed for the bar.

“Beer, PBR, can, pull tab, unopened. And shake the ever-lovin’ shit out of it.”

My wife looked radiant standing by the quasi-official counter where a disinterested staff person stood bored. Another member of staff had just departed with patrons in tow.

The place was almost completely empty.

“Sheila will seat you when she gets back. Your name, please?” Apparently Sheila was the only one with seating powers and it would likely be a wait of at least 45 seconds so, of course, they needed my name. Dammit, my cover was blown.

I paused, glanced at my wife, then said, awkwardly, “Fleischman. Joel Fleischman.”

I knew all that time invested watching Northern Exposure would pay off someday.

You gotta give my wife credit. She played it cool. Her mouth dropped open, she facepalmed, then moaned, loud enough for the woman at the counter to hear, “Oh, God.”

They never suspected a thing. Smooth. It’s all in a day’s work when you have a license to ill.
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