Balloon Boy? Is That You?

It really is a tricky being me sometimes.

Not "hard" per se ... just tricky.

I'm not sure if your brain works like this, but there are times when mine seems to be powered almost entirely by a cartoon hamster riding a merry-go-round that honks and squeaks calliope music as it spins.

This morning, for instance, I noticed this fellow on the train platform.

Just a guy doing his job. Just a guy making a living. Just a guy keeping his fellow crew members safe.

Sure.

Nothing weird about that at all.

No sir.

But it didn't matter how many times I looked directly at him ... (heck, we even made eye contact and exchanged polite nods at one point) ...

It didn't matter how much empirical, logical, unambiguous, verifiable, scientific proof that this was, in fact, a grown man holding a sign ...

It just didn't matter ...

Because every single time I looked away and caught him out of the corner of my eye ... my brain kept insisting that I was seeing this:

EVERY.

SINGLE.

TIME.

I would look down at my phone for a fraction of a second, catch just a fleeting glimpse of red ... and my mind would immediately shout: "CHILD WITH BALLOON! THREE O'CLOCK!!"

And then I'd look up and notice: "No, it's just a guy with a sign."

Then I'd glance back at my phone before catching another glimpse. Whereupon my brain would immediately shout: "CHILD WITH BALLOON!! THREE O'CLOCK!!"

And I'd look up again and realize that, no, still just a guy with a sign.

So I'd go back to my phone and the whole ridiculous pageant would play itself out again and again. Probably six or seven times in the course of just a couple of minutes.

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"No."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"It isn't."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"Come on now."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"Please stop."

There are two particularly puzzling and/or troubling aspects to this incident. First is the question of why the hell was my brain so reflexively insistent on papering over that poor guy with the cartoon shorthand image of a kid with a balloon?

It's certainly not wishful thinking. I'm not overly fond of kids ... they're fine, I guess. The people who make them seem to like them well enough. But they're not really for me. And, while I do on occasion enjoy balloons (I mean, who doesn't? They're balloons!), it's not like I spend every waking minute pining for there to be more balloons in the world.

And it's also not like my brain is substituting a familiar thing for an unfamiliar one. Since I am neither employed by, nor do I regularly attend the circus, I don't encounter a lot of kids with balloons in my daily life. In fact, as a regular commuter for the better part of the last fifteen years, I'm far more likely to see a railway worker with a sign than a kid with a balloon.

It's a head-scratcher, no doubt.

The second aspect that troubles/puzzles (truzzles?) me is, of course, the fact that my short-term memory and cognition skills have apparently eroded away to nothing.

"OH LOOK! A CASTLE!"

(sigh)

Like I said ... it's not "hard" being me exactly. Just a smidge tricky.






I just hope that when that guy finished his shift, he got to keep that balloon.




Till next we meet ...

Eat Me!

It's that time again, everybody. It's time to call bullshit!

And who or what has drawn my ire today? On whom shall said bullshit be called?

Why, food marketing, of course!

Specifically, I call bullshit on the convention of creating sentient, talking mascots THAT ARE MADE OF THE VERY SAME FOOD YOU'RE TRYING TO GET PEOPLE TO EAT.

Because eww.

"We were going to get married and start a family. But nevermind. You're snacky."

Don't get me wrong. I totally understand why this seems like a no-brainer. "Hey, we sell chicken, let's make our mascot a cartoon chicken!" Boom. Done.

At first blush, it makes perfect sense. You want your customers to associate your brand with a particular item ... so you make your mascot a cartoon version of that item. Sure! Everybody does it. Hey, if it works for the Michelin Man, why not us? Easy-peasy!

But it just gets weird when it's food.

Because it's way creepy to have a character effusively encouraging you to devour him and others of his kind.

"Oh yeah! Guzzle my lifeblood after soccer practice!"

The list of these masochistic quisling pitch-men is long. Here are just a few from the top of my head ... Twinkie the Kid, the M&M guys, the Pillsbury Dough Boy, Mayor McCheese, Mister Peanut, the Taco Bell Chihuahua ... and on and on and on ...

(Yes, I know technically Taco Bell is made from blanched wood pulp and ground horse faces, but that's close enough to dog meat for my purposes.)

The point is, this creepy convention is pervasive in the food industry and it's been around for years and years.

At least this guy has it figured out. "Sulf-prezurvashun, bichezz."

There are, of course, companies that neatly sidestep the moral quagmire. The Quaker Oats guy, Tony the Tiger, Burger King, Chester Cheetah, Colonel Sanders, Toucan Sam, Ronald McDonald ... none of these characters are pedaling products rendered from their own flesh.

(I have a theory McDonald's cheeseburgers are at least 30% elderly clown meat, but I can't prove it.)

That said, there are other companies who dive face-first into that quagmire and splash about with gleeful abandon.

Don't even get me started on these cannibalistic sociopaths.

But if you like your psychological fucked-up-edness served with a heaping side of crippling emotional trauma then the guy you want to talk to is one Charles T. "Charlie" Tuna.

With Charlie, Starkist really amps up the creepy by giving him a very strong point of view on the subject.

Is he horrified at the prospect of being killed? Guilt-ridden that he is leading his brethren to the slaughter? Nervous? Scared? Skittish in the least?

Nope.

Charlie is eager ... no enthusiastic ... no ... flat-out desperate to be hooked, gutted, steamed, flaked, canned and eventually chewed to a fine paste by humans.

"Pleeease! Murder me with your teeth! Even though I talk! Have deep-seated feelings of inadequacy! Shop for personalized embroidered hats! And apparently go to an ophthalmologist!"

In fact, his life's dream -- his entire sense of self worth -- hinges upon whether he is good enough to die by the fork and teeth of humanity. Anything less is crushing failure.

For Charlie, there is no higher calling than being sluiced through the human alimentary canal. (Such madness, presumably, mercury-induced.)

Just Google some old Starkist commercials and you'll see. For over fifty years, despite all his yearning and all his wishing ... at every turn he is rebuffed and rejected. Every day fills him with new hope and every day the hook descends from the heavens with his answer ... "Sorry Charlie."

Every.

Day.

His wheel of pain keeps coming round and round to crush his soul afresh. He yearns, but he will never be good enough. He is Prometheus, forever chained to his rock, reliving his torment every day for eternity. And every day the eagles come. And every day they decide his liver isn't good enough to peck out. So they just hit the drive-thru and make him watch.

Charlie's true punishment? That he must go on living.

Samuel Becket would have looked at this ad campaign and said: "Whoa. Guys. Little bleak, isn't it?"

Dude, are there even words for all the shit that's wrong with you?

Now, I really want to believe that Charlie's constant suicidal ideation creeped people out over the years. I want to believe that this produced a feeling of unease in the American eater. I want to believe it hurt sales on some level.

Sure, maybe it's on a level that conventional math has never been able to measure, but I desperately want to believe that with the judicious application of some that Nate-Silver-Super-Math -- that maybe we can find some proof that the idea of stuffing a walking, talking being into your mouth and brutally tooth-murdering him kinda turns people off.

I really do want to believe that.




But I don't.




Because we humans will eat anything. Regardless of any feelings that thing might evoke in us. Guilt, sadness, pity, terror, disgust ...

Doesn't matter. Down it goes.

We'll eat anything.

Any. Goddamn. Thing.

Need proof?

Okay.


We know what lobster tastes like.

Hell, we even have a chain of mid-level family restaurants dedicated specifically to that very activity.

"But lobster is delicious," you say. "How is that proof? People love eating delicious things."

Sure, but at first we didn't know lobster was delicious. But at some point in history, there was that first guy who looked at a lobster and said to his buddy:

"See that giant, terrifying ocean roach with the nightmarish snapping claws?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna put that in my mouth."

"Seems reasonable."

"I hope it's delicious."

"Sure."

"But you know what would make it better?"

"If it begged and pleaded to be eaten?"

"Exactly."

"We could pretend it did."

"With cartoons?"

"Of course."

"Done."

"I'll get the butter."

So resigned.
So very resigned.

Till next we meet ...

So Thirsty. So Very Thirsty.

(It has been three straight weeks that the cafeteria at the office building where I work in mid-town Manhattan has been out of Diet Pepsi. As someone who consumes a great deal of this beverage, this condition has rapidly become untenable for me.)

EXPEDITION DIARY

DAY 1: After a thorough accounting of the provisions in our stores, it has come to my attention that the last resupply mission from Base did not seem to include Diet Pepsi. This is extremely vexing.

DAY 2: It has been just 48 hours, but the lack of Diet Pepsi is already having an effect on the crew. The general lack of vim is clear. Even to the untrained eye.

DAY 3: Instructed First Officer Billings to send message to Base via the Marconi. I eagerly await their reply.

DAY 4: Still no reply from Base. The crew's pep has visibly begun to flag.

DAY 5: Instructed Billings to send numerous urgent messages to Base. We receive no answer but static.

DAY 6: Have begun hearing strange sounds in the night. Inhuman sounds. I shall double the watch.

DAY 7: Desperation can do things to a man. Terrible things.

DAY 8: In the quiet moments I find that I cannot quite recall the taste of Diet Pepsi. I must keep this to myself. Mustn't panic the men. Must keep up a brave face.

DAY 9: Morale among the crew is low. Billings tried to fabricate some Diet Pepsi from some carbonated water, caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid and some natural flavorings that he managed to find. It ended in tears, of course. Bitter bitter tears.

DAY 10: Deprivation. Such wanton deprivation.

DAY 11: We are so alone on this remote, deserted island. Cut off from everything and everyone. The rest of the world is but a half remembered dream. So alone. So utterly, utterly alone. The silence, it is deafening.

DAY 12: Someday I can envision a Manhattan where goods can be easily transported over roads and bridges. Where commerce can thrive. This place could be overflowing with invigorating and delicious diet beverages. Someday. Someday.

DAY 13: There is no logic in this place.

DAY 14: Billings has suggested maybe bringing Diet Pepsi from home. "Home." I don't even know what the word means anymore.

DAY 15: All is madness.

We live. Yet surely, without our beverage of choice, this cannot be called "living."

DAY 16: Some of the more desperate men have taken to drinking diet Dr Pepper for succor. I will not bend. I cannot bend. I am not an animal.

DAY 17: The diet Dr Pepper tastes just like regular Dr Pepper, which tastes just like shame. Desperation makes monsters of men.

DAY 18: I don't know how much longer we can endure. I can feel my soul breaking, about to shatter. If this is to be my last entry, please tell my family that my last thoughts were of them. Except that Diet-Coke-swilling reprobate cousin of mine. (He knows who he is.) He is already dead to me.

DAY 19: This must be exactly how Shackelton felt.

DAY 20: Billings suggested we drink the plentiful, plentiful Diet Coke. I will miss him. He was delicious.

DAY 21: The horror. The horror.




Till next we meet ...

Flush Life

Gentlemen:

I can't believe this post has become necessary.

But sadly ... it has.

We need to brush up a little on a few matters of men's room etiquette because ... well, you know how things can get in there.

As you know, or as you should have been taught as a youngster ... there is a time and a place for everything.

One of the items on that "everything" list?

The making of sounds.

The place?

The Men's Room.

The time?

Well, that's what I'd like to talk to you about ...

Now I don't mean the disgusting sounds our bodies naturally make in that room. These sounds, while often regrettable and always revolting, are largely unavoidable. And as such, the Men's Room is really the only socially acceptable place for you to make those sounds in the presence of others.

For instance, it's generally permissible to pass gas at the urinal.

But DON'T stare fixedly into the eyes of the guy next to you and moan with pleasure while you do it.
Trust me on this. Adult teeth do not grow back.

WHEN YOU SHOULD MAKE NOISE

Okay, here are a couple basic rules of thumb ...

Here's the situation: You're in a stall and you hear someone come into the restroom.

Even if this scenario fills you with blind, white-knuckle panic that said person might be your boss, a serial killer, a fire-pissing Hell-Spawn from the Demon Pit or a co-worker who might accidentally open your stall door ... it is your responsibility to make some goddamn noise.

I don't mean you need to make with the plop-plop-wiz-wiz on command. Or that you need to announce yourself like a town crier, hollering the old classic: "Somebody's in here!"

But you really do need to let that person know, in some subtle way, that they should maybe not try to fling open the door to that stall.

Just clear your throat, shuffle your feet, fumble with the toilet paper roll, jingle your belt buckle, or my personal go-to ... give a nice, innocuous courtesy flush.

You can keep it subtle and still get the point across.

But do not ... and I can't stress this enough ... do NOT cower silently, unmoving, unblinking and unbreathing, like you're hiding Anne Frank from the Nazis.

This helps exactly no one.

Seriously. Who do you think is out there?

"Dad?"

Because falling utterly silent is pretty much the creepiest thing you can do.

This tells me you want that person to think there's nobody in that stall.

Which tells me you want them to yank that door open.

Which then tells me you want them to see you sitting there with your tender nethers all splayed akimbo.

Which ultimately tells me you're totally hoping they're into that.

But come on. Even if that's actually is your deal ... your creepy, creepy, probably diagnosable deal ... the odds of it being former Senator Larry Craig or 80s pop icon George Michael on the other side of the door are fairly slim.

"Wake me up before you ... you know ... "go-go" ..."

And don't overdo it. Just be subtle. Don't make it weird. Don't whistle a tune, do a little tap dance number, or -- (and this is a 100% real example that I have personally encountered) -- sing opera.

(Seriously, man. If you find yourself itching to perform an aria while a rope of effluent snakes its way out of your underself ... I'm not even sure Science has a word for what's wrong with you. Just knock it off.)

WHEN YOU SHOULD NOT MAKE NOISE

Don't talk to me.

It's not that I'm surly and unfriendly. (I mean, I often am, but that's not the point.) If I'm at a urinal, I'm not there to chat. About work, about the game, about the family ... about anything.

I have filthy business to conduct and I don't care to be distracted.

This is the chief reason that talk shows have couches instead of a bank of urinals. True story.

Rule of thumb: If my genitals are in my hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

If your genitals are in your hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Basically, if anybody's genitals are in anybody's hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Even if you desperately want to compliment me on my genitals or my hands.
Don't. Just don't.

And if I'm in a stall, it's super not appropriate to speak to me. Once that door closes, it is a sacred space. Inviolable. Where solemn, private business is conducted between a man and his shameful voidings.

Respect that.

Now, if we're at the sink ... that's a different story. It is perfectly permissible to hold a short conversation whilst washing up.

But keep it brief. This isn't the proper venue for a staff meeting.

I mean, Jesus ... people shit in this room.



Till next we meet ...



(Note: The preceding applies only to Men's Rooms. I cannot speak to the vagaries of decorum as they pertain to Ladies' Rooms. These are mystical and unknowable places.)

(Once you add couches and conversation areas to the pooping room, well, all rules of human interaction go right out the window.)

Just Turn That Frown* Upside Down!

_______________
*And by "Frown" we of course mean "horrible, horrible, electro-stabby murder-death."

Life is all in how you look at things. It's true.

Perspective can be everything, even in bad situations! You just have to learn to look on the bright side!

Now, on one hand, you could look at this poor fellow and think: "Jeez, being lightninged to death in your middle parts sure looks like it smarts!"

But did you ever stop to think that maybe he's actually enjoying this?! Perhaps his spine is really snapping backward in the ecstasy of glorious sexual release!

This move is listed in the Kama Sutra as "the Lightning Rod." Probably.

Hmmm.

You don't seem convinced.

Okay, how about this, Mr. PessimistPants! Things could always be worse! This has got to be preferable to hurtling down, batch first, onto a bunch of barbed punji stakes, right?!

"Ow."

Still not convinced? Jeez, your glass is really half empty, isn't it! What's it going to take before you see a bright side here?

Okay, how about this ...

He's being abducted by aliens!

There! How's that for cool and exciting!

What an awesome story to tell your friends should you ever recover memories of the event!

And best of all ... there's absolutely no danger to be found!

I mean, nobody has ever been probed to death!

"Oh no! My tender probe-ables!"

You know ... apart from all those cows with the missing anuses.




And H.R. Giger, probably.




Oh, never mind.



Till next we meet ...

How To Summer

How To Summer: In Three Easy Steps.

A public service announcement.

(AKA: From Fat Aragorn to Emmet Otter in ten easy minutes.)

Step 1:

Step 2:

Step 3:

It is now Summer.

Please enjoy responsibly.



Till next we meet ...

Yo Buddy ... My World-Famous Architectural Landmarks Are Up Here.

Never once in the history of me has there been a time when I could be described as "trendy".

Which is not to say I don't have a youthful outlook on things. I've always had an intense sense of curiosity and a capacity to become interested and engaged on just about any topic.

But I have also always been slightly out of sync with the bow wave of pop culture. "Trendy" just isn't in my DNA.

So, despite the ever-growing heap of old birthday cards ... despite the fact that the salt has now thoroughly beaten the pepper (by many laps) in the race to claim my beard ... and despite the fact that I'm hopelessly unaware of whatever Internet, music, fashion, tech or reality TV fad is currently burning through pop culture like a rampaging pandemic ... I've never really felt particularly old.


Until now.


A few nights ago, as I was leaving the office, I met a young couple on the street that made me feel like Methuselah's great-goddamn-grandfather.

"DIAL ME ON THE ROTARY MARCONI! WE'LL LISTEN TO JOLSON ON THE VICTROLA! POSTUM! POSTUM!!!"

Well, perhaps met is a bit of an overstatement.

Encountered? No, that's not right ...

I've got it ...

Was stared blankly at by.

Yeah, that's more like it.



They were a young couple. Early twenties. Mid-western by the accent. Clearly in New York for the first time. And clearly completely lost.

Now, there are two primary reasons why I don't normally offer aid to wayward tourists in NYC.

Firstly, because I'm god-effing-awful with directions. Seriously ... after working in this city for almost 15 years, I routinely get lost in New York. A city where the streets are numbered sequentially. It's like I have a reverse GPS chip in my head that causes me to always make the wrong navigational decision.

So I try to avoid giving directions because I don't want to be responsible for sending some poor unsuspecting innocent into the waiting arms of shiftless ne'er-do-wells or murderous street hooligans. (Which New York totally has, by the way. Around any given corner the opening scene from Gangs of New York is about to break out, complete with airborne viscera and fancy Dr. Seussian top hats. That's just Science.)

And the second reason I never give directions is ... well ... I'm kind of an asshole who doesn't want to be bothered.

Yeah, I know what the title of this blog is. What do you want? I'm a work in progress.

"Howzabout you take a left at Suck It Street and Fuck Off Avenue."

Anyhow, for whatever reason, I was in an uncharacteristically good mood. And as I left the office, I happened upon some folks who seemed to need a hand.

"It's the Empire State Building ..."

"I know ..."

"It's back the other way ..."

"No, that's Seventh ..."

"Google says it's over that way ..."

"Well, Apple says it's this way ..."

"The Empire State Building ..."

"I know ..."

But the striking thing about their "conversation" is that it took place entirely without them ever breaking eye contact with the phones they were so fixedly hunched over. They never once raised their heads to look at their surroundings, to make eye contact with one another, or even to make sure they weren't about to be pasted all over 6th Avenue by an errant cab.

They were communicating without actually interacting.

But I pushed on. I was in such a good mood that by GOD I was gonna break my rule about direction-giving help these kids out! Hell or high water!

Why? Because my office is at 42nd Street and 6th Avenue -- across the street from Bryant Park, a hundred yards from the NY Public Library, and about a block from Times Square -- pretty much smack in the middle of mid-town. Meaning, no matter how shitty my sense of direction, this was something I could help them with.

Because you could totally SEE the the Empire State Building from where we were standing.

"Excuse me," I offered with a smile. "Are you guys looking for the Empire State Building?"

If ever there was a perfect time for the cartoon sound effect of the record-needle-scratching-to-a-halt, this was it.

They snapped up from their phones in unison and fixed me with a matching pair of blank, confused stares.


And then they just blinked at me.


Silent, uncomprehending.


The way cows might stare at a passing train.





For what felt like a full minute.

Blink.




Blink.




"The Empire State Building?" I offered again, with slightly less confidence than before. "It's right over there."

They turned in unison and looked at it.


Giant, unmissable.


Then back at me.


Then at the building again.


Then back at me.

Blink.



Blink.



"The Empire State ... it's right ... over ... "

Blink.



Blink.

Blink.



Hollow. Uncomprehending.



"... right ... over ..."

And then, without a hint of acknowledgment, they snapped back to their phones and resumed their argument all over again.

"It's back the other way ..."

"No, that's Seventh ..."

"Google says it's over that way ..."

"Well, Apple says it's this way ..."

"The Empire State Building ..."

"I know ..."



And then it was my turn to stare uncomprehendingly.



Were we done?!

Was I dismissed?!

What the shit just happened!?




Hang on ... maybe it was worse than that ...


Jesus, maybe I didn't exist at all?!


Maybe I never did!!


Maybe I died and just didn't know it!!



Was I a ghost!?



OH SHIT!!



WAS I BRUCE WILLIS?!

Early testing trending toward: No.

And that's when it struck me ... there may be an entire generation, possibly two, that I simply do not have the tools or the language to communicate with. Sure, this particular pair of kids may have been an extreme example, but the chasm is real. It exists.

Not to get too serious, but as amusing as this encounter was, I honestly came away from it a little shaken.

It wasn't a question of me not being trendy enough. I've encountered many, many situations where I've had to deal with those hipper or more in-the-know than I. Hell, that's a constant state of being for me.

No, this was different. This was bigger. Deeper.

It seems to me there's been a profound and fundamental shift in the last 20 years in the process of human communication. And that shift, disturbingly, seems to be occurring at a primal ... maybe even at a biological level.

The introduction of smart phone communication has changed us as a species in ways I don't think we're even aware of yet. I fear we may only be seeing the very first ripples on that pond.


This goes far beyond any generation gap. This isn't like the introduction of the telephone, the television or even the early Internet. Those things were extensions of meaningful in-person, one-on-one interaction.

But this replaces that interaction entirely. And that can't be good.

Sure, it may not seem like a big deal that cursive writing is no longer being taught in grade school. Or that smart phones and tablets are replacing books and pencils in classrooms across the land. But as more and more glowing screens are being enthusiastically thrust in front of younger and younger eyes, I can't help fearing that the substitution of the digital and virtual for the tangible and human might already be having erosive effects.

"No one can be told what the Matrix is. It has to be texted. With emojis."

Does that make me a hypocrite? Yeah, probably. Sure, I dip a toe into the great, sprawling miasma of the on-line world. I tend this blog on occasion, tweet with some regularity, and basically spend all day at work thumbing through the wonders of the World Wide Web.

But because I was born in a time before computers, I was introduced to these electronic toys after I had already learned to engage with other humans in the old-fashioned meat-based world. I'd already been schooled in the traditional social techniques that the great primates have been using since shortly after we flapped up out of the primordial soup and onto the beach.

I fear for the millions born inside the Matrix. The millions who don't seem to have been given that tactile social grounding. They're coming of age in a time when making eye contact, reading body language and just knowing how to behave in a social setting just aren't being valued the way they used to be.


I'm not the old man yelling at the kids to get off his lawn. I'm the old man who's afraid the kids aren't even aware that they're standing on a lawn at all.

Or worse ... that they're unaware they're standing on a corner in mid-town Manhattan ... in the shadow of the very building they've come to take a selfie in front of so they can Instagram it to thousands of "friends" they've never actually met.




Till next we meet ...

"Who Ya Gonna Call?" A Para-Urologist, Maybe?

A while back, The Missus brought home one of those mysterious, vaguely medicinal-looking items that I assumed would go live in our second medicine cabinet.

That's the cabinet that's none of my business. It's the one that's crammed chock-a-block with dozens of enigmatic items which -- one assumes -- are all emblazoned with the text: "LADY-ON! APPLY DIRECTLY TO THE LADY PARTS!"



But it turns out, I'm dumb.

I know. Big surprise, right?

Apparently this mysterious new item was called a "neti pot."


Ah.

I see.



Okay, I didn't see, actually. Not even a little.

It's a what now?

She sat me down and patiently explained ... speaking slowly and using small words ... that a "neti pot" is basically a thing you use to blast hot, salty water up your nose.

If ... you know ... you're into that.

(Which, I guess enough people are, since "neti pots" are actually a thing.)

(However, because I'm not entirely convinced of their thingness, I'm going to keep putting quotation marks around "neti pot" until further proof presents itself. Just saying.)

No really, it's an actual thing.

Anyhow ... as I puzzled over the series of wildly convoluted and astronomically unlikely events that would need to occur before I would ever consider using such a product myself, I got to looking at the box.

And I found my attention drawn to a little cartoon doodle at the top of the package.

Clearly this image is meant to be an antrhopomorphic water droplet with a big, friendly nose and a ready smile.

Sure. That's reasonable. Lots of products have cartoon mascots. That's one of the oldest tricks in the advertising book. You want to put as friendly a face on your product as possible.

And your mascot had better be friendly if what you're selling is as weird and off-putting as a salt water nose bidet.

Sure. Made perfect sense.

Intellectually, I knew that's what I had to be looking at: Friendly Little Water Droplet Guy.

Yup.

"Hi! A wet nose means you're healthy! Also, it's going to feel like you're drowning in hot, watery snot! Hooray!"

But for some reason, my brain just refused to accept that.

When I looked at this image, all I could/can see is an overhead shot looking down over a guy's shoulder as he sadly contemplates his ghost penis.

WHO IS LOOKING BACK AT HIM!

"Hellllooooooooo!"

Right?



And that's why I will never put one of these in my nose.

Ever.

Also, I'm pretty sure Pac Man has been ruined for me, too.




Till next we meet ...