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If I were the marketing director at RJ Reynolds…

2009 - 10.12

Posted in Random Hilarity | 1 Comment »

Let’s just get this out of the way right here at the beginning; I admire cigarette companies. They effectively sell a product that kills you (albeit slowly) but yet we buy on. That right there is salesmanship, ladies and gents. I don’t care to get into to all the ethical dilemmas, but if you can sell a product that is heavily restricted, taxed, and will eventually kill its customers, and turn a profit every year while doing it, I am ready to come to your headquarters and present you with the Official Biloxi Von Lutz Certificate of Business Merit.

I’m sure it is no cakewalk to market these products of death, but at least now everyone knows they’ll kill you. That makes the job much easier. The burden is no longer on RJ Reynolds to keep you alive, or at least lie to you about what’s killing you. It’s now on you, the consumer, to resist the temptation to kill yourself. That’s a sea change. I think there was even a court case recently that acknowledged that the dangers of smoking were now widely known and accepted, so cigarette makers were no longer liable for your cancer (Jenn’s not online right now, so I can’t verify that). The floodgates are open for a plethora of brilliant marketing campaigns. If I were the marketing director at RJ Reynolds, here’s how I’d sell you some cigs…

It’s often said that for every cigarette you smoke, you knock seven minutes off your life. The logical extension of that statement is that shortening your life by 420 seconds is a bad thing. I disagree. Do you really want to live every moment of your life? For many people, life sucks, especially towards the end. Why not smoke em if you got em? That’s sort of a morbid thought, especially since your life’s probably gonna end with you on oxygen, but that’s kinda beside the point. It’s not how you go out, so long as you go out on top, right?

Joe Camel has no use for conference calls

Joe Camel has no use for conference calls

But what if, what if, you could choose which seven minutes of your life to lop off with each delicious puff of a Camel brand cigarette? Having a bad day at work? Wrap that last hour up in a hurry with eight of our smooth filtered cigarettes. Does your commute suck? There’s no better way to shorten it than to die halfway through. Suck it long and suck it hard. Get 10-15 years for a little B & E? You could be out in as little as three with some help from you new Pen Pal, Pall Mall… See where I’m going with this? The commercials would be hilarious. Here’s a more in depth example:

A guy meets a girl in a bar, and asks her on a date. She agrees to it and the following night they meet up for dinner. Although the girl is extremely attractive, she’s highly annoying to talk to (cut to scene of guy rolling his eyes while girl rambles on in the background). So the guy excuses himself and acts like he needs to use the restroom. He runs outside and chain smokes several cigarettes and when he comes back, time has jumped forward (because he killed himself for those 28 minutes) and he and the girl are headed back to her place for a little extra-curricular activity. Just as things are beginning to heat up in the bedroom, they hear a door open downstairs and the girl exclaims, “Oh no! It’s my husband!” The boy immediately pulls out his Camel brand cigarettes and matching lighter (that he got free with 5 proofs of purchase) and fires one up. In the next scene you see him you see him riding the Camel off into the sunset, a big grin on his face and cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth. “This isn’t the first time you’ve saved my ass, Joe Camel.”

Now that’s pretty risque material, but cigarettes are made for adults anyway and they’re gonna kill you, why not milk it? But think of the upside, no teenager I’ve ever met wants to wind up in this situation, so they’re discouraged from buying them. Keeping teens off cigarettes is a perennial problem. Once they’ve reached adult status and have been in one or two of these “close calls” with married or taken women, they’ll appreciate the humor of the situation and the indispensable service that the good folks at RJ Reynolds (Now Reynolds American, evidently) are providing you with their sweet sweet menthol flavor.

Traits Billionaires Share

2009 - 10.12

Posted in Treatises on Life | No Comments »

I read this article a couple of days ago on Yahoo. It’s a rather unscientific survey of billionaires to see what common traits they share. Many of them dropped out of college, many attended Harvard or Yale, and many of them (the financial ones, at least) worked at Goldman Sachs. There was even something about billionaires parents’ having “math-related careers.”

I have no problems with this on the surface, what I disagree with is the tone of the article. It seems to insinuate that becoming a billionaire is all based on luck or some magical birth coincidence. Those things help, I’m sure, but go ask Bill Gates or Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg about the long hours they put in developing their ideas. The beauty of The United States is that we’ve always been upwardly mobile, but I think we’ve lost a bit of that. It’s not that the system is broken or anything like that. It’s just that some of us seem to have lost faith in the American Dream, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

Everyday, I wake up and breathe in the sweet air of the American Dream. I hate my job and nearly every morning, I hate my life, but still I get up. Why? Because I know that today may be the day that “the killer app” hits me; the idea that takes me where I want to go. It was Facebook for Mark Zuckerberg, Microsoft for Bill Gates, and Apple and the PC for Steve Jobs. Actually, Steve Jobs has more killer apps than Alabama has trailers.

Everyday I have ideas, some good, some bad, but they are there. Some I keep for later, others are pretty much worthless and get tossed out. This website is an idea and I put a lot of work into it, partially because I enjoy it and partially because its popularity continues to grow. I never thought that my stupid ramblings and accounts of my adventures would be as popular as they are, and I’ve only begun to scratch the surface.

I’m not a shining example of the American Dream, but I will be. If nothing else, I at least have unwavering faith that it exists and I want everyone else to do the same. This country has come so far in a short time with racial issues and gender equality issues and even sexual orientation issues that it pains me to see people losing faith in America. I’m not one to get all caught up in that politically correct nonsense and trying to correct wrongs posthumously, there’s one rule that I live by; Don’t Ruin Someone Else’s Good Time. Honestly, what country on Earth does anything half as well as us? Hell, our poverty line is higher than the median income of the United Kingdom.

I guess my point is that I think it’s about time we started acting like Americans again and quit kowtowing to the whims of lesser entities. We’ve become like the Atlanta Braves of the 90′s. We’ve won 14 straight division titles, we think we’re the best and somebody owes us something. Other than a bit of respect, nobody owes you anything unless you keep winning. No one will walk up and put that trophy in your hand at the beginning of the season. In fact, the more you win, the harder someone else works to get it from you. Eye of the Tiger, baby, Eye of the Tiger.

We, as a nation, need to rekindle our love affair with freedom. We’ve become a nation enamored with the idea of security, and I’m not referring to National Defense. I’m referring to the idea that someone owes us a job or owes us a retirement or owes us healthcare. We didn’t used to be that way. We used to know that if we wanted something, we had to go out there and earn it. Some of us still do. I’d much rather soar or fail miserably of my own accord, than be mired in a life of mediocrity. Options are always preferable to only one choice. At least if you fail miserably, you can scrape off the dirt and try again. When mediocrity is the order of the day, lethargy is destined to follow.

My Newest Project

2009 - 10.09

Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »

I’ve started a new website devoted to one of my passions, Crappy Microwave Food. It’s still in its infancy and soon I hope to make it where everyone can contribute. Please frequent it like you have this blog and please feel free to send me any comments, advice, criticisms, whatever…

Thanks,
Biloxxxi

Life lesson #137

2009 - 10.05

Posted in The Adventures | 4 Comments »

I always just thought people understood. I guess thats what I get for thinking.

The mascot for the University of South Carolina is the Gamecock. A big freakin angry chicken. If you’ve ever been out drinking with me, chances are you’ve heard of the “Chicken Raid” movie, a short film still under development. For some odd reason, I throw chickens in that same category of “white trash” as Trans-Ams, Lynyrd Skynyrd, barefoot children, and Mason jars as glass-ware. I.e. awesome.

Anyway, back to the Gamecocks. When I was in high school, everybody had a Gamecocks hat. Do you know what it said on it? Cocks. And it had a little embroidered rooster going ape-shit on some imaginary being. I had one, all the folks in the Dixie Mafia had them, basically if you were cool you had one. Do you know why everybody had one? Because it said “Cocks” on it and cocks are funny (If you don’t get why that’s funny, stop reading now).

A year or two back, on of my ladyfriends was visiting with some friends at the University of South Carolina and she asked if I would like her to bring me back a t-shirt. “Sure.” I said and she returned with a shirt that said “COCKS” on it with that same enraged rooster. Hell yeah! Even better, it was one of those high-quality t-shirts that actually fit. This bad boy was going into heavy rotation.

I’ve worn the shirt probably at least once every 2 weeks since I’ve had it. I don’t think anyone ever gave it a moment’s notice until recently. One night a few weeks ago, I was wearing the shirt and I was walking home from the bar. For some reason, I was kinda in a bad mood. It might have been the same night as the Nice Guys Better Be Built For Speed saga. I passed a group of guys walking the other direction and one of them said to me, “Hahaha! your shirt says COCKS on it!” I replied to him, “I know what it says. I’m the one that’s wearing it.” He mumbled something and went back to stumbling down the road. And still I wear the shirt…

This past Saturday night, I was at the bar (Fontaine’s, where else?) with all the other Wharf Rats and I was wearing my Gamecocks t-shirt. I was having a conversation with one of Jenn’s friends and after a bit she asked me if I went to USC. “No.” I replied. “Why are you wearing a t-shirt that says Cocks on it then?” “A friend bought it for me.” I replied. Evidently she didn’t get the joke. She then explained that she couldn’t understand why such an obviously straight guy would be wearing a t-shirt that said “cocks” on it. And still I wear the shirt…

Skeksis from "The Dark Crystal"

Skeksis from "The Dark Crystal"

A little later that evening, I was scoping out this bean head, trying to decide if she was worth hollerin at (holla holla holla holla). I kept looking at her like she was one of those optical illusions they used to give you back in elementary school. If you focused your eyes one way, she was sort of hot, but if you focused them the other way, she sorta looked like a Skeksis. I never really got to make my final decision, because she beat me to the punch.

“Did you go to USC?” She asked. “No.” I replied. “So you just like cocks then?” Was her parting shot. Her gait reminded me of a Skeksis even more so than her face, so thank God for small favors, but this cocks nonsense is starting to get old. If half as many people actually went to UGA as there are people wearing UGA t-shirts, their annual enrollment would be somewhere in the low to mid 3 million range. Is there any sort of gay innuendo in that? It’s not like I was wearing a University of Hawaii Rainbow Warriors t-shirt circa 1987. It’s a collegiate t-shirt that I think looks cool and is mildly humorous. Get over it.

University of Hawaii Rainbow Warriors

University of Hawaii Rainbow Warriors

But since I don’t have the time or inclination to educate the entire drunken world on why I wear the t-shirts I do, I’ve put together a short list of what to tell people if they ask if you went to USC. BTW, that’s life lesson #137 and the answer is always yes.

The University of South Carolina
Main campus: Columbia, SC
Mascot: Gamecocks
If they ask what you majored in: Management (or you didn’t graduate, at which point you switch the conversation to whatever online college you attended.)
What dorm you stayed in as a Freshman: Innovista. If they ask, just say it was the new place they were building when they were there. This always works at major schools.
Football Head Coach: Steve Spurrier (Who doesn’t know this?)
What bar you hung out at: The Flying Saucer on Senate St. Tons of beer and live music.

If they haven’t bought in by this point, tell them “I’m sorry sir, I’m gonna break your leg.”

So what have we learned? 1. Don’t question Biloxi’s t-shirt choices. 2. If anyone asks you if you went to USC, because of your Cocks t-shirt, always say yes.

Ho, who is you playin with?

2009 - 10.01

Posted in The Adventures | 1 Comment »

‘Twas a warm spring evening and I found myself at a now defunct Midtown Atlanta bar with one of my friends from college, Amy. Her brother was a manager at this joint, so we’d often hang out there when she was in town (she lives in Arizona now for some odd reason).

This particular evening, it was getting near closing time and I was standing by the bar talking with the bartender. Amy had gone upstairs for something or other and there were a few folks scattered about the bar area, most notably a girl and her boyfriend/date/whatever. When Amy came back down the stairs, this girl stepped over to me and said something which took me completely by surprise.

“I bet you think your hair looks good. I think it looks like shit.”

As you can imagine, I was taken aback by this. For one, I always regarded my hair as one of my strong points. And two, even if you didn’t like my hair, why go out of your way to point it out to me? I asked her to repeat herself just to make sure I heard her right.

“I said, I think your hair looks like shit.”

I heard her right. Nine times out of ten, especially while drinking, I’d just say that I was sorry she felt that way and tell her to go away, but on this particular night I was feeling saucy so I decided to engage her.

“I guess I’m sorry you don’t like my hair, I tend to think it’s pretty cool. What don’t you like about it?”

“Well, first off, I don’t like the wings on the sides, this isn’t the 70′s. Secondly, it’s too long in the front.”

She was being condescending as hell, but she honestly wanted to discuss my hair. If there’s ever a lull in the conversation with me, just bring up my hair or South Park. Either way, I was making progress with this girl.

“I like the vintage styling. I don’t know if you noticed by the proper fitment of my jeans, but I’m not a hipster. What would you prefer I did with it?”

“I’m a hairdresser and you couldn’t afford my advice.”

Wait a second here. This girl is being condescending and now she’s presuming that I can’t afford her services? Is she an escort? Does she sell golden weave? Still I kept my cool and let this play out a bit more.

“What makes you think I can’t afford your styling services? I’m at a rather upscale bar, I’m drinking top-shelf liquor, and I’m with an extremely attractive woman. Those are not poor man credentials. You’re presuming an awful lot here.”

I guess her boyfriend or whatever had notice that the timbre of our conversation was increasing, so he stepped in and said that she was just drunk and apologized. I responded that everything was fine and that “I got this.”

Her mood towards me softened somewhat and she told me that she was a hair dresser at this upscale salon called “Helmet.” (A poor name choice if you ask me.) She asked me what I did for a living and I told her I was Territory Salesman for a tire distributor. She asked for one of my business cards and I gave her one. Then I asked for one of hers.

“I don’t have any.”

“What? How can you not have business cards?”

I then went into an explanation of how terrible a salesperson she was.

“First off, you insulted a potential customer’s hair. You could have had a field day working magic on these glorious locks. Second, you presumed to tell me that I couldn’t afford your services anyway, based on absolutely nothing. And lastly, you don’t even have business cards. For all I know, you could be the head hair washer at Supercuts at the mall.”

I hate sales, but I understand it, and just to further enforce my point I talked to her about the tires on her car. I knew what size they were, what originally came on it, and what her replacement options were. For some reason, this impressed her. She apologized for being a jackass and even offered me a free haircut at the salon she worked at. I never used it, because I had no idea where the place was located, and I certainly wasn’t gonna go hunting around for some salon where I’d probably end up with a haircut looking like Duckie from Pretty in Pink.

I happened to be driving home from work this past week and I noticed a sign for a salon called “Helmet.” It was right down the street from my house the whole time. I thought about stopping in and seeing if the girl still worked there, I had her name and number in my wallet, but I decided against it. They probably fired her anyway.