Who ever has time to read this many features?
You.
Feature #40:
Brace yourselves... this could go on for a while. Ladies and gentlemen, i present to you:
JASON vs. COCA COLA!
A few years ago, i took a summer trip to Israel where i was introduced to Kinley, a wonderful orange soda made by Coca-Cola for distribution only in Israel. Folks, i don't like soda all that much, but i fell in love with Kinley and decided to convince the corperate giant Coca-Cola to produce it in America.
I then forgot about this ambition until two months ago. That's when i wrote very colorful letter to the company pleading for them to produce Kinley in America, and i even took the job of marketing research and sited many (unresearched) examples of why it would be benificial to them. And, really, i think it would.
I got a letter back from a girl in "Consumer Affairs" named Christina, and she informed me that while my idea was "a good one," they can't accept ideas from outside the company. Better put: no dice.
This, for reasons i can't begin to understand, inspired me to write Christina a rediculious letter every week, each time praising Kinley and urging her to tell her superiors to sell the stuff in America. And unless i become bored with this, i intend to continue sending her weekly letters until something happens... be it the sale of Kinley in America, or a nasty letter from Christina. We'll see.
Right. Now that i've given you that long and tedious history, i've decided to share these letters. So, BEHOLD! The first two letters to Christina of Coca-Cola:
(letter 1)
Dear Christina,
I was thinking about the current presidential campaign, and how the American people are all soon to be faced with a choice of a few different men who all promise to bring them what they want. Some want Medicare, and some want a change in taxes.
Yet, despite all this bickering and fighting over national budgets and foreign policy, I think the American people are really just starving for something that they can't quite put their collective finger on.
They can't, because what they need isn't here. It's in Israel.
Yes, Christina of Coca-Cola, what the American people need is Kinley. Mmm, delicious Kinley. Light and flavorful, yet brisk and refreshing. And orange! Oh, golly-gee, it's orange!
All this time, the American people shouldn't be turning towards Washington D.C. or, with the current primaries, New Hampshire. Instead, they should be turning towards Atlanta, GA, where Coca-Cola can make all their dreams come true.
I had a dream. And in that dream, I had Kinley. It was wonderful, and I was happy. Please, Christina. Please advise the people at the top of Coca-Cola to bring Kinley to America. The people… YOUR people… deserve this delightful beverage.
If distributing Kinley in America is to take quite a long time, could you possibly send me a few bottles to satisfy my thirst? I'd be forever grateful, and shall do a small dance. I promise.
Your country salutes you, Christina. So do i.
Long live Kinley.
Take care.
Jason Feifer
(letter 2)
Christina of Coca-Cola,
There comes a point in my life, roughly once every two weeks, where I run out of clothing and am forced to do laundry. This just recently happened and, as I poured oddishly blue liquid soap onto the closely packed clothing I squished into the laundry machine, I thought about something.
Christina, I thought about how my clothing doesn't taste very good. Sure, there aren't many days where you may find me turning my nose from a chocolate-chip cookie in favor of munching on my yellow-tipped socks. But still, aren't there just those days where you might find yourself gnawing on the collar of your shirt or licking your winter jacket like a horse to a salt lick?
Ok, well, maybe not that last one.
But regardless, clothing just tastes bland. It tastes like someone tried to make vanilla pudding and left out the vanilla. And do you know why? I bet I do.
It's because laundry detergent doesn't taste very good. I admit, Christina, I've never tried it. For this, I am ashamed to be writing you without firsthand experience. Do of course feel free to taste it yourself and report to me your findings. However, I think I have a solution:
Coca-Cola should sell Kinley, that luscious beverage that's so sweet and orange that it puts a Halloween Oreo to shame, in America. If your company did that, I could drink as much of this elixir as I care to, and then could pour a 2-liter bottle in the washing machine. I bet my clothing would taste like heaven!
Just thinking about it makes me chew my sleeve. Blech.
Tell them to try it, Christina. It's a sure-fire victory, and I bet your office will smell fresh as a daisy! Ahh, isn't that nice?
Take care.
Jason Feifer.
Feature #41:
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
1) Where the hell have i been?
2) The most recent letter to Coca-Cola.
3) Short-short story.
1) Where the hell have i been for the last month and change? Well, i'd like to tell you i was doing something rather exotic, like traveling antartica in my underwear or running an underground anti-George W. Bush campaign. But, no. As it turns out, i just learned how irresponsible large a large computer company named Gateway is.
You'd think that, by them using cow print on all their boxes, they'd be a pleasant company to work with. If you think that, you're in for a big kick to the proverbial nuts. After roughly one measly year of work in my computer, my hard drive up and died, leaving me with absolutely nothing. I called Gateway, they ran a few useless tests, and then said they'd send me a new hard drive asap.
A week and a half later, i get a hard drive that doesn't fit into my computer. When i call them up to tell them of this, the "customer service representative" tells me that the part i have in my hands doesn't exist. Then, after i convince him i have the wrong part, he says they'll send me another part... asap.
Another week goes by, and finally they send me the right part. I send them the wrong part back, and then finally get to work on putting my computer back together. Now, it seems done. For some reason, Gateway went ahead and billed me $200 dollars, which i now have to attend to, but at least i have the webpage back up. Sorry about the delay.
2) A funny thing happened with this whole Coca-Cola thing. (If you didn't catch the last feature, check here) Instead of a letter informing me of what a large company thinks of a guy who writes obnoxious letters, i recieved a "Certificate of Good Taste," thanking me for my time and wishing me "many more happy moments with our products." It's quite a hoot -- i'll scan it sometime. Until then, though, we have this:
Christina of Coca-Cola,
I went to Canada last weekend, and somebody said "Eh." It's true. They really do say that there. I had always thought that was something of a mythical stereotype, like Italians saying, "Mama mia, that's-a one spicy meatball!"
Canada was very clean. The streets, the air, the subway - they were all clean. People even seemed to have better hygiene, although cologne hung in the air like a lapdog's fart. Have you ever smelt a small puppy's fart, Christina of Coca-Cola? It's like smelling a fat man's ass after he runs a marathon.
Not that I've ever smelt that. Personally.
But anyhow, the point, Christina of Coca-Cola, is that I used far, far too many commas in this sentence. No. The point is that Canada is much cleaner than America. Here in the states, we find more garbage on the streets than in the dumps. Very much like how a baby gets more food on its face than in its mouth… especially if it's mushed carrots. Mmm, memories.
It took me a while to understand why Canada is so clean, and then it hit me like someone curled their fingers into a fist and physically greeted my face with it. Canada has something that brings them together as a nation, and they're therefore able to come together and throw things in the trash.
And what Canada bonds over is this: They think that Americans are ignorant and overweight, stupid and fat.
I think that if we, us, work together, we can fix this.
How? Well, Christina of Coca-Cola, the solution is simple: Kinley. Ah, Kinley… it's light, it's refreshing, and it's in Israel.
If Kinley were to be sold in America, people would fill their eager bellies with this orange elixir instead of fattening hamburgers and slabs of lard. And when Canada calls us ignorant of world affairs, we can raise our Kinleys high and proud and energetically declare, "We drink the drink of Israel!"
That would shut their faces up, eh?
Just something to think about,
Jason Feifer
3) Finally, i've included this little short ditty of a piece of fiction that i wrote. It's not really all that funny, but it's a strange exaggerated collection of people i know and people i've encountered, and i thought someone out there might find it interesting. I wrote it in about ten minutes for a fiction writing class, so it isn't the best of quality. Still, i like it.
(no title), by jason feifer.
You had to be nice to her in small doses, or not nice at all. So unaccustomed to a friendly eye was she that she saw any benevolent gesture as an invitation to latch onto its owner, trailing her victim's every move while desperately trying to strike up conversation about the most mundane of topics. She'd discuss the weather, television shows or her grandmother's noodle casserole while nervously giggling, and all her victim could do was solemnly nod. Eventually, you had to be mean. It was the only way to get rid of her.
Maybe I'm too nice, but I had never found the desire to shun anyone away. So, when she sat down at lunch with me one day, I started conversation. She was lonely. The least I could do was make her meal pleasant.
The next day, she switched all her classes to be in mine. She thanked me for being a friend, and followed me everywhere - talking. I learned about her life of home schooling on the way to dinner, her family while I did homework, and she put me to sleep with stories of her dog. She was unstoppable. She verbally contained me. My friends avoided me to avoid my newfound leech, and the more I tried to be neutral, the more it encouraged her.
Three weeks later, she asked to move in, and I knew it was the kiss of death. Never had I uttered a threatening word to anyone, but if I didn't now, she'd consume me. I needed to liberate myself, and I racked my brain for something to say. She stared at me.
"No, go away," I finally managed.
She laughed, and went to get her things.
Feature #42:
1. CONTEST! Win a CD by entering a caption! (prize:
"Monk," with a guest appearance by Ben Folds)
2. A review of Monk, the CD i'm offering as a
prize.
3. Strange story from a reader
1. Well, i've decided to give this CD away because i'm interested in running a contest. The CD in question is a rather interesting one (check out my review of it below), and none other than the namesake of Ben Folds Five, Ben Folds, makes a special appearance on drums. All YOU have to do is come up with a funny caption for this picture:
A caption for this is all you need to win. Just send it to me at KNULPREK@aol.com. I'll pick the funniest or most clever one and stick the winner's name up here, and then they'll be getting this CD in the mail. Good luck! (NOTE: CONTEST IS NOW OVER)
2. This review is being run in a future issue of Ink Nineteen. And now... the CD you could win:
Monk
Flat Earth Records
Monk is self-classified as 'atmospheric groove pop,' but they're really a
bit more like light rock for dreamers. Songs fiddle and float, teetering
on the edge of straightforwardness but always managing somewhere around a
pop song structure with a convoluted, guitar-based texture. An expansive
range of guitar effects weaves its way through the eleven songs on
Quiver, crafting melodically mellow ear enigmas that are more interesting
than they are simplistically catchy.
Staying close to its name, Monk's lyrics dabble in spiritual inquiries, like
its leadoff track, "Womb of God." Still, though, the album isn't overwhelmingly
religious, but instead touches upon it occasionally and then stems off to
weave spirituality poetics into what are presumably love songs. Strangely
out of place, the album features Ben Folds in the loop drums department on
"That's My Love," a song that visualizes love with the ocular obscurity of
a Spenserian sonnet. Much of Monk's lyrics are crafted in such a fashion,
aptly fitting the dream rock it fronts. Flat Earth Records, 6900 South
Gray Rd., Indianapolis, IN 46237
--Jason Feifer
3. I recieved this letter recently from a reader of the page. Now, i
can't say that i expect people to go out of their way to incorperate things
from my page into their daily lives, but it sure is amusing. So, courtesy
of Fast Kid Punk 11, here we
go:
"i work at blockbuster. (woo freaking hoo!) well according to everyone else
none of our "return policies" are correct. however, there are notes on the
door, receipts with the dates on them, and we personally tell them when the
movie is due. recently an elderly woman came in and complained about a movie
that was 5 days late. her late fee charge was $2.13. nothing to be dreaded
over. normally we charge by the day but we got a new return policy so we
charge by the rental period. the lady started cursing up a storm. you have
to imagine this 80 year old with false teeth and a cane yelling at me, a
17 year old with bleached hair. i laughed hysterically for as long as she
was yelling. she complained for a good 3 minutes. the line was begining to
back up and she was still yelling.
i calmly told her that i would let her speak to a manager if she would step
aside so i could get the other customers. she refused to do so. i asked her
again, again she refused. i got tired of the old lady cursing at me and told
her if she didn't like the service i was providing to take it up with the
coporate office. i gave her a phony 1800 number and gave her a false name.
she called the people. a few days later she returned.
she started it up again. again i told her to step aside, this time she did.
i figured since she did something right i would giver her a treat. i handed
her some cookies i was munching on and she yelled at me some more. i asked
her why she didn't like the cookies, their girl scout cookies, the caramel
ones. (very good i must say) she told me she was mad because she still ahd
the late fee. i remembered reading one of your letters about kinley, the
drink of israel, and told her at least were not in israel drinking kinley,
then being forced back into the states where there is no such drink. this
confused the lady, she then walked out of the store. she slowly walked back
inside the store and asked, (niceley mind you) if she could speak to the
manager. (now heres the great part, i was acting manager that day =-)) i
told her i was and she took out her blockbuster card, tore it up, and said
she was going to go to hollywood videos. i told her not to because if we
lost her business blockbusters would have to shut donw its doors. she didn't
hear me."
Feature
#43:
Table of contents:
1. Results of last week's contest.
1. Well, the turnout for the big caption contest
was rather impressive, although the amount of people who based their caption
around Japanese jokes was surprisingly large. To be honest, i hadn't even
considered the ethnicity of those folks when i posted the picture, but instead
just that they were wearing really ridiculious glasses.
But alas.
There are two awards i'm giving out, although only one actually recieves
a CD. The other just recieves my admiration.
And now, for the prize of "Entry i LEAST understood" (this is the non-CD
prize):
"Hey Tony!!! LOOK AT ME!!! TONY, LOOK AT ME, hey Tony, LOOK AT ME, I'm alright
Tony, I'm alright, Tony I'm i'right, LOOK AT ME I'm doing it!! Look at me,
TONY! LOOK AT ME, I DID IT, I DID IT, HAHAH, hehe, OOOHHHH AAHHHH, LOOK AT
MEE HEAAAA woo hoo, TONY, look TONY LOOK AT ME, I DID IT, I DID IT!"
--reverend11@mothertree.com
The runner-up (also a non-CD prize):
[lady on far right] "Hey! There's a hand coming out from my dress!"
--PEERAPON@aol.com
And now... even though this is in really bad taste, the shock value
of it did make me laugh the most out of any other entries. So, while i don't
really approve of it, i am obligated to give the award to:
"Though this photograph did create quite a chuckle in Congress, it just wasn't
enough to stop President Harry Truman from nuking Hiroshima." --Keith
Petit, thebigqtip@yahoo.com
Keith will be taking home his very own copy of Monk, featuring Ben Folds
on drums on one track. Thank you all for playing, and i enjoyed your entries
very much! :) Also, i'd like to thank
MisterPants for providing that
picture, and i encourage all of you to check out his wonderful site.
2. The following piece was originally written, i believe, for this webpage.
Within the time that it took me to update this page, however, the piece managed
to be scooped up by two college papers and some online Gazette that, when
the author wrote and complained about them publishing the story without her
consent, was very snippy and wholly unprofessional. They had already credited
her as a "guest columnist," and asked for her to write for them again. Very
odd.
However, it's with good reason that people are so anxious to publish
this, because it's damned good. This is a reader of the page who went down
to protest the IMF/World Bank in D.C., and got wrongfully arrested along
the way. Enjoy.
(by Cate Morrison, who encourages
you to check out
http://nothing-to-fear.org/ So
do i. Go!)
Saturday afternoon, I go to DC to meet with the rest of the James Madison
University progressive contingent. Can't really find them, so I content myself
with just wandering around downtown. DC is ugly in the rain...the buildings
turn brown and the neoclassical architecture is awfully oppressive. The new
Reagan International Trade Center is terrifying, but awfully appropriately
named. Like the former president, it's larger than life and aesthetically
pleasing, but you get the queasy feeling that there is something altogether
moresinister going on inside that very few know about. Anyway, police are
at every corner, though there are only pockets of students wandering around.
There are fences everywhere (interesting fact: at JMU after the Vietnam War
protests, they put up posts with chains everywhere. Not effective barriers,
but for psychological crowd control). Everyone is just holding their breath,
waiting.
I get food, continue wandering and finally decide to just go to the art museum
for a while because I haven't found even a hint of activity....work my way
back to the Mall. Chanting heard faintly in the direction of the FBI
building...curious, I wander over. I should have gone to the art museum.
It's a rally mostly against the prison system, lots of free mumia abu jamal
activists, some anti police brutality people, socialists, communists and
other general protest hacks...I find mypeople there and the group, the later
infamous 600 of us, start marching to the IMF headquarters. I notice that
there are police on the tops of buildings looking down. Odd, but then again,
there are police everywhere. They suddenly stop our procession and routeus
another way. We go down the street they ask and are met on one end by a line
of police in riot gear with batons forming a barricade. We turn around to
leave, and another line has formed. So we're stuck in a city block with no
explanation as to what is going on. It happened so fast that people taking
walks, going home from work and tourists are all caught with us. Oh hell.
We're kept there for 2 hours with no clue what will happen. Peoplebegin weaving
through the crowd with markers, writing the number of the legal guild pulled
together for the protest on everyone's arms because they said "they take
everything else." Things are a bit more serious now. At about 7, they kick
out the media and begin arresting us one by one and packing us onto school
buses. People pull out drums and we dance on the sidewalks until they handcuff
us all. I get put in a paddywagon about an hour later. At this point, there
is still this exciting, romantic feeling attached with being arrested. It
seemed like it might actually be fun. Geez do I hate being wrong...No
ventilation, tiny space, no light and the cuffs hurt like all hell. We stay
there for another hour, talking to the police waiting outside the station.
They don't know what happened, they all honestly believe that we refused
to disperse and the police were then obligated to arrest, and they turn amazingly
apologetic when we tell them we were trapped. I ask about the NFL draft (Redskins
had picks 2 and 3, I was HIGHLY curious). We got Samuels and Arrington--at
least something good came out of the day.
They process us early, to get us out of the paddy wagon because we're worse
off than the people in the buses. Picture, fingerprints, newly formed record.
Charge? Parading without a permit. Any trace of romanticism dissolves. Thanks
guys. They cut our hands loose, but then attach our left wrist to right leg
as westay in the cell. There we find that there was a photographer fromthe
Washington Post in the cell (along with a girl who had just left the gym,
a woman who had been walking with her husband, and atourist from Miami).
They call her name to get her out (at about 1 am). "Carol Guzy?" At which
point, articulate as always, I yell "Dude! You just won a Pulitzer!" (She
did--for photography in Kosovo) She nods quietly and others congratulate
her. She says as she leave the cell "It's been a really strange week..."
They feed us, we have a choice between baloney sandwiches and doughnuts.
The irony isn't lost on anyone. Some of the protesters didn't quite have
everything in perspective..."I can't eat any of this! I'm VEGAN!" was said
more than once. Ok, number one, you're protesting for people who are DYING
of starvation, and you're complaining about the food? Number 2: You're in
jail...you can't be vegan in jail. My parents, kind souls that they are,
come at about 1:30 to pay my bail. I don't get out till 5 am....interestingly,
they were STILL unloading buses when I leave. Not until I saw that did I
realize how lucky we were in the cell.
By the way....jail just plain blows. Don't have anything else to say about
that...except perhaps that standing up straight is one of the most
underappreciated abilities EVER. AND I get to refer topeople as "someone
I met in jail." And the photo with the arresting officer was pretty damn
funny. I was at that point, soaking wet from being held in the rain for hours,
had just gottenout of the paddywagon I had shared with 10 other people, and
was the *slightest* bit annoyed with being charged with parading without
a permit and not something a bit more bad ass. Ah well, que sera sera and
next time I decide to rage against The Man, I'm keeping 50 goddamn dollars
on me for bail.
End.
Feature
#44:
If you're not familiar with this on-going saga, this might not be so
funny to you. Therefore, i suggest you go to the original features and read
up on them, or just wallow in your ignorance. Anyhow, the last time our friend
MADMARCY was contacted, it was at LEAST a year and change ago. Yet, in a
moment of reminiscence, our hero mike decided to take up the challenge of
getting to know MADMARCY a bit better. Here's what he got:
cisco127: do you like surprises?
MADMARCY: yea y not
cisco127: suuuuurrrrrpppppprrrrrrrrriiiiiiiisssssseeeeeeeeeee!
MADMARCY: yay very cool, who is this?
cisco127: i'll give ya three guesses
MADMARCY: umm just give me a clue
cisco127: nope........that's one
MADMARCY: u from nj?
cisco127: woohoo!
MADMARCY: i am rite?
cisco127: i live right next to that lot of smoke stacks behind that row
of toll booths
cisco127: no
cisco127: you are mad
cisco127: marcy
MADMARCY: okay u know what i used to talk to u
cisco127: i used to talk to L
cisco127: but she was too hung up on mnop
cisco127: i coudlnt' handle the non commited relationship
cisco127: i used to dig on U also
cisco127: but i got so tired of waiting
MADMARCY: okay u tell me that all the time
cisco127: am i telling you that NOW?
cisco127: and i mean
cisco127: right
cisco127: now
MADMARCY: get some new material
cisco127: but i find my current satin to be quite comfortable as is
cisco127: sooo smooooooooooth
cisco127: but i'm open to suggestions
cisco127: ok..it's been a while and i understand youre nervous..and embarrased
since you've gained all that weight.
cisco127: you have gained weight since the last time I saw you, haven'tyou?
MADMARCY: actually i ahve lost 30 pounsd
cisco127: geez....you lose everything!!! it looks like YOURE the one who
needs to buy some new material it seems...dont try to pin your incompetence
on me, missy...and really..at 65 cents a pound.....you're out quite a few
quarters, my friend....and dont go giving away those hip new avant garde
quarters either...those are MINE
cisco127: please marcy...guide me on the path of righteousness and
strike down those who would dare tempt me toward sin.
cisco127: so youre not gonna talk to me, yeah?
cisco127: if i had known you were like that i never would've carved your
name in my chest
cisco127: listen...if you not gonna speak to me anymore just let me borrow
your electric pine cone trimmer for awhile?
MADMARCY: sory dont have 1 g2g
cisco127: i know what you mean, marcy. the old gas-powered "Pine Weasel P-391"
gave you vastly superior lateral cone-shaping control.
User MADMARCY is not available.
Feature
#45:
A very quick feature this week, because i'm in the process of packing
and soaking in my last few days with my friends before heading back home
for a portion of the summer. And so:
This comes from a flyer we found on my girlfriend's car. It depicts
from left to right:
A scary walkway into heaven, lines protruding out of god's faceless
head, and CROWDSURFING IN HELL!
Wow! That dude is crowdsurfing in hell! Why would ANYONE want to go
to heaven and walk on a scary walkway and talk to a god that has things shooting
out of his head, when instead you can go to hell and crowdsurf? I guess what
they say is true: rock-n-roll IS the devil's music!
Feature #
46:
This week's feature is a two-part Coca-Cola special. We have:
1. A letter from a reader, with a shocking Kinley
update.
2. My follow-up letter to Christina, hoping to clear
this matter up.
1. I recieved this letter from Dan,
who went to Israel and discovered something disgusting, shocking, and quite
sad:
So, here's the story:
A couple weeks ago, I got back from a group trip to Israel. It was one of
those, "We want every Jewish person to eventually go to Israel (to secretly
make them more religious) so we'll give you a trip for a ridiculously low
price" trips. How could I pass it up?
Of course, I didn't tell the sponsers that my real reason for going was to
sample the local soda.
Flash forward (backwards?) a week and a half into the trip. It's a free day,
so I'm hanging out in the Old City of Jerusalem (where we were staying. You
haven't experienced Jerusalem until you've stayed in a hostel in the Old
City across from an Armenian monestary where they like to have 3AM services)
with a person from the trip. The following is a bastardization of a conversation
we had:
Stacy: I'm hungry.
Me: I'm not, but I'll go to a place with you to eat.
Stacy: I'm tired of pizza and falafel. I like both foods, but I haven't eaten
anything but that for the last week and a half. Let's find a real restaurant.
Me: Ok.
So we do. Evidently, "real" means "overpriced" in those parts, but who can
blame them? Heck, if I was running a place down there, I'd take advantage
of all the tourists who can't figure out that 4 Shekels = 1 Dollar too. I
sat down, only pretending to want a menu, since I wasn't really hungry. (Note
for all the sensative girls out there: If you say you're not hungry to a
restaurant guy, don't start crying when he says, "Oh, I get it! You think
you're fat! Ha ha ha!" It's just their sense of humor) Then I notice that
they have "Kinley" on the menu. I get angry at the price of 10 shekels, but
figure that it's worth it, since that drink was the reason I was there in
the first place, and I hadn't seen a can of the stuff since I had gotten
there.
So I tell the waiter guy and he doesn't bring me Kinley, but he brings me
Fanta.
So I say to him: Lamah atah lo heveta li Kinley cmo sh'bikashti?
Him: Um, I'm from Boston. Feel free to use English.
(Damn 8 years of Hebrew. Down the drain. Everyone there knows English better
than I know Hebrew, or so they claim. I didn't use Hebrew enough to make
a good enough judgment for myself. Not only does everyone there know English,
but 60% of the people in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City are Americans
because the real estate there is so darned expensive. Or so I'm told. So
you can't even try to feel good about yourself for knowing English better
than the residents there, because they really do know English as well as
you do.)
Me: Yeah, well, I asked for Kinley. What gives?
Him: Oh, the menus are just old. Kinley became Fanta a couple of years ago.
Me: Darn. I've been drinking Fanta all week, waiting for Kinley, and find
out that it's the same thing?
Him: The soda's name is that important to you?
Me: Um...
Note that this is not the same thing as the Fanta they used to peddle in
America. If you want something dumb like the Fanta they used to sell in America,
try a drink called "Mirinda." The Fanta there tastes just like the Fanta
in Spain, which I had when I went there, and raved about just as much as
you did about Kinley. The fact that I'd been drinking Fanta instead of Kinley
all week didn't make it taste any worse.
Even so, the Israeli Coke people wanted Israel's soda to conform with Europe's,
and that bothered me for two reasons.
First of all, it bothered me that a country as unique as Israel can't have
their own unique soda. Even if it had been sold in America like you've been
trying for, you could still say, "This is Israeli soda." Now it's Fanta.
If anyone ever hears of it or if they do start selling it in America, people
will just say, "Oh yeah, they sell that all over Europe," or even worse,
"Hey, this sure tastes better than that cruddy Fanta they used to sell us,"
not even realizing where their drink came from.
Secondly, I'm bothered by the fact that you've been sending these letters
to Coca-Cola for a while now, and they haven't even had the courtesy to tell
you that the drink you're writing them about technically no longer exists.
And the fact that it bothers me probably means that it bothers you even more,
since I'm not the one who was writing the letters.
You should probably write them another letter complaining about he fact that
they let you ramble on like a madman about something that doesn't exist.
Not so that they'll apologize, but so they'll ignore you and send you another
"Certificate of Good Taste." Those things sound cool.
2. So, assuming this is a matter that requires quick and immediate
communication, i wrote the following letter to Christina.
Christina of Coca-Cola,
Let me ask you a couple questions, just so I can better understand our
relationship, which I personally once thought was that of, say, two bullfrogs
in different ponds. They may be in different ponds, but hey… they're
still bullfrogs. You ribbit, I ribbit. Ribbit?
So, here are my questions:
1. Would you let a blind man run on a treadmill and tell
him he's running the Boston Marathon?
2. Does the word "futile" make you giggle like a schoolgirl
who has just been mooned by the popular boy in class, or
does it make you cringe like a schoolboy who
has just been mooned by the popular boy in class?
3. Would you let a fellow bullfrog (ribbit, Christina!)
pour his heart and soul into saving America from a lack of pristine
beverages by trying desperately to get
you to bring Kinley over from Israel, all the while knowing that Kinley is
called "Fanta" now?
4. How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck
could chuck wood?
It's really the third question that I'd like to address, Christina. You see,
the word is that Coca-Cola - the company that makes you read these ridiculous
letters, which I haven't a clue if you thank them or curse them at night
for - has changed the name of Kinley to Fanta. I've heard this secondhand.
I don't know if this new "Fanta" tastes like Kinley, or if it tastes like
the watered-down sewage from hell that it sounds like. Fanta. Panta. Pant.
Panp. Ponp. Poop.
See the connection here?
Kinley had a majestic sound to it. If I were to serve something to a king,
I'd serve him Kinley. "Here King, here is your Kinley," and the king would
say "My god, boy, this tastes great and it sounds like KINGly, made specially
for me, the KING! I'm going to promote you to search out new worlds and kill
the people already living there!" If I gave the King some Fanta, he'd probably
say, "Holy shit, what the hell is this crap?"
Don't you see, Christina? These things are important! We NEED Kinley! Not
FANTA! Who wants Fanta? Fantasia? Are we all suddenly animated Disney characters?
No! No, Christina! You and I are bullfrogs, and the rest of the people are
humans. Humans who like Kinley. "Humans who like Fanta" is like saying "Hi,
do you have any perfume that smells like a wretched fart? Yes, I'd like that."
I'm ashamed. I'm ashamed that you would have let me go on and on without
informing me that, in fact, there IS no Kinley! This is impossible. Where's
Tom Cruise when you need him? Probably drinking a Fanta.
Anyway, Christina, I would appreciate a response on this as soon as possible.
I need this Kinley/Fanta thing cleared up.
Ribbit?
Jason Feifer
Feature #
47:
It's rare that i post a feature that wasn't created either by me or
solely for this website, but alas.. i ran across something from a publication
called McSweeneys, which is a rather
worthwhile and entertaining read. And, since GATEWAY
IS A HORRIBLE COMPANY and hasn't returned my computer in two
and a half weeks (how long does it take to fix? apparently not "three to
five days," as was promised when i dropped it off), i haven't had time to
work on anything. Not to mention, the following piece is hysterical. So,
here it is. Enjoy.
P I R A T E R I D D L E S F O R S O P H
I S T I C A T E S .
BY KEVIN SHAY
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2000/06/14pirates.html
- - - -
Q: What's a pirate's favorite aspect of computational linguistics?
Q: Of which concept shared by Jungian psychology and Northrop Frye's literary
theory are pirates especially fond?
Q: Who's a pirate's favorite member of the creative team behind "32 Short
Films About Glenn Gould"?
Q: Of all of Richard Harris's many achievements in the performing arts, which
is a pirate's favorite?
Q: What's a pirate's favorite alliance-creating diplomatic agreement from
the Second World War?
Q: Which ancient Greek lyric poet do pirates like the best?
Q: If a pirate were to recite one of the Olympian odes by the aforementioned
poet, which one would it be?
Q: If that same pirate were then to recite a 20th-century poem about the
nature of poetry, what would it be?
Q: What if he went on to recite a poem by Sir Walter Scott?
Q: Why does that pirate keep reciting poetry, anyway? Is he some sort of
Nancy-boy?
Q: Of the ghosts that appear to Ebenezer Scrooge in "A Christmas Carol,"
which do pirates prefer?
Q: Can we replace that last one with something about Bob Marley, so we can
have an additional gag about RastafARRRianism?
Q: Whom did the pirate vote for in the Haitian election?
Q: Wait. Why did they let a pirate vote in the Haitian election?
Q: I don't buy it. Pirates care nothing for participating in the electoral
process.
Q: A phenomenon first described in the 17th century by which important
contributor to the field of amputation surgery?
Q: Just say it.
Q: You can go now.
Feature
#48:
I apologize for the immense amount of time it took to update the webpage.
I was busy in a recording studio for a week (more on that in about a month),
and i'm currently in an apartment with no telephone. As i'm writing this,
i don't even know how i plan on posting this update. But alas, if you're
reading it, i managed.
So, feature of the week! Here we go:
1. The explanation: how i got pulled over
1. This summer, i got pulled over by a cop. I had just accelerated
after making a turn, and suddenly the bastard in blue launches himself in
front of me and, as if protected by his massive and unrivaled ego, puts his
hand out in the universal "stop, i'm a cop" position. The road was wet and,
since hitting this guy would have probably damaged my car, i slammed on the
breaks and skidded up until about an inch away from deservingly putting this
dude in a wheelchair. He furiously waves me off to the side, and then comes
over and screams, "WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE IF I WERE A KID THAT JUST JUMPED
IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR?"
"I would have slammed on the breaks, like i just did!"
"You were going 35," he says. "In a school-zone."
Now, last time i was in florida (where this all took place), this school
was a mall. Now it's a school. Were there children running around? No. Was
there a senior citizen volunteering as a crossing guard? No. All there was
was a cop, who was an asshole while writing my ticket, and suddenly it's
a school zone.
So, i had to pay. Not only that, but i had to go to traffic school (see #4
of this feature), which was essentially like being in jail for 4 hours. I
decided that, considering the police system has plucked me in the bung (if
i can be so graphic), i might as well write them a letter to tell them how
i feel.
And so, i did. I encourage all of you to write a letter similar to this one
whenever you get pulled over.
2. This is the letter i wrote. I included it in an envelope with my
check, ticket, and driving school certificate.
Clerk of the court:
I know this list does not directly apply to you, but it seems that your
relationship with this "speeding ticket" circumstance leaves you as the most
logical recipient of this letter. I have sent a check for $264.00 for being
pulled over by an inconsiderate and verbally abusive Mr. Schuster and then
attending a laughably bureaucratic and completely futile driving school.
I have not been instructed as to how my $264.00 will be spent, although I
would be very displeased to think that the money I worked for shall be spent
funding the quandary of pulling people over by cops who could, most likely,
be doing something to stop people from getting murdered, robbed, raped in
Central Park, etc.
Therefore, I am presenting you with a short list of things that I fear my
money may be spent on, and I would encourage the police department to spend
it otherwise:
Possibly donating my $264.00 to a charity or organization that helps people
would be a responsible venture. Other thoughts include buying something for
our dilapidated school system like a computer monitor or pens and pencils,
or possibly buying food to distribute amongst the homeless.
I would hope you take my thoughts under consideration. But of course, I'm
just a lowly citizen. I doubt you care.
Enjoy my money,
Jason Feifer
3. I wasn't sure what kind of reply, if any, i was going to receive.
Then, i got this from the stationary of Ed Kennedy, circuit/county clerk.
It's not much, and i doubt they'll actually take action on anything,
but i was rather surprised that the court took the time to write me, but
didn't even answer my question. Oh and please note that Ed mis-spelt my
name.
Mr. Fiefer,
We have received your letter regarding the treatment that you received from
the officer that issued you citation # 5352-AKK. Your letter has been forwarded
to the Coral Springs Police Department for further action.
As to the subject of the fine amount, the Clerk Of Courts only collects the
fines that are mandated by the Florida legislature and disperses them as
per state statute.
Deputy Clerk
4. To keep myself occupied at driving school, i kept notes on what was
happening in a time-table format. It passed the time, and shifted my attention
from the class to the classmates, which was quite a lifesaver. While everything
that happened seemed rather funny at the time, i'm not sure if this is one
of those "you-had-to-be-there-as-bored-as-i-was" things. But, we'll see.
Here's my experience at driving school:
5:45 - I enter a small room with twelve tables, each containing three people.
There's no air conditioning on and the room is incredibly hot. I'm a bit
surprised by the people that are sitting there. I expected dumb people. I
expected a roomful of people with blank expressions, twiddling their thumbs
in agony before the class even began. Instead, they were just everyday people,
a random smattering of life. Professionals, high school kids, grandmothers,
everyone. They all got tickets. Everyone gets tickets.
5:50 - Our instructor, Francine, asks us to come up to her small, circular
table to register. While we're waiting, she encourages us to fill out the
back page of a small booklet we received. The page back is the "course
evaluation" section, which is assumedly to be filled out after - not before
- we've taken a course.
5:52 - Francine asks if someone can go to the front desk and ask them to
lower the air. Someone in the back says, "Yeah!" but doesn't go.
5:52.15 - Some woman finally volunteers, and leaves.
5:54 - The man currently registering has a mullet. This class suddenly got
better.
5:55 - An old lady from across the room turns to someone, holds up the "course
evaluation" sheet and says to the woman next to her, "She said to do this?
How are we supposed to know what to write?"
5:58 - The old woman turns to another woman, laughs, and hypothesizes that
this class is probably a psychological study. The other woman says she's
been her a few times, and "they only want to make you suffer."
6:03 - Old lady relates story of how she was once pulled over and the cop
said, "All you New Yorkers!" The punchline: she's not from New York. A woman
behind her snorts. Then the old lady continues to explain how she talked
herself out of the ticket.
6:04 - "So, why are you here?" asks the woman behind her.
6:04.10 - "Oh, this one?" the old lady says. "I ran through the light."
6:06 - I register, and Francine tells me that her son is also named Jason.
Determined to be unresponsive, especially by a coincidence involving an
incredibly common name, I slap my money down on her table. I am smooth. I
know what I'm doing. Francine's got nothing on me.
6:06.05 - "Honey," Francine says. "It's thirty-three dollars. You gave me
twenty-five." Damnit. I am not smooth at all.
6:07 - Man in second row starts reading "The Internet for Dummies."
6:09 - The guy with the mullet comes back. He explains that had gone out
for a cocktail.
6:11 - Francine starts the class, and tells everyone that we're going to
go around and introduce ourselves, explain why we we're here, and say what
kind of transportation we would buy if we were rich. Someone in the back
says, "Oh, Jesus."
6:16-6:45 - People tell their stories with an air of dejectedness. Most people
got in accidents or were speeding. One woman was riding her motorcycle on
the beach. Another has been to driving school at least four times, and got
20 tickets last year. Most people say they would buy a jet or limousine,
and I say I'd buy the hoverboard from Back to the Future II. The class laughs,
but I'm totally serious about that hoverboard.
6:49 - We're sharing stories of road rage, and one woman explains how a police
officer once pulled her out and threw her against her car, so she kicked
him in the crotch. The guy with the mullet says, "You go, girl!"
7:07 - During out 15-minute break, I walk by the old lady hoping to hear
her say something funny. Instead, some guy reads my shirt, which I wore on
purpose because it says "I'm not even supposed to be here today." He laughs,
and I am momentarily proud. I am a dork.
7:10 - Francine asks the class to put life in perspective, and then requests
a list of values. The guy with the mullet screams, "Football!"
7:23 - Someone mentions that elderly people are a nuisance on the road. The
old lady then tells the class that her children once asked her what she did
when the Indians came. She said she ran.
7:28 - The guy with 20 tickets last year falls asleep.
7:40 - A woman describes how she keeps her life stress-free by keeping open
communication with Jesus, and the guy with the mullet again says, "You go,
girl!"
8:10 - We break up into groups of six to discuss what we would do in emergency
situations, and elect the girl who kicked the cop in the crotch to be our
spokesperson.
8:15 - We get our second 15-minute break, and I sit down and watch a man
pull a boat uphill on TV.
8:21 - One of the guys from the class sits down next to me, and we say "hey"
to each other. I consider making small talk about driving, seeing as that's
our subject in common, but come to realize how much I would hate that. Instead,
I watch the TV because they're supposed to have guys pulling airplanes after
the commercial break.
8:24 - Guy leaves and the show comes back, but they're only moving heavy
rocks. What a rip-off.
8:33 - Guy with twenty tickets last year didn't come back from the break,
and class members start making fun of him. Francine calls him "a loyal customer."
8:54 - We watch a video called "Ride of Your Life," which is about seatbelts
in race cars, and a teenage guy on a basketball court represents common
misconceptions about seatbelts by saying, "Only wimps and dorks use seatbelts.
9:07 - The same guy comes back onscreen to say, "Only wimps use seatbelts.
Besides, I don't want to look like a chicken." A race car driver then comes
on the screen to say, "I don't feel like a sissy when I use a seatbelt!"
9:16 - The video finishes and Francine hands out our completion certificates.
9:19 - I go home.
There are more
features to be
had.
Features
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
Or, we can always go
back.
2. One reader's account of being arrested in
D.C.
A: PARRRsing sentences.
A: ARRRchetype.
A: Don McKellARRR.
A: "MacARRRthur PARRRk."
A: The TripARRRtite Pact.
A: PindARRR.
A: The XIth Nemean Ode, "To ARRRistagoras, the Prytanis of Tenedos, son of
ARRRchesilaus."
A: "ARRRs Poetica" by ARRRchibald MacLeish.
A: "LochinvARRR."
A: Aye, 'tis a Nancy-boy he be. Arrr.
A: Jacob MARRRley.
A: No.
A: ARRRistide.
A: Remember, the nation was taking its first halting steps toward democracy,
and balloting procedures were rather chaotic. The pirate just slipped in
somehow. Arrr.
A: Look, can we finish this up soon? I'm having those phantom pains in my
wooden leg.
A: Oh, this is getting ridiculous.
A: Ambroise PARRRé.
A: Arrr. Nancy-boy.
2. The letter i wrote
3. Their response
4. My driving school experience