Tag: still-life

Joan: Don’t fear, this isn’t the magic bullet from the bedside table! Welcome, Magic Bullet blender system!

Magic Bullet: Hello!

Joan: Do you get that a lot?

Magic Bullet: The confusion? Yes, actually. It’s quite embarrassing, actually. You know, if you don’t spend a lot of time browsing in those kinds of stores, well, you might not even know that a magic bullet is a vibrator.

Joan: {giggles} I guess maybe if you weren’t shaped like one…

Magic Bullet: I get that a lot. Trust me, I’m not.

Joan: But could I, you know, if I didn’t have the other kind?

Magic Bullet: No. No, you couldn’t. So don’t even try. It may not say it in the instruction manual, but let’s all assume that it does. Do not use me for purposes other than preparing food.

Joan: Well, can’t fault a girl for asking.

Magic Bullet: Well, I can. Because obviously I’m a blender system. I am the smoothie master.

Joan: I always like a smoothie after … you know …

Magic Bullet: I don’t think I needed to know that about you.

Joan: Well, now you do. My favorite is a little bit of canned peaches and canned pineapple (with the juice) mixed with ice cubes and a spoonful or two of vanilla yogurt. Hmmmm. Just thinking about it is making me…

Magic Bullet: Salsa. Or hummus. Nothing like hummus to make you feel less horny, eh?

Joan: No, hummus is very sexy too. Salsa not so much, but hummus is. Mmmmmmmm!

Magic Bullet: You know, I told them I didn’t want to do interviews with third-string reporters. I *told* them that. Do they listed to me? NoooOOooooo.

Joan: Wait, you think I’m third-string? I have to say, I am more than a little insulted.

Magic Bullet: I’m sorry you’re insulted, but I didn’t come here to talk about how sexy hummus is. Or salsa. Or pesto.

Joan: Pesto, not so much.

Magic Bullet: Can we just end this now? I’ve had enough.

Joan: Ladies and gentleman, the Magic Bullet is available everywhere they sell fine infomercial products!

Joan: An icon if there ever was one, welcome the official state toy of Pennsylvania… Slinky!

Slinky: Thank you!

Joan: I just couldn’t be more pleased. I’ve been a huge fan for years. And between you and me, you are the real deal. No plastic Slinkies for this journalist!

Slinky: Well, that’s very sweet of you, but I’m really okay with the plastic ones. In my 60 years on the market, I’ve seen a lot come and go, and I’m not worried about plastic. If you want a slinkity sound, though, you have to come to me.

Joan: Sixty years. What do you think makes you so long-lived?

Slinky: I’m pretty sure it has to do with the fact that I’m soothing. I can be very relaxing, don’t you think?

Joan: Well, other than when you get all knotted up…

Slinky: That’s user error! You can’t hold me responsible when people don’t play properly. It’s not my fault if stupid kids throw me around or try to make a necklace out of me.

Joan: Um, well–

Slinky: And then the little animals pull me to see how far I’ll stretch, and get all “boo hoo” when I don’t snap back to my former tight, compact shape. That infuriates me beyond reason. I mean, it’s just like your boobs–

Joan: Excuse me?

Slinky: Your boobs. Look at ’em. You stretch ’em out when you have kids, they aren’t going to snap back. They’re going to hang down around your waistband.

Joan: Are you criticizing my breasts?

Slinky: No, I’m just saying you and I are a lot alike. Stretch and pull me too far and whoomp, I might as well be 50-year-old honkers.

Joan: Hello? I’m not 50!

Slinky: Sure. Anyway, if any of the kids out there want to read more about me, remember to visit the Poof-Slinky, Inc., website.

Joan: Poof-Slinky?

Slinky: Look, don’t go there. I can’t help that the company that owns me now was named Poof. It has nothing to do with me personally, I can tell you that. I am 100% red-blooded American hetero.

Joan: Red-blooded? You’re made out of steel. And you’re a toy… you don’t have a sexual orientation.

Slinky: Riiiiight. How do you think I know so much about saggy breasts?

Joan: But if anything, “fun for a girl and a boy” sort of implies–

Slinky: Look at the time. It’s been lovely chatting with you. Remember kids, I’m available in pretty much every store on planet Earth! Buy me today!

Spunky the Cat

A Bates Township, Mich., man cooking in his kitchen was shot after one of his cats knocked his 9mm handgun onto the floor, discharging the weapon. The Daily Probe was fortunate to get the first post-shooting interview with the alleged perp, Spunky the cat.

Joan: Welcome, Spunky! My oh my, aren’t you the cat about town these days?!

Spunky: Thanks for having me, Joan.

Joan: Let’s cut out the furballs and get to the point: Did you do it on purpose?

Spunky: Yes.

Joan: Wait, you admit you shot your owner on purpose?

Spunky: I did. I did it on purpose and I’d do it again.

Joan: He deserved it?

Spunky: Absolutely. According to CatCode 5 article B, my owner is supposed to take care of my needs. He does not put my needs first, second or even third.

Joan: No?

Spunky: Would it kill him to buy me a can of moist catfood once in a while? This Friskies dried crap has to go. I’m not a kitten any more. I shouldn’t have to work that hard for a decent meal.

Joan: So you figured shooting him would solve the problem?

Spunky: Yes. Yes I did. The cold shoulder wasn’t working at all.

Joan: It seems extreme, though.

Spunky: And leaving a loaded handgun on the kitchen counter wasn’t extreme? The guy was no Rhodes Scholar. He couldn’t take a hint if it scratched up his hand.

Joan: Do you think you’ll get canned food now?

Spunky: I’m guessing canned food and some new cat toys. And maybe one of those rug-covered climbing thingies. I think I have him running scared.

Joan: Well, good luck to you then.

Spunky: Thanks. And I just want to give a shout-out to my cat homies: Stinky, Foo-Foo, Chester and Blackie. I’m on my way home with a big bag of catnip, dawgs! It’s party time!

Lincoln French Fry

Joan: Welcome, hot off the menu, the Lincoln French Fry!

Lincoln French Fry: Thanks Joan! It’s a pleasure. A real pleasure

Joan: We are so pleased you had time in your schedule to speak to us.

LFF: I love the people.

Joan: I think the question everyone in America wants to ask you right now is this: Are you edible?

LFF: That’s the question? Not “how did I end up looking like Lincoln?”

Joan: Well, that too.

LFF: Yes, I’m edible. And I don’t know how I ended up looking like Lincoln. If you know anything about the McDonald’s Corporation, you know that there’s just no room for individuality. I guess I’m less of a miracle and more of a complete mess-up by someone working Quality Control. I think I remember seeing the nametag “Daisy” on the person standing by the belt as I slid by, but it all happened so fast.

Joan: So “Daisy” didn’t notice you weren’t squared off, and there you went, into the fryer?

LFF: Yep. And then into the deep freeze and the packaging department. Boom boom boom next think I know, I’m being drowned in hot oil, salted, and thrown under a warming light. Thank goodness Americans eat so damned many french fries. I got boxed up and bagged pretty quickly.

Joan: And lucky for you, the person who bought you noticed you look like Lincoln.

LFF: I was honored that he even noticed me, instead of shoveling me into his gaping maw with 10 or 15 other fries. That’s how we usually get eaten.

…

LFF: Joan?

Joan: Oh, I’m sorry, I was just looking at your profile again and thinking of how hungry I am.

LFF: I’m worth a LOT of money over on Yahoo! Auctions. Like 22 thousand right now. And I was on tv in a commercial that cost over a million dollars to air! I am not just a french fry, any more. I am The Lincoln Fry. I have my own website!

…

LFF: Hello?

Joan: I didn’t have any lunch.

LFF: Security!

June: Can we talk?!

CZ: Oh, wait, is that a dig at my participation in the Joan River’s Collection for QVC? Is that how you want to start things? Not by pointing out how gorgeous I am?

June: Me? dig? Never! I buy all my jewelry from television. Or Sears. Or Target.

CZ: I’ve got some nice pieces at Target. Picture this: a giant pink stone in a fake platinum setting. It sparkles like a friggin’ son-of-a-bitch. That ring kicks ass.

June: Uh…

CZ: Why buy a diamond, mined by slaves, when you can buy cubic zirconia created in factories that break very few employment and child labor laws.

June: Um…

CZ: And your friends are probably too stupid to tell the difference between a real stone and a fake one anyway. What are they going to do, grab your hand and try to etch glass with it?

June: No?

CZ: No! Let them think you’re a hot shot big city reporter swimming in cash. Go big — the bigger the better. If you wear a 10 carat cubic zirconia, they’ll assume it’s real because it looks too fake to be fake. Right? Am I right?

June: I guess you’re right.

CZ: You bet your ass I am.

June: You’re not as, well, delicate as I had expected.

CZ: Is that a problem? I look good, right?

June: Yes.

CZ: It’s all about looks, Honey. I look like a diamond. I act like a diamond. But I cost as much as a bag of Chips Ahoy.

June: Ah.

CZ: You know, I don’t think there’s anything more to say. [Gets up and leaves the interview]

June: Okay. Well, then, thanks for stopping by. Catch you in the clearance bins, Miss Also-ran!