FUH-UKE

I'm sick of the goddamn ukulele.

I don't know who's to blame for this. Maybe it's Jake Shimabukuro (which is fun to say) who is, like, a ukulele himbo-- if there is such a thing possible in this weird, wicked world of ours. Maybe it's Ryan Gosling's fault for being in that goddamned "Blue Valentine" movie and playing that stupid song for that blonde bitch before everything went to shit. But something is going on in this country, and that something has to do with the fucking ukulele. It's small, it's happy, it's bright, it's cute, it looks like it's supposed to be played by midgets wearing rainbow suspenders and I don't give a fuck if I never hear the goddamned thing ever again.

I think the first commercial I saw where the ukulele was featured as the background music was for a goddamned refrigerator-- maybe a year or so ago-- and it was a refrigerator that had a lot of special features. Side-by-side pull-out drawers, and there was a fucking kid pulling out orange juice for himself or something, and there was this delightful ukulele music playing while all the refrigerator doors opened to reveal pristine shelves filled with immaculate, sumptuous-looking bounty as if to say, if you buy this fridge, not only will you eat well and live clean, but twinkling, sparkling ukulele will play as the soundtrack of your life.

Fuck.

You.

If you ever opened up my refrigerator, you'd probably throw up, and Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor would be blaring in your ear as you did so. And it wouldn't be played on a fucking Tiny Tim guitarette either. The notes would be screamed by a 500 pound German woman being put to death.

Over the course of the last year or so I've noticed a dramatic uptick in the number of commercials and television shows using the ukulele to let you know that their product or service or character is happy and that, if you align yourself with it/them, you will be too.

Even as early as 2009, some asshole who plays ukulele wrote on a message board:

"Anyone else noticing more and more ukulele music being used in TV commercials? Maybe it's because I'm a new player and all excited about all things ukulele, but I'm hearing more ukes in TV ads than ever before.

The two that come immediately to mind are an Iams dog food commercial and a Sprint phone commercial. I know I heard at least one more recently, but I can't remember who it was for....an airline, I think.

Both have very catchy, infectious uke music in the background. Is it just me, or are you folks hearing the same thing I am?"

Yes, asshole, I am hearing the same thing you are, and I've had kind of enough of it. There are approximately 47,637 other musical instruments out there, marketing research analysts-- just once, I'd like to see a Nissan commercial with background music provided by a theremin. Or what about a life insurance commercial featuring a jew's harp? And, let's face it, there's just not enough prime-time television in this country augmented by the anguished bleats of traditional highland bagpipes.

Maybe I'm just projecting deeper psychological issues here. A few years ago, I started playing banjo. I don't know why I picked it-- I tried guitar in college and fucked that up, maybe I thought an instrument with one fewer string would yield more success. It did, but not much more. Anyway, when my mother-in-law found out I was playing the banjo, she mailed me her old ukulele. And I was like, that doesn't make any sense. I'm trying to learn one instrument, why would I interrupt that flow and switch to trying to learn a different instrument with different tunings and chords and styles? I never touched the ukulele. It's on top of my closet lying inert next to a backpack shaped like a teddy bear, which is also lying, inert. Of course, now that the ukulele is so popular in mass media, it's virtually a guarantee that I'll never touch it. I hope the banjo always remains an obscure instrument for bespectacled losers who make questionable wardrobe and occasionally facial hair choices. If I'm ever going to learn a sixth chord, it had better stay on the fringes of musical society.

And, as for the ukulele, I know it's just a fad-- something that scores well with test audiences, whatever-- they ranked it as the instrument that makes them feel the least like committing suicide, so now they use it in commercials and sitcoms. Like all fads, though, it's destined to go the way of the dinosaur.

Hey-- wow! Think about THAT! A DINOSAUR playing the UKULELE!

OH! Oh, man! I'm a fucking genius.

Eviction Notice

No one thinks it's funny or charming when someone gets kicked out of their home.

You try your best to find some place where you and your family can prosper, where you can flourish, where, at the very minimum, you can come home and hang up your hat after a tough day slogging away for The Man, flop down on the well-loved couch, and let your hostility and tension melt away into its cushions for a couple hours as your eyes float away in a sea of mindless television. Maybe you prefer those... singing contest shows. Or perhaps it's "America's Most Wanted" on a Saturday night for you. Maybe you spend a half-hour with Diane Sawyer (could be worse, eh?) after walking through the door at 6:30.

Whatever the program, whatever your program, these shows are all punctuated by advertising that seeks to mock eviction: the forcible, heartbreaking, violent expulsion of a family from their dwelling, tossing them into the cold, bleak unknown.

Don't know what I'm talking about? Maybe you recognize these newlyweds.

That's right. Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. They look happy enough, don't they? And they were, living inside of your chest cavity, very innocuous and comfortable-- even though there were no chair-rails or sconces or wall-to-wall Berber carpeting. But, for this quaint couple, it was home.

Home.

Sure, you coughed. You complained that you felt, oh-- what was it... tight? Whoa. You poor, poor baby. Not man enough to just suck it up and go to work and plod through the day feeling a tad under the weather, you decide to stay home and throw a little pity party for yourself. Of course, instead of pulling out the Stradivarius and playing yourself a maudlin little funeral dirge-- you know, because you're on your fucking death bed-- you go to the medicine chest and haul out the big guns. Mucinex-D.

And. You. Evicted. The. Mucus. Family.

No warning. No courtesy call from the sheriff's office. No warrant. No nothing. I mean-- what the fuck is that? Mrs. Mucus is vacuuming up your lungs-- trying to keep everything nice and tidy (it's not like you ever go clean in there) and you just break up their happy family and expectorate them out into... into what? A tissue? Jesus. They're a family. They're not cum, you know.

And now we come to Digger.

You know Digger, right? He lives in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. And he's, apparently, from Brooklyn. Just like, um, Mr. & Mrs. Mucus. What the fuck's up with that?

Well, I don't know. All I know is that he's going to be lookin' to take the Chinatown Bus back to that shit because you, apparently, don't want him living in ya nailbeds, unda ya nails. No, I guess there's no room at the inn, right? Nope. Not leavin' the light on for ol' Digger, are ya? Well, that's hurtful. I mean, look at the guy. Do you think a community residential program or halfway house is going to be jumping up and down to accept him into their facility? Would you want to room with this guy-- even if you were a spazzed out, schizophrenic drug addict named Lester? Probably not. Where the hell else is Digger going to go, but, you know, unda ya nails?

Yes. Athlete's Foot is itchy. I get it. It's unpleasant. I had it. And I... used.... um... Lamisil.

Oh. Uh, oh, boy. This... this is awkward....

And while it is uncomfortable for me to admit that I, too, displaced Digger and/or some of his friends, relatives and classmates, it only underscores the point of this blog post: there is clearly an urgent need for caseworkers and social services to assist in the relocation and rehabilitation of displaced fungal and mucosal advertising icons. Because, let's face it-- you may think they're icky and gross and schnarsty or whatever you want to call them, but the fact remains that, unless these homeless (and that's what they are-- fucking homeless) disease emblems are found suitable housing, they are simply going to go out into society and find another host body inside of which to squat-- maybe permeating your body with fungus or phlegm, and then, you'll be phucked.

Director's Cut

I've hate people who say they hate things before they've ever tried them. Like all those people who got all up in arms over "Tropic Thunder" before they'd even seen it. I hate them, and I've never even seen any of those people. I've never seen "Tropic Thunder" either, and I've never been up in arms over it. I've never even half raised my arms over it. Or under it. Or my legs. But I assure you that, in this post, I will be blogging Full Retard.

So, after digesting the aforeparagraphed paragraphatory object, what I am about to say might and probably will seem contradictory. No, fuck that "seem" shit-- it will be contradictory. There will be contradictions aplenty. Because that's the kind of guy I am. Decidedly contradictory, controversial, and contraindicated am I, in that fully retarded way of mine.

I hate York Peppermint Patties.

I've never eaten a York Peppermint Patty. Wait-- what the screwbitch? Is it "Patty" or "Pattie." Let's go to the Google Challenge:

Patty = 70, 400 hits (approximately)

Pattie = 77, 400 (apprx)

Which just goes to show you that every vote counts. Now, if you ask me, the very fact that typing in either version of this candy's (candie's?) name generates so few Google hits tells me that it's basically a piece of shit in a silver-colored wrapper. I mean, fuck-- Google "Reese's Peanut Butter Cup" and you're looking at 264, 000 motherlovers (approximately-dottly) and if there's a person alive who dares befoul my comment section of this blog by saying that York Peppershit Patties are better than a fucking peanut cup, well, you can just unfollow me till the cows come home and set up a lemonade stand out front on the curb.

No. Not having it. Negative, Lieutenant. Permission to mate with my twin nieces denied

Now, while I'm knowingly contradicting myself by hating something I've never tried, I can honestly and in good faith state that I do not like York Peppermint Patties for the simple reason that I absolutely cannot, in no terms either certain or uncertain or even certayne, which, I think, is how they used to spell that shit in back in the dizzay, stand mint.

Hate. Vitriol. Disgust. Abhor. Um... me no likey?

It's gross and foul, and, when they mix it with chocolate, they might as well be mixing sex with TNT. Like... why? Why would you do that? I feel like Mrs. York mixed mint with dark chocolate because she was feeling bored or possessed by Hades or something. It's not something that a psychologically well-adjusted individual would do. And, since that unholy bitch started these mint-and-chocolate shenanigans, confectioners the world over have seen fit to say, "Oh, hey-- that's a good idea!" Even the poor, innocent-seeming girlscouts are not immune from this terror.

Thin-mints? Jesus. Sell enough of those and these maladjusted girlscouts will grow up thinking it's okay to have sex whilst sticking TNT up the cornholes of their lovers.

Not. Okay.

You won't ever find me buying a box of those nasty-assed things. Or Peppermint Patties. Never. I don't even brush my teeth with mint toothpaste-- which makes trips to the market sometimes frustrating. Because, if the market we're at doesn't carry Tom's of Maine Orange & Mango toothpaste-- guess what?-- we're going to every market in a ten mile radius until we find one that does. Because their Fennel toothpaste?

Not even fit for Girl Scout cookies.

I was reminded recently of my extreme hatred for York Peppermint Patties while watching television at the gym with my wife. We were on the ellipticals, and one of the flatscreens in front of us (providing a much needed break from Glenn Beck-- who was muted and looked as if he was rapping [he probably wasn't]) was broadcasting a newish commercial for York Peppermint Patties. As I said, the TV was muted, and there was probably some luscious-sounding female voiceover encouraging you to indulge in the decadence of a York Peppermint Pattie before throwing it up because of your diet thing, and on the screen was some blonde chick with impossibly red lipstick just mouth-fucking this brown circle. Extreme close-up followed by medium shot followed by close-up with another extreme close-up of her virginal white teeth sinking into this delectable-looking cake-- without a single speck getting between her teeth or on her lips. And, as I watched this absurd commercial, only one thought went through my mind:

"Can you imagine the poor motherfucker who is directing this thing?"

I mean, really-- there is someone on that set whose job it is to *ahem* direct this commercial.

"Okay, love, in this next shot I want you to pretend you've got your mouth around Prince William's whangus, really take it all in and don't forget to flick your upper lip with your tongue as your mouth curls into that I'm-a-naughty-girl-as-well-as-a-double-agent-for-the-Mossad grin. All right? Roll sound, from the top-- and, go!"

And what must this person think of when he wakes up in the morning?

"I went to film/directing/rabbinical school... for this?"

I mean, wow. THAT, my friends, is Full Pepperminty Pattylicious Retard.

Blogsumer Confidence

Citizen's Bank wants you to know that there's still loans and credit available for your small business.

Toyota wants you to know that their engineers are hard at work, toiling around the clock to figure out ways to prevent your Camry from becoming the Herbie Antichrist.

When consumer confidence gets shaken, companies with a lot to lose often spend some serious advertising dollars on feel-good, security-blanket-covered ads that are supposed to let us know that, yeah, they know they've fucked up-- but they're working on it. With these commercials in mind, I thought I'd send a little message out there to my readers because, really, we're not immune from feeling insecure or fearful of the future. Right?

Dear "My Masonic Apron" Readers:

These are troubling times.

The blogosphere is awash in a sea of witticisms, snarkitude, YouTube clips, "Lost" commentary, and banal stories about how so-and-so blogger encountered thus-and-such homeless guy and had an inspirational experience, only to realize later that her wallet and iPhone were missing and she was now peeing seafoam green, with a red shank around her anus.

We cannot spend ten minutes in the blogosphere without reading the word "random" or the paraword "WTF," and we hunger for a blog post from a 20something blogger that does not include a quoted drunk text, a reference to Lady Gaga, or a bright pink background. Indeed, surfing the blogosphere is a dangerous and often thankless endeavor, and that is why I created "My Masonic Apron," as a place where we can all go for ribald rants and unfettered unction, and inquisitive individualism, unmarred by pictures of clowns or intoxicated chicks showing their left nipple or song clips from "The Black Eyed Peas."

But, lately, this blog has been failing you.

The posts have gotten shorter and perhaps more obtuse. My attention often wanders while I blog, and, while I would never disgrace you by blogging completely in the nude, I have found myself so absent-minded of late that, at times, I have observed that my fly is down mid-blog. And, while you couldn't possibly have known that, I feel that you are so observant, so tuned-in that you can't help but notice that something's up, even if you can't put your finger on it. You may not know exactly what the problem is, but you've got a hunch, and sometimes that's all Columbo, T. J. Hooker, and Mr. Tibbs had to go on.

Let's level with each other. You know one thing and one thing only: your blogsumer confidence has been shaken. And I know that you know, and now you know that I know. So, now: we know.

I want you to have my assurance, as the Chief Executive-Officer, Founder, Creator, and Almighty Exalted Uberominlordio Christifferous Leader of "My Masonic Apron," that underpaid East Indian technicians with unpronouncable names, outdated eyeglasses, and patchy facial hair are hard at work on this problem. They are working around the clock in their chambray shirts with visible wife-beaters and ambiguous gold chains embedded in countless layers of thick, black chest hair and will not stop working until this problem is solved. Our commitment to excellence has faltered, and, at times, cracked-- but we at "My Masonic Apron" have never promised perfection, and is not the Liberty Bell more beautiful for its cracks?

We think so.

Because, in these uncertain times, you deserve a better "My Masonic Apron."

A "My Masonic Apron" that consistently delivers-- on time, undamaged by sun, heat, or rain-- a "My Masonic Apron" that works for you, that's there when you want it, when you need it.

A "My Masonic Apron" that you can can be proud to tell your friends about, to speak about with your head held high in the confessional, to gleefully hyperlink to in your own blog, to admit that you read on your Blackberry under the tablecloth at banal family dinners and insuferable faculty meetings.

A "My Masonic Apron" you can follow with apron-waving pride.

You haven't gotten that "My Masonic Apron" lately, and we at team apron know that, and we're hard at work on a solution.

Trust us.

This.... This is Awkward

Watching television this morning, I saw a commercial for some skincare product. I want to say it was Neutrogena, but I really don't know. Skincare products and antiwrinkle creams aren't really my scene, being a hip 20something and whatnot, although I think the time is going to come when they're going to start marketing these things to middle schoolers.

Anyway, the commercial featured an impossibly attractive girl, who could not have been older than 21, rolling about seductively on a bed in a pair of pajama pants and a white tank-top. Obviously, the only skincare product this sumptuous female requires is a bar of soap and some eager, panting beau's saliva, but there we are. Anyway, the voiceover was peddling a cream that, supposedly, "diminishes the occurence of brown spots."

Did I mention that the girl in the commercial is African-American?

This..... this is awkward.

Now, I may be making an awkward something even more awkward by dipping my toe into the color pool, but we all, I think, can agree that African-American people, or "black people" are more brown-hued than black, right? So, then, what exactly is this cream, I wondered? Does it progressively make you.... less brown? Is it some sort of Michael Jackson re-pigmentification ointment?

I decided to Google the phrase "diminishes brown spots" and I got 51,400 hits, and I learned that the phrase "brown spot" is being used by the cosmetology and, possibly, dermatology industry (aren't they basically the same thing?) as a synonym, or quite possibly a replacement for "age spots." Which, of course, used to be called "liver spots."

As you can see, the Nasty Factor "diminishes" with the progression of terms.

This got me wondering about these spots, spots which I started to notice years ago on my mother, and, more alarmingly, more recently on my eldest sister. Liver spots, according to the Mayo Clinic, have nothing whatever to do with the liver or liver function. They are, however, vaguely liver-colored. Sometimes. According to the Mayo Clinic, liver spots are completely benign and result from the skin's decreasing ability, with age, to regenerate after sun exposure. The website also stated that the only way to have liver spots removed is through "cryotherapy or laser treatment," both of which, to me, sound like procedures best left to serious medical issues and best performed by Clark Kent's dermatologist.

So, I'm left to wonder the following: if "brown spots" are really "age spots" which are really "liver spots" and, if the only way to get rid of those fuckers is to freeze them or zap them, then why are companies like Neutrogena and Olay marketing creamy goop that supposedly "diminishes brown spots?"

Of course, if they ever get snagged for false (and racially dubious) advertising, they can always say, "Well, we only said it 'diminishes' brown spots... if you really want to get rid of them, you have to visit Dr. Evil." Damn lawyers. They're so.... damnably good.

As I was going through my Google results for this post, I became alarmed and dismayed by the disturbing array of products, services and seemingly medical procedures available to women who, because of the media and pop culture, are extremely succeptible to thinking that they look like desperate, sagging dogs when compared to the airbrushed celebrisluts we see on television and in magazines.

Take, for example, "pixel resurfacing."

This sounds like something I need to do to my computer monitor... or my house.

According to the Grand Rapids Vein Clinic, (I'm sorry, "vein clinic?"), Pixel Resurfacing "improves skin texture and tone, smoothes wrinkles, and diminishes brown spots. In short, this procedure erases those factors that add years to our appearance, restoring the skin’s youthful vitality."

Apparently, it also "then triggers the body’s natural healing process, stimulating the growth of new, healthy skin tissue."

Well, if it's so awesome-blossom, why should the body's "natural healing process" need to be stimulated?

This just in: faces ought not to be "resurfaced." Your face is not a Chippendale chair, or an antique sideboard or a laminate fucking countertop. When you are in your dermatologist's office and s/he starts describing a skin treatment, the "Home Depot" logo should NOT flash before your eyes. If it does-- run.

You also, in my opinion, should never have any need for a person who calls himself a "Paramedical Aesthetician." Especially one who is trying to slather you with something called "Whipped Oxygen Cream."

In the United States, at least, there isn't a recognized degree or certification to become a licensed "paramedical aesthetician," which is surprising to me, since we make up all kinds of meaningless jobs here, like "Lottery Specialist" (an actual civil service job in Michigan) and "Vice President."

By the way-- for the record, I didn't see any freaking "brown spots" on that nubile, ebony princess in that commercial.

And, believe me, I was looking.