It’s Not Folger’s Fault

5.0 out of 5 stars


I don’t drink coffee.

I gave every­thing about the cof­fee five stars although I don’t drink cof­fee. It’s not Fol­ger’s fault that the bas­tard for whom I bought the cof­fee stopped com­ing over to drink it because he’s mean and self­ish and isn’t capa­ble of being in a rela­tion­ship. You know who you are. You said, “Yes, get the cof­fee. That will be great.” Then you did­n’t show up. I fart in your gen­er­al direc­tion, Mr. Man. Now I’m stuck with all this cof­fee. So there’s that .…

The Foldgers Cof­fee Review

Pierre Cardin pour Monsieur

Pierre Cardin pour Monsieur Manly Cologne
Gre­co-Roman wrestler’s loin­cloth dipped in sour milk

I imme­di­ate­ly inhale the pow­dery, intru­sive pong of scent­ed hem­or­rhoid cream, deodor­iz­ing balm for intractable leg ulcers, or Gre­co-Roman wrestler’s loin­cloth dipped in sour milk.

I pic­ture a minc­ing Regency dandy giv­ing his wig an extra dose of pow­der as an alter­na­tive to the month­ly bath.

I am remind­ed of the aerosol cans moth­ers-in-law leave on the lava­to­ry cis­tern to allow their din­ner guests to cov­er what­so­ev­er tracks they may oth­er­wise have left.

I recall the stuff the bar­ber soaks the comb in, between customers.

If I had to pick out a sin­gle fea­ture of the over­all aro­ma as being the most offen­sive, I think it would be Gera­ni­um-Laven­der accord, which is per­fect­ly titred so that the beau­ty of nei­ther note can be dis­cerned, but the com­bined chord is loud, intru­sive, and ugly, like the Sander­sons from Pough­keep­sie arriv­ing at your barbecue.

I sus­pect that the ‘nose’ (if I may hes­i­tant­ly attribute such an organ to the cre­ator of this trav­es­ty) was aim­ing at a fougere struc­ture: the laven­der, berg­amot, moss, lab­danum (cit­ed as amber), and coumarin (cit­ed as ton­ka) in the pyra­mid would cer­tain­ly sug­gest this text-book inten­tion. How­ev­er, none of these notes meld in the heart of the fra­grance. The colours sep­a­rate out, as if print­ed with a mis­aligned cartridge.

In the dry-down, things only get worse. After 6 hours, I am dogged by a curly-sand­wich stale, wed­ding-singer flat, wilt­ed funer­al flower, chew­ing-gum-on-the-pave­ment, poly­ester-shirt­ed traf­fic-war­den, geist.


Pierre Cardin pour Mon­sieur Review

A Smaller Microwave

When you reach a cer­tain age, you start rethink­ing some things.

Just a sol­id microwave. You should ask your­self — do I need a microwave large enough to defrost a frozen ostrich? Do I need 2500 watts of pow­er so that there’s a 3‑second mar­gin of error between warm­ing up my Din­ty Moore and paint­ing the walls of my microwave with it? When you reach a cer­tain age, you start rethink­ing some things. I bought a lux­u­ry microwave and all I use it for is to reheat junk food that was­n’t that good the first time around. Yeah, Den­nis, I do need to exer­cise more. But I’m also going to buy a small­er microwave and clear up some counter space for more fruit. This is that microwave, and I rec­om­mend it.

The Small­er Microwave ReviewThe Microwave

Bond No. 9 Coney Island Review

Coney Island is a fra­grance that tastes noth­ing like it smells.

Wit­ness­ing a human being, a friend, a young gen­tle­man with a wife and chil­dren being over­tak­en by the hor­ror the wendi­go spir­it embod­ies is a ter­ri­fy­ing thing. My hunt­ing par­ty had found itself strand­ed in the north­ern Rock­ies as win­ter fell back in 83, and we knew things would be grim, but watch­ing Stevensen go mad like he did, run­ning off into the tall pines, dri­ven by hunger, the end­less cold and snow, the iso­la­tion, to what we believed was his death near­ly drove us to despair. How­ev­er, when he start­ed hunt­ing us, when we saw O’Grady’s bones stripped of flesh in that clear­ing, with the gnaw marks of human teeth on them, when we saw him fall upon Clemens and begin rip­ping and tear­ing like a sav­age ani­mal, it was beyond despair, beyond terror.

In the end there were only two of the ten of us left, just Gio­van­ni and I, and putting the mon­ster that was wear­ing Stevensen’s flesh down, like a rabid dog, remem­ber­ing who he had been… I’m sor­ry, I can­not speak of this anymore.

Coney Island is a fra­grance that tastes noth­ing like it smells. It is bit­ter, foul to the mouth. It also burns when applied to the eyes. I strong­ly advise against doing so, and instead rec­om­mend that it be sprayed upon skin or cloth­ing, for its scent, or the mar­velous sound the sprayer makes when it sprays.

Bond No. 9 Coney Island

Bulk Condoms Review

Bulk Condoms
 Be sure you real­ly need 60 con­doms before you buy 60 condoms

So these are some great con­doms right, but I’m just here to give you some life advice. I bought these back when I was in a rela­tion­ship with some­one way out of my league. I fig­ured, after how long we had been togeth­er I should just start buy­ing pro­tec­tion in bulk, right? So I buy six­ty con­doms and we keep get­ting it on for a while until she dumped me. Now I have a draw­er by my bed full of com­plete­ly super­flu­ous con­doms. They sit there mock­ing me as I drunk­en­ly cra­dle myself to sleep, cold and alone in my pathet­ic excuse of an apart­ment. Great prod­uct though 10/10

Link to the Bulk Con­domsLink to the Bulk Con­dom Review