Danocrates discusses business

I am a nerd.

I have contacted the U.S. Census and Department of Forestry and have calculated the number of Christmas trees slain since 1830 here in the United States.

After hours of geekish research, I have estimated 2.4 billion Christmas trees have been wiped out.

With the average tree density of a normal forest, that equates to 75,000 square miles (roughly the size of the entire state of South Dakota).

If you assume the mean height is 6 ft. and were to stack the trees end to end, they would go around the Earth 118 times or create 15 columns extending to the Moon
(approximately 186, 000 miles away).

I then asked myself, “Who lives in the forest?”
I know that Winnie the Pooh lives in “The Hundred Acres Wood”. So feasibly, one could deduce that every hundred acres produces one Pooh bear. Since seventy-five thousand square miles have been destroyed, the blood of a half a million Pooh bears rest on the shoulders of the paganistic ritual of Christians.

A Poohicide.

Jesus was a Jew, but he also was an anti-Poohite.

Merry Christmas!

I was driving my buddies back to Queens from Manhattan one night and we passed by KFC and it reminded me of something I read about why Kentucky Fried Chicken changed its name to KFC. I vaugely remembered reading that the Commonwealth of Kentucky was in such a state of financial ruins that it trademarked its name.

One friend, Moody McCarthy, said, “That sounds like a lot of horseshit.”

I agreed with him but stood by the explanation because I knew in my heart that I had read it and it was true. How can a person read something if it were not true? That’s impossible.

Although, I couldn’t remember where I read it. So I scoured the Web and finally found it here at Snopes.com.

See. Why would I lie? Be sure to read the “Additional information:” link.

Disclaimer:

An old post but some delightful young lady left a scathing comment. Enjoy!

They also have Chocolate Toffee: a taste of sweet indulgence. R.J. Reynold isn’t even trying to be subtle with their marketing tactics towards children and people with bad eating habits. Logically, they should merge with companies designed to seduce kids at an early age.

Willy Wonka:
Oompa Loompa® Lights
Nico-Nerds®

Disney:
Chip n’ Dale® Chewing Tobacco
Mickey Mouse® Mediums in a Soft Pack

Nickelodeon:
Sponge Bob Squarepants-alicious® Light 100s

I’m sure their market analysts have reported the fact that there is a growing trend of consumers who are worried about their health. Keep a look out for future marketing schemes for the health conscious.

Mother Earth’s Elemental Sticks®
All Organic Tar, Fortified with Flax Seed Oil (Omega-H), Non-Irradiated Nicotine

At Mother Earth™, we cherish every customer and strive for excellence. In this health-conscious world, we care about each customer’s well being. We guarantee every cigarette will have no artificial dyes or preservatives. In addition, every Mother Earth™ employee (their official title is, “Citizen®”) has health insurance, 401k, and is eligible for financial assistance for higher education. Mother Earth™ cherishes her Citizens® and loves humanity. We hope you enjoy smoking our cigarettes. With all the new anti-smoking laws, we are a dying breed. With your help, we can bring back smoking. Every carton you buy, we will donate $1 to The Cool Kids Fund™. They buy new Zippo® Lighters for underprivileged children in unfortunate situations.

Mother Earth™ has been filling people with healthy smoke since 1983.

My niece Madison just turned 3 years old.

This is a big step for toddlers on the long road to maturity.

Everyone is familiar with the final rites of passage to adulthood: discovery of masturbation, a driver’s license, the right to vote, alcohol, loss of virginity (usually in that sequential order), wisdom teeth extraction, lower car insurance, buying furniture that isn’t from IKEA®, and finally throwing away that $20 dorm-style upright halogen light.

However, no one remembers the monumental jump from infant to toddler.

For nine months, you are trapped in your mother’s cocoon. Once pardoned from the solitary confinement of her womb, you then have to endure a 35 month sentence in a caged-environment known as a crib.

Millions of innocent 2 ½ year olds around the world stare listlessly through the bars of their cell.

They have to wait until they’re 3 years olds to be exonerated from their cradles and be allowed to sleep in their own beds.

Well, little Maddie turned 3 and got a twin size bed and new sheets.

The sheets were adorably decorated with a design called KIDPRINTs® which could be described as: a white sheet with a disorganized array of polychromatic, painted handprints of various small children or Jackson Pollack’s kindergarten project.

She loved them and played patty-cake with the handprints.

Since the sheets were new they were a little itchy. I suggested that we wash them with some Snuggle® fabric softener.

But when I grabbed the sheets in my arms, my pseudo-Spidey-Senses went off. I have a very keen ability of detecting evil. Its aura glowed red in my mind’s eye.

EVIL!

I threw it to the ground as a vampire would a clove of garlic or a vile of holy water. The sheets existence repulsed me. I reviled the very fabric that Madison revered.

My cousin didn’t understand why a freaked out and calmly asked, “Why did you throw it on the ground?”

“Because, it’s Eeeev-all!”I said.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Pick it up!” he yelled.

“I can’t,” I replied.

My cousin screamed, “You are out of your fucking mind!”

As I looked at the crumpled mass of linen, I kept envisioning the factory where it was made. I saw a long conveyer belt with thousands of blank white sheets, empty canvases waiting to be painted. Then I could see the factory workers, a handful of poor, little Malaysian kids standing in front of buckets of paint. Their shift started and the foreman began to bark out, “Faster…faster!”

Then I heard one of the small workers grumble underneath his breath, “Stupid capitalistic pigs, I’ve never even take a shower before!”

I looked at the sheets again and saw some of the handprints were missing fingers and one little guy actually was able to scrawl out, ‘H-e-l-p-m-e.’

Against my cousin’s wishes, I ran outside with the sheets and burned them.

Just because Nike, Martha Stewart and Kathy Lee condones child slavery that doesn’t make it right.

Hopefully other companies will follow suit:

McDonalds
We Invented Obesity

Starkist Tuna
Creating an Extinction. One Fish at a Time.

Exxon
One Beer Away from Another Situation

DeBeers
Turning Blood into Money Since 1948

Perdue
Re-Creating the Chicken®

Bank of America
Ascertaining Companies to Secede From the Nation

Tropicana Orange Juice
Highly Acidic Sugar Water in the Guise of Vitamin C
(The All-Purpose Ulcer-Making, Enamel Removing, Diabetes Inducing Fruit Juice was deemed too wordy)

Memories are holographic chemicals.
Are holograms chemical memories or are chemicals holographic memories?
Bleach is a chemical. Bleach is a holographic memory?

Curious, I inhaled it and Princess Leia appeared and said, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi“, then I passed out because of the fumes.

I’m confused why a company would choose the Trojans as their symbol.

I’ve tried to create a logical analogy between modern condoms and the ancient battle between the Greeks and the Trojans: The Greeks embodied a man and the Trojans personified a woman, the wooden exterior of the horse would have symbolized a condom, the man’s sperm was represented by the army of Greek warriors, the gate of Troy’s wall would be her vagina, the Trojan defenders were spermicide and the highly-prized Helen characterized the woman’s egg.

On the surface, it appears to be quite a clever correlation.

Yet if you dig deeper and discover the outcome of the battle, it doesn’t make sense why they would be so proud to bear the name Trojan® as the most effective protection against invasions.

The female was deceptively wooed by the man. She left her spermicide in the medicine cabinet because he had assured her that is was safe. He slid his condom into her vagina. Once safely inside, his tampered condom broke and flooded her with his sperm. The sperm leader then swam up the perilous Phallopyan Tower and captured the enchanted Egg Princess.

The Trojans failed.

Troy got knocked up.

I could understand, if they sold diaphragms with prefabricated holes marketed towards women who wanted to ensnare men into marriage through pregnancy.

Trojan® Diaphragms— #1 in Unwanted Pregancies

Two of my many Orthorexic dietary restrictions are:
limit my dairy and saturated fat intake.

Unfortunately, my unnatural, affinity for Ben & Jerry’s™ Chunky Monkey© ice cream makes those rules obsolete as the enforcement of the law forbidding jaywalking.

How do I justify my addiction?

The Ben & Jerry’s™ corporation is an environmentally conscience company concerned about minimizing any negative impact on our future society and environment: employee healthcare, urban youth development, its stance on BGH hormones in cows, and recyclable paper products.

They make me feel like I’m saving the planet—one pint at a time.

What are the ingredients in my beloved Chunky Monkey©?

Pure and simple:
Cream, Skim Milk, Liquid Sugar, Water, Sugar, Walnuts, Bananas, Egg Yolks, Coconut Oil, Cocoa, Concentrated Lemon Juice, Guar Gum, Natural Flavors, Milkfat, Soya Lecithin, Carrageenan

The cream and milk are fortified with vitamin D from a loving cow, the spring water is purified, the sugar is from raw sugar canes, the bananas are organic and crammed with potassium, protein-packed walnuts, and the the endorphin-inducing calcium chunks of all-natural milk chocolate are blended together into a frosty, mouth-savoring, bowl of nutritious delight.

Unfortunately, this “green”, organic, eco-friendly exterior is hiding a “black”, crude, glutton-making interior.

Each pint contains 1,200 calories and 40 grams of saturated fat, the equivalent of 32 slices of bacon.

If you ate one pint a day for a year, you would consume 500,393 calories or 3,336 hot dogs.

Theoretically, there are four servings in one pint. Yeah, fucking right! It is aptly named, Chunky Monkey©. I’ve got a sweet monkey on my back that I can’t shake.

At least, heroine is illegal. I can buy my drug at a Texaco and eat it while I’m driving.

And let’s not forget to mention the ozone-depleting methane produced by the thousands of cows needed, which leads to global warming.

Let’s hope that Mad Cow Disease doesn’t ever attack Ben & Jerry’s™ supply. Chubby insurgents will invade Canada’s dairy farms for uncontaminated milk. Deplete their stocks and ravenously scour the Earth for untainted cows. The bovine elixir will become the catalyst for World War III.

Ben & Jerry’s™ can take their “Save the Planet” motto and shove it up their drug-dealing, capitalistic asses.

When I was in Virginia, I drove by a Friendly’s® restaurant and noticed that the marquee claimed, “Free Happy Ending Sundae with Every Entree”.

My Uncle Ed was in the Marines and had told me as a teenager that happy endings was code word for oral pleasure at a massage parlor.

The temptation was too great to pass up. I went in and looked for the hottest waitress in the place. Not an easy thing to do in Leesburg, Virginia on a Sunday. I found one that looked like Flo from Mel’s Diner except a little plumper and not as sexy. Her name was Rose.

I ordered a Buffalo Chicken Sandwich and an iced tea. While smacking her gum, she scribbled, B-C-H-I-X and a happy face on her writing pad, winked at me, and said, “Comin’ right up, sugar.”

My face turned red with embarrassment. I felt like I was an eighteen year old GI from WWII in front of an aging prostitute.

Rose brought out the sandwich and the ice tea. She smiled and said, “Pumpkin, lemme know when yer done, so I can bring you yer dessert.” I felt awkward looking at her fifty year old, apple ass swish back and forth like a cat’s tail.

I ate my meal, made eye contact with her, and beckoned her over.

I coyly said, “I guess, I’ll have my happy ending now.”

Rose disappeared into the kitchen, and came out with a serving tray with a sundae on it. She cleared my plate and placed my complimentary dessert in front of me. Confused, I ate it.

When I was done, she asked me, “Do you want anything else, sugarplum?”

She pointed at my empty bowl and my chest region in a circular motion and said, “Do you want me to clean this up?”

That’s when I got it.

The secret password wasn’t happy ending it was clean this up. So I put my hands behind head and said, “Yes, I would love for you to clean this up.”

Rose said, “Sure thing, sweetie”, and she clapped her hands together and yelled out, “Enrique, can you clean this up?”

Morale of the story:
If you want a great chicken sandwich and love being blown by a Mexican, go to Friendly’s®.

http://www.subservientchicken.com/

Burger King® has some sort of weird chicken costume fetish.

These commands worked: punch, slap, sleep, sit, burn, hug, kiss, kick, fuck, and beg.

Burger Kinky®

Enjoy?
Leave a comment if other commands work.