A little early this week as I'm heading to the lake.
It may be because I just ate some delicious curry, but I'm really starting to believe in karma.
Like my neighbor who does bad in the form of blasting their stereo really loud have been punished with really bad taste in music.
Another example, I used to think that it was unfair that handicapped people got to park closest to the building. I mean it's not like most of them had to even walk there. They'd just roll their way up there without a care in the world.
But then I realized that they may have the closest parking spots, but their stalls are furthest from the men's room door. So it kind of evens out that way.
While I've never been jealous of their high seated toilets and their so wide-it-echoes stalls, but I'll admit, theres been times I've looked at their parking spots and the looked at the door and realized they were only 34 inches apart, and I got a little jealous.
This envy went away one day when I realized that in order to use a handicapped parking spot the person has to literally park on an image of another handicapped person. I don't know if I could bring myself to do that.
That poor guy is already in a wheel chair, he's obviously got enough problems without me parking my car on his torso.
Maybe that's how he ended up in that chair to begin with.
A fear of inflicting additional pain on painted paraplegics aside, I still have high levels of guilt that prevent me from ever taking a reserved spot no matter how quick my trip to the sporting goods store will be.
I won't even park in the spots next to the handicapped spots unless just I stubbed my toe really bad.
Unfortunately, other people aren't so lawful good when it comes to signs spray painted on the asphalt.
Just the other day I saw someone park in a handicapped spot without a tag or license plate. I watched him get out of car and walk in with ease. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt that he really did have some sort of physical problem that warranted his use of that coveted spot, but then he jump kicked an old lady in the head.
I'm pretty sure he was just a douchebag.
And just so we're clear, I asked my doctor, being a douchebag doesn't count as being handicapped.
Unless you're golfing, then I think it's a two stroke handicap.
Despite the fact that it's often abused by the morally challenged, I kind of like the idea of parking segregation. I think we should color code the whole lot and then make people park accordingly.
The blue spots for handicapped people would stay the same as the closest.
All lots would have the red spots that you see for senior citizens and expectant mothers.
Next would be yellow spots for anyone with small children (in the case of grocery stores and movie theaters however, these spots would be located over a mile away to encourage people to leave those brats at home).
The system would continue from there through the rest of society: doctors and firemen, librarians, dog owners, people who like Jazz music, Civil War reenactors, Congressmen, cat owners, golfers and so on until finally there would be a peach colored spot in the middle of landfill in Illinois reserved for that weird guy who invited me to get in the hot tub with him when I'm pretty sure he was naked.
Naked weirdos can walk for all I care.
That's karma for you.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is an (usually) able bodied young man who is perfectly content to park in the orange and blue striped parking spots right in between math teachers and anyone who switch hits is softball.
Time to Facebook the Truth
As a man who owns more Ethernet cables than pants, it pains me to say this. I think we've taken this whole Internet thing about as far as it can go.
It's clear now that we will never be able to download bacon, so I think it's about time we just walk away.
You're not buying it are you?
Ok, I'll level with you.
The main reason I know that the Internet is on it's last virus delivering legs is that even I – the guy who taught Numa Numa how to dance – have fallen to the lowest level of Internet usage.
I'm on Facebook.
If I can succumb to the temptation, what chance to you guys have?
About as much chance as monkey bench-pressing a sumo wrestler which explains why Facebook got so popular in the first place.
When I first heard about Facebook, I was Carl Sagan level skeptical about the whole thing. Social networking was stupid and had already ruined outer space for us geeks. Now it was going after books.
Still as I saw more and more of my friends setting up Facebook pages, I began to wonder what the attraction was. What made it so much better than MySpace?
And people were very clear that it was better than MySpace. They were borderline religious about the whole thing. They were like people with Teevo.
Facebook is like MySpace in that it lets people who think PHP is something hippies use pretend that they can make a Web site.
It's different from MySpace in that there are a lot less perverts looking at pictures of skanky girls they don't know (although there are more perverts looking at pictures of skanky girls that they do know).
It's better than MySpace in that I use it.
I think this first point, along with the ability to prove that you really do know more about movie trivia than your friends, are what makes Facebook so popular. Its a commonly held belief that Web developers are the sexiest people on the planet. People have long yearned to be as respected as the members of this noble profession.
I've always resisted such social networking sites as Facebook and MySpace because I pride myself on being a highly skill computer user. I didn't need help, I could make a Web site the old fashion way, with blood and sweat and ones and zeros.
And I'd make it cool and neat and stuff.
5 years later I've come to a realization that I am painfully lazy and this was never getting done.
I tried really hard to dig into all the HTML, JS, CSS and LMAO that I needed to build a really great site, but whenever I sat down to get to work I would write two lines of code and then realize that somehow I was playing WOW.
Honey, what are you doing? I thought you said you were going to work on your Web site.
I am dear.
Then why do I see a dragon?
He's trying to steal my code, that's why I have to kill him.
So I do have to admit Facebook is a lot easier than building write a Web page the old fashion way, just like buying your food is easier than hunting for it.
Although I do still feel like a bit of a wiener when I eat a muffin instead of skinning a deer.
Another thing I love about Facebook is how easy it makes social interaction. In Facebook there's no range for how well you know a person or how much you like them.
In real life it's way more complicated. In my life there are many different words I use to describe people: friends, acquiescences, buddies, coworkers, people I ride the bus with, neighbors, people who work at stores I go to a lot, neighbors who I sneak around trying to avoid, my wife, ward-mates and people I think are douche-bags for not returning their shopping carts.
On Facebook, everyone is either your friend or a total stranger.
It's actually very cleansing.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is just happy that now he can finally number all the friends that he's ever had in his whole life. The answer, according to Facebook, is 21.
It's clear now that we will never be able to download bacon, so I think it's about time we just walk away.
You're not buying it are you?
Ok, I'll level with you.
The main reason I know that the Internet is on it's last virus delivering legs is that even I – the guy who taught Numa Numa how to dance – have fallen to the lowest level of Internet usage.
I'm on Facebook.
If I can succumb to the temptation, what chance to you guys have?
About as much chance as monkey bench-pressing a sumo wrestler which explains why Facebook got so popular in the first place.
When I first heard about Facebook, I was Carl Sagan level skeptical about the whole thing. Social networking was stupid and had already ruined outer space for us geeks. Now it was going after books.
Still as I saw more and more of my friends setting up Facebook pages, I began to wonder what the attraction was. What made it so much better than MySpace?
And people were very clear that it was better than MySpace. They were borderline religious about the whole thing. They were like people with Teevo.
Facebook is like MySpace in that it lets people who think PHP is something hippies use pretend that they can make a Web site.
It's different from MySpace in that there are a lot less perverts looking at pictures of skanky girls they don't know (although there are more perverts looking at pictures of skanky girls that they do know).
It's better than MySpace in that I use it.
I think this first point, along with the ability to prove that you really do know more about movie trivia than your friends, are what makes Facebook so popular. Its a commonly held belief that Web developers are the sexiest people on the planet. People have long yearned to be as respected as the members of this noble profession.
I've always resisted such social networking sites as Facebook and MySpace because I pride myself on being a highly skill computer user. I didn't need help, I could make a Web site the old fashion way, with blood and sweat and ones and zeros.
And I'd make it cool and neat and stuff.
5 years later I've come to a realization that I am painfully lazy and this was never getting done.
I tried really hard to dig into all the HTML, JS, CSS and LMAO that I needed to build a really great site, but whenever I sat down to get to work I would write two lines of code and then realize that somehow I was playing WOW.
Honey, what are you doing? I thought you said you were going to work on your Web site.
I am dear.
Then why do I see a dragon?
He's trying to steal my code, that's why I have to kill him.
So I do have to admit Facebook is a lot easier than building write a Web page the old fashion way, just like buying your food is easier than hunting for it.
Although I do still feel like a bit of a wiener when I eat a muffin instead of skinning a deer.
Another thing I love about Facebook is how easy it makes social interaction. In Facebook there's no range for how well you know a person or how much you like them.
In real life it's way more complicated. In my life there are many different words I use to describe people: friends, acquiescences, buddies, coworkers, people I ride the bus with, neighbors, people who work at stores I go to a lot, neighbors who I sneak around trying to avoid, my wife, ward-mates and people I think are douche-bags for not returning their shopping carts.
On Facebook, everyone is either your friend or a total stranger.
It's actually very cleansing.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is just happy that now he can finally number all the friends that he's ever had in his whole life. The answer, according to Facebook, is 21.
The Geek Beat: Burn Baby Shower Burn
I like to think that I'm pretty clever. I've been walking through forests my whole life and I've never been upside-down hanging from a tree or in a pit with a tiger. It's because I'm pretty good at spotting traps.
And yet, despite all skills as an Eagle Scout, this last weekend I still found myself at a baby shower.
In my defense, it was a baby shower cleverly disguised as a barbecue.
My first hint that this might not be a regular barbecue was when I realized the host couple were registered at Target. Generally people don't register for a barbecue. Although I'm totally for getting this tradition started. I think it would really catch on.
You have been cordially invited to a BBQ at the Shinney residence on Tuesday, the 12 of Febtober. Please RSVP so we will have plenty of potato salad. The couple is registered at Albertson's and Chuck's Butcher Shop.
I've never been a big fan of showers of any kind. They're just way to feminine for me. I know I'm suppose to be a modern man and all that jazz, but if that means I have to go to a bridal shower and listen to women squeal after each present they open, screw that.
Besides, baby showers always seem to be for one of two purposes. Either for the parents to get a bunch of free stuff in order to recover some of the massive costs involved in procreation or for them to say one last goodbye to all their couple friends who don't have kids yet.
Have your first kid is a lot like getting married. It is a huge commitment, it is a major milestone in your life and once you do it, it's pretty much impossible to hang out with anyone who hasn't yet.
I went anyway, assuming that so long as somebody stood outside and turned large chunks of meat into food using fire, I could just focus on that and be able to shut out all the talk about onesies and spit up.
No such luck. I was thwarted by one of my oldest (and most delicious) nemesis of all time: sloppy joes.
And by the time we started playing games, all pretense of being anything but a baby shower was thrown out quicker than old coleslaw.
I'm not saying you can't play games at a barbecue. Far from it. There are a ton of really fun games that can be played in the context of a barbecue: baseball, horseshoes and “see who can fit the most jello in their mouth” for example.
However, one game you never play at a BBQ is “Guess how fat the hostess is.”
Playing this game will get you kicked out of most BBQs with grill marks on your face.
And yet, some how, this is perfectly acceptable at a baby shower.
Well we couldn't just guess like normal people would. That wouldn't be fun. We had to take string and make a loop the size we thought our ever expanding host would be. When we laid them all down next to each other, it became as obvious as the fat guy at the gym that none of the guys had any idea how big a pregnant woman should be (not even her husband which is discouraging).
Then we had to guess the weight and length of the baby when he is finally born.
This is another spawning tradition that I've never understood. Why do we have to measure our babies like fish? It just gives me the impression that if one isn't big enough we can just throw him back, or sneak him under our waders and hope the game warden (or doctor) doesn't catch us.
I also hate it because I have no real frame of reference to go off of. I have not real idea how big a baby should be at birth. You could tell me that the average infant is three inches long like a new-born kangaroo, and I would not feel comfortable calling you a liar.
Since I had no idea how many inches or pounds go into an average baby, I just said he'd be 6 1/3 crayons long and hoped for the best.
Hundreds of people have told me how heavy and how long their babies are, and I have paid more attention to infomercials about home meat dryers than I have to any of these announcements. I think it's because I don't have a kid yet. Once I do it'll be competition, at which point I'll start lying about the size of my posterity, just like I lie about the length and width of everything else I care about.
And seriously, why can't we just say tall? Babies are people too you know.
Still even despite the lack of an actual barbecue, I had a good time. I'm proud to say that I've survived a baby shower.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go take a man shower. I still feel icky.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a veteran of many crappy barbecues who thinks that showers should be held for anyone for any major life event. He is currently planning a “just got an X-box” shower for himself.
And yet, despite all skills as an Eagle Scout, this last weekend I still found myself at a baby shower.
In my defense, it was a baby shower cleverly disguised as a barbecue.
My first hint that this might not be a regular barbecue was when I realized the host couple were registered at Target. Generally people don't register for a barbecue. Although I'm totally for getting this tradition started. I think it would really catch on.
You have been cordially invited to a BBQ at the Shinney residence on Tuesday, the 12 of Febtober. Please RSVP so we will have plenty of potato salad. The couple is registered at Albertson's and Chuck's Butcher Shop.
I've never been a big fan of showers of any kind. They're just way to feminine for me. I know I'm suppose to be a modern man and all that jazz, but if that means I have to go to a bridal shower and listen to women squeal after each present they open, screw that.
Besides, baby showers always seem to be for one of two purposes. Either for the parents to get a bunch of free stuff in order to recover some of the massive costs involved in procreation or for them to say one last goodbye to all their couple friends who don't have kids yet.
Have your first kid is a lot like getting married. It is a huge commitment, it is a major milestone in your life and once you do it, it's pretty much impossible to hang out with anyone who hasn't yet.
I went anyway, assuming that so long as somebody stood outside and turned large chunks of meat into food using fire, I could just focus on that and be able to shut out all the talk about onesies and spit up.
No such luck. I was thwarted by one of my oldest (and most delicious) nemesis of all time: sloppy joes.
And by the time we started playing games, all pretense of being anything but a baby shower was thrown out quicker than old coleslaw.
I'm not saying you can't play games at a barbecue. Far from it. There are a ton of really fun games that can be played in the context of a barbecue: baseball, horseshoes and “see who can fit the most jello in their mouth” for example.
However, one game you never play at a BBQ is “Guess how fat the hostess is.”
Playing this game will get you kicked out of most BBQs with grill marks on your face.
And yet, some how, this is perfectly acceptable at a baby shower.
Well we couldn't just guess like normal people would. That wouldn't be fun. We had to take string and make a loop the size we thought our ever expanding host would be. When we laid them all down next to each other, it became as obvious as the fat guy at the gym that none of the guys had any idea how big a pregnant woman should be (not even her husband which is discouraging).
Then we had to guess the weight and length of the baby when he is finally born.
This is another spawning tradition that I've never understood. Why do we have to measure our babies like fish? It just gives me the impression that if one isn't big enough we can just throw him back, or sneak him under our waders and hope the game warden (or doctor) doesn't catch us.
I also hate it because I have no real frame of reference to go off of. I have not real idea how big a baby should be at birth. You could tell me that the average infant is three inches long like a new-born kangaroo, and I would not feel comfortable calling you a liar.
Since I had no idea how many inches or pounds go into an average baby, I just said he'd be 6 1/3 crayons long and hoped for the best.
Hundreds of people have told me how heavy and how long their babies are, and I have paid more attention to infomercials about home meat dryers than I have to any of these announcements. I think it's because I don't have a kid yet. Once I do it'll be competition, at which point I'll start lying about the size of my posterity, just like I lie about the length and width of everything else I care about.
And seriously, why can't we just say tall? Babies are people too you know.
Still even despite the lack of an actual barbecue, I had a good time. I'm proud to say that I've survived a baby shower.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go take a man shower. I still feel icky.
Geek on.
Steve Shinney is a veteran of many crappy barbecues who thinks that showers should be held for anyone for any major life event. He is currently planning a “just got an X-box” shower for himself.
100th post, in 3rd person rather than 3-D
The ever handsome Steve Shinney was walking to the bus stop this morning, when he noticed the sign at the Hooters across the street was proclaiming proudly, “We have Wi-Fi!”
'What a strange thing for Hooters to brag about,' he thought to himself. 'If I were them, I'd make a sign that said something like “We have buxom women in tiny clothes!” or they could just shorten it to “Hey, we're Hooters!”'
He tried to distract himself by listening to music, but he still couldn't get his head around this concept. It didn't make sense for Hooters to brag about having Wi-Fi, something he himself possessed in his own apartment and didn't feel the need to make a sign to tell people.
He considered perhaps they were trying to compete with the coffee shop next door, whose sign also proclaimed that “We have Wi-Fi.”
'But who's business are they competing for?' He wondered 'Granted coffee shops have a monopoly on people who like to slowly drink a single overpriced coffee while they work on their Great American Novels.'
'But I'm pretty sure no novels – great, American or otherwise – have ever been read in Hooters, let alone been written.'
He considered for a moment taking advantage of this highly-toted Wi-Fi and writing his latest idea for a book ( a touching love story about a jazz musician who falls for sexy young werewolf set in the 13th century) just to be the first person to raise to literary greatness from such a location, but then he realized not only would his wife not approve (with punching) but with that many distractions bouncing around nobody could write anything.
'I can't even write if I see a dog outside my window,' he thought and pushed that fantasy out of his mind forever.
He looked down the street to the next bus stop and contemplated walking a bit further every morning so that he didn't have to wait where he had to read such perplexing signs. There were still nights when he would lay awake remembering last Christmas when the same sign wished him a 'Hooterific Holiday', a phrase that haunted him still.
Finally the bus came to carry him away. As climbed aboard he realized what it all meant.
'This sign, is a sign. It's the sign I've been watching for. It's time to bring back The Geek Beat.'
And so it was.
'What a strange thing for Hooters to brag about,' he thought to himself. 'If I were them, I'd make a sign that said something like “We have buxom women in tiny clothes!” or they could just shorten it to “Hey, we're Hooters!”'
He tried to distract himself by listening to music, but he still couldn't get his head around this concept. It didn't make sense for Hooters to brag about having Wi-Fi, something he himself possessed in his own apartment and didn't feel the need to make a sign to tell people.
He considered perhaps they were trying to compete with the coffee shop next door, whose sign also proclaimed that “We have Wi-Fi.”
'But who's business are they competing for?' He wondered 'Granted coffee shops have a monopoly on people who like to slowly drink a single overpriced coffee while they work on their Great American Novels.'
'But I'm pretty sure no novels – great, American or otherwise – have ever been read in Hooters, let alone been written.'
He considered for a moment taking advantage of this highly-toted Wi-Fi and writing his latest idea for a book ( a touching love story about a jazz musician who falls for sexy young werewolf set in the 13th century) just to be the first person to raise to literary greatness from such a location, but then he realized not only would his wife not approve (with punching) but with that many distractions bouncing around nobody could write anything.
'I can't even write if I see a dog outside my window,' he thought and pushed that fantasy out of his mind forever.
He looked down the street to the next bus stop and contemplated walking a bit further every morning so that he didn't have to wait where he had to read such perplexing signs. There were still nights when he would lay awake remembering last Christmas when the same sign wished him a 'Hooterific Holiday', a phrase that haunted him still.
Finally the bus came to carry him away. As climbed aboard he realized what it all meant.
'This sign, is a sign. It's the sign I've been watching for. It's time to bring back The Geek Beat.'
And so it was.
Somethings they just don't teach you in the MTC
Languages are a lot like fighting ninja werewolves, just when you think you're getting good at one you find that your skills are severely lacking when you need them the most.
I've been studying Chinese for over seven years. For the most part I do OK and on the occasions when I need to say a word or phrase that I don't know like “archaeologist” or “Decepticon” I have my lovely wife there by my side to bail me out (just like with the ninj-wolves).
This week however, I ran into a situation where both my leet sino-skills and lovely sino-wife both failed me.
I was still in China, doing some last minute shopping, which for me means shopping for Chinese DVDs. Chinese DVD salesmen are unintentionally hilarious. When every they see whitey they a circle with their fingers (commonly recognized as the universal sign of a DVD) and say one of the few English words they know “DVD” (which actually doesn't count because that's also how you say DVD in Chinese).
Normally I then blow them away by chatting with them about Chinese movies and movie stars, prove my linguistics manhood and move on. I'm fairly comfortable in these situations so I went to pick up a couple Chinese Television series to last us until our next trip while my wife took care of her parents' computer needs.
This is when I discovered a major chink in my Chinese armor (that phrase has never sounded more racist, I should have thought of a better way to say that). Since the last time I was in China many of the bootleg DVD vendors have moved much of the stock into the back rooms that used to be reserved for adult programming. Also the vendors seemed a lot more convinced that a white guy wondering around could only be interesting in dirty DVD was were making different commonly recognized universal signs with their fingers
I just wish I knew how to say “I don't want to go to your porn room” in Chinese.
I've been studying Chinese for over seven years. For the most part I do OK and on the occasions when I need to say a word or phrase that I don't know like “archaeologist” or “Decepticon” I have my lovely wife there by my side to bail me out (just like with the ninj-wolves).
This week however, I ran into a situation where both my leet sino-skills and lovely sino-wife both failed me.
I was still in China, doing some last minute shopping, which for me means shopping for Chinese DVDs. Chinese DVD salesmen are unintentionally hilarious. When every they see whitey they a circle with their fingers (commonly recognized as the universal sign of a DVD) and say one of the few English words they know “DVD” (which actually doesn't count because that's also how you say DVD in Chinese).
Normally I then blow them away by chatting with them about Chinese movies and movie stars, prove my linguistics manhood and move on. I'm fairly comfortable in these situations so I went to pick up a couple Chinese Television series to last us until our next trip while my wife took care of her parents' computer needs.
This is when I discovered a major chink in my Chinese armor (that phrase has never sounded more racist, I should have thought of a better way to say that). Since the last time I was in China many of the bootleg DVD vendors have moved much of the stock into the back rooms that used to be reserved for adult programming. Also the vendors seemed a lot more convinced that a white guy wondering around could only be interesting in dirty DVD was were making different commonly recognized universal signs with their fingers
I just wish I knew how to say “I don't want to go to your porn room” in Chinese.
I'm hoping for the second kind
I saw a sea monster yesterday.
I'm not really sure if it was one of the cool kinds with the lots of arms, the horns and the teeth and the ship wrecking powers like the Kraken or if it was the really cool kind with the tits and the boobs and the seashell bikini like a mermaid, but it was definitely a sea monster.
It was on my flight home from LA.
Even though the flight from LA to SLC requires passing over absolutely zero water, the plane made a small detour over the ocean. I think they were kinda hoping we would crash there. They seemed really proud of the fact that their seats could be used a a flotation device (all thought I would have felt a lot safer if the seats could be used as a parachute).
I saw something big in the water. I don't know what it was, but my world needs more magic. There fore, I'm decided in was a sea monster.
You can't change my mind.
I'm not really sure if it was one of the cool kinds with the lots of arms, the horns and the teeth and the ship wrecking powers like the Kraken or if it was the really cool kind with the tits and the boobs and the seashell bikini like a mermaid, but it was definitely a sea monster.
It was on my flight home from LA.
Even though the flight from LA to SLC requires passing over absolutely zero water, the plane made a small detour over the ocean. I think they were kinda hoping we would crash there. They seemed really proud of the fact that their seats could be used a a flotation device (all thought I would have felt a lot safer if the seats could be used as a parachute).
I saw something big in the water. I don't know what it was, but my world needs more magic. There fore, I'm decided in was a sea monster.
You can't change my mind.
I'll Eat Something With a Face, So Long as it's Not Smiling at the Time
Because I have a mental problem that prevents me from not buying something that's really cheap and I never pass up the opportunity to eat like a five year old, I recent purchased a whole bunch of goldfish crackers.
It's been a while since I've eaten goldfish crackers. I don't know why, I love pretty much all food that comes in the shape of a fish: goldfish crackers, Swedish fish, actual fish.
Well whatever the reason for the long separation, it over and me and one of my favorite childhood treats are back together again.
I was looking at a back for goldfish crackers for probably the first time since I learned how to read, and I noticed that they have a mascot now. A whole school of mascots actually.
Now on the side of every small bag of goldfish crackers are four goldfish crackers with eyes and a mouth.
I'm all for my snack foods having cute cartoon mascots. There's a part of me that gets a perverse thrill from the thought of a tree full of little, well-dressed elves who's sole purpose in life is to bake me delicious cookies. There's just something creepy about the lovable, happy character that's suppose to make me want to each a particular snack food being one of those particular snack foods.
It's kinda like how I've always had a problem with Mayor McCheese trying to sell me his head.
It's been a while since I've eaten goldfish crackers. I don't know why, I love pretty much all food that comes in the shape of a fish: goldfish crackers, Swedish fish, actual fish.
Well whatever the reason for the long separation, it over and me and one of my favorite childhood treats are back together again.
I was looking at a back for goldfish crackers for probably the first time since I learned how to read, and I noticed that they have a mascot now. A whole school of mascots actually.
Now on the side of every small bag of goldfish crackers are four goldfish crackers with eyes and a mouth.
I'm all for my snack foods having cute cartoon mascots. There's a part of me that gets a perverse thrill from the thought of a tree full of little, well-dressed elves who's sole purpose in life is to bake me delicious cookies. There's just something creepy about the lovable, happy character that's suppose to make me want to each a particular snack food being one of those particular snack foods.
It's kinda like how I've always had a problem with Mayor McCheese trying to sell me his head.
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