Woot : One Day, One Deal (SM)

All The Cleveland Ladies

Aw, you can’t trust them ladies, man. They never tell you the truth. Not like my bros.

Like, with Feedbag here, that’s his nickname, right? And me and Feedbag, we go out, and we eat wings and fart and laugh, and we’re, like, straight up. But then I get these Cleveland Ladies Golf Clubs, and they’re, you know, flexible and they’ve got a springy shaft and they’re designed to help with a weak fade or slice, but, like, we know they’re a 5 Wood with a 22 degree loft or a 7 wood with a 25 degree slice, but some of them say something totally different. And that’s crazy! Why would a golf club have to lie? I’ll tell you why. Because it’s a ladies golf club.

I know, I know, that’s sexist or whatever, but hey, my man Feedbag and I, when we go out, it’s all what it is, you know? It’s no trying to figure out what club is telling the truth and what club is all crazy in the head. After a pitcher of beer, when Feedbag sits on my lap and starts making out with me, I know, right? I know he really cares. Because that’s what bros do. They look out for each other. They don’t make stuff up and leave you guessing. So hey, you take the Cleveland Ladies Golf Clubs all you want. Me? I’m taking hold of something else from now on. Sorry, Cleveland Ladies Golf Clubs. You’ve driven me away for good.

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Lighting Up The Dark Age

Nobody remembers when the Tripods came. Seems they’ve always been there. Standing. Watching. Shining.

Simple folk like us just want to go about our business, to tend to our fields and our livestock and our body lice. We daren’t hope for things like soap or music or portable hands-free lighting, not since Everything Changed. The elders say that the Tripods were good, once. Their three separate flashlights each shone 20 lumens of light through shatter-resistant lenses, and their base opened up into a nifty three-legged stool.

But them days are gone, they are. Now, when the Tripods shine their lights on your village, looking for some runaway human slave or an amusing new pet to whisk off to their domed cities, you’d best cower in your wattle and daub hut. If only it were possible for a small group of children to topple a post-apocalyptic global oligarchy. But of course, it isn’t.

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Snug as a bug in a tub

Because in the darkness, it does kind of look like a monster waiting to bite your junk off.

Are you comfy, Billy? Yes, the linoleum is probably a little hard on your back, but it’s only temporary. Careful not to kick the shower on in your sleep, either.

I don’t know why your mother and I haven’t thought of this before. This way, if you have an “accident”, it’ll just flow right into the drain! And as soon as you learn not to wet the bed, or the tub, rather, you can go back to your Big Boy bed. I promise.

This is not a license to “make water” while you sleep, though. This is a teaching tool. See, the toilet is right there next to you. Just jump right out and there it is waiting for your “recyclables”. And so you don’t get scared during the night, we’ve installed a Luminosity Toilet Flush Handle Night Light to not only keep you company, but help lead the way for your special deliveries to the Porcelain Pool.

The nightlight should provide more than enough light for your “business” as it glows in the darkness. And you won’t forget to flush, either. All you have to do is reach for the light, and it’s soft, sleep-friendly touch will guide you.

Okay, Billy, time for lights out. No, young man, you cannot call your wife. Wives are for Big Boys. You can call you wife AFTER you’ve learned your to do your tinkies properly.

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A Special Woot-Off Deal for all you Roomba lovers

Goodness knows, we love Roombas here at Woot. Heck, we’ve almost built an empire on the things. But even we know that there are some places they shouldn’t go.

“Ugh. Oh. Oh, yeah. That’s right. That’s RIGHT.”

“Yes, you’re doing very well, sweetie. Now let’s wrap this up and OH MY GOD!”

“Holy crap, did you just..?”

“LOOK! THERE IN THE DOORWAY, BILLY!”

“Oh, hey there, little buddy! Looks like the Roomba wanted to see where all the ‘action’ was.”

“Well, shoo it away! I thought it was supposed to vacuuming your floor. It’s just sitting there, staring with it’s little eye. Frisbee-shaped pervert.”

“Aw, honey. Poor little guy was just curious. Maybe it just wanted to say ‘hello’. Go on, boy. Go back to your docking station.”

“I don’t trust it, the way it scoots around picking up all manner of things. I swear I caught it rifling through my purse the other day and I KNOW I’m missing some dimes.”

“You’re being a bit ridiculous, I think.”

“OH, AM I? Well then, maybe you’d like to enjoy Naked Bookshelf Construction Wednesday by yourself, mister.”

“Whoa, hey, whoa. Let’s not be crazy. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll grab an iRobot Virtual Wall next time I’m online.”

“I don’t know…”

“Listen, the iRobot Virtual Wall uses an infrared signal to set up a wall that the Roomba won’t cross. Once we set up an ‘off-limits’ area, Scootie won’t be able to peek in on our more intimate moments.”

“That sounds like a good… Wait. You named your Roomba ‘Scootie’?”

“I… I was so very alone before you came along.”

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The “Friend”

“Old Bag”? Oh, Shirley. I told you he was no good for you.

Still, though, you need to drop that zero and get with a hero. Any man that would call you an old bag is the sort of person you… oh, he said your golf bag was too old? Well, even still. A man should be more understanding about how to say that. If you ask me, you need to just walk away from that… a Daiwa Ladies Golf Bag? Is that one of those cheap ones? Because, girlfriend, you deserve the best, and that man trying to cheap out on you is… seven pockets? Rain cover? Gold snaps and buckles. Well… it’s not solid gold, is it? Gold colored, that’s right, that’s what I was talking about. He’s taking you for granted, you need to… oh, you have to go? He’s taking you to dinner and then to the ballet? Which ballet? Swan Lake? Oh, girlfriend, that’s such a played out ballet. You need a man that will take you to newer and exciting ballets. You ask me… what? Who is this? Horace? You can’t just take the phone away from Shirley like that! Shirley deserves respect, and… I don’t care if the limo’s arrived! She and I were talking and… he hung up! He hung up on me!

I swear, Shirley must be brain dead. I don’t know what she sees in that idiot.

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And then, there were two

“It’s down to us, Passion. The last two colors available.”

“I’m scared, Raspberry. What’s going to happen to us?”

“I don’t know. We’ll be in the Woot-Off, I guess. The folks online will get another chance to look over our features. Maybe our sleek modern design will wow them. Maybe they’ll think of an aunt who’s going through hot flashes who could use some personal cooling, or a cousin who works in an overly stuffy building who could use a little fan with a lot of power, and they’ll snatch us up as gifts. After that, who knows?”

“That’s not what I meant, Raspberry.”

“I know what you meant, Passion. We’ve been in this warehouse for a while now. We’ve grown… close.”

“Close? What’s that supposed to mean? You said you loved…”

“Don’t play coy, Passion. You knew how this was going to end. One day, the rest of our inventory was going to be bought up and we’d have to go our separate ways. Don’t… don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“Oh, Raspberry. Hold me. Just once more. Hold me like you use to.”

“What if I don’t want to let go? No, it’s better this way. Get out there and show the buyers what you’re made of. Go on. Blow.”

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Bag O’ Crap XLII: 2XL

If we could, we'd take you to the Big Old Candy Mountain. It's an enchanted land made of cocoa and pudding and sweet sweet cinnamon buns!

Oh, it would be such a magical place! A place where tangerines hold hands with marshmallow sundaes! A place where everyone gets kisses from beautiful models made of strawberry ice cream who immediately shape themselves into the gender that the person most prefers to kiss! In this land, cherry-apricot jam and angel food cake hold hands as they skip among the wild butterscotch morsels, tra-la-la-la-ing their way to the secluded waterfall made of honey and cream. In this land, everyone is full of joy, and all day long the gumdrop birds sing bubblegum songs as the lemon tart sun smiles warm.

And you know what you’d do if we took you there right now? You’d crank up Dragonforce and Dethklok and carve your profanity into the terrified graham cracker trees while shouting out “HOLY CRAP STOP WASTING OUR TIME WITH THIS JOHN LENNON BALONEY, GIVE US THE B.O.C.! IT’S ALL WE EVEN CARE ABOUT, YOU STUPIDFACE VOMITPUKE STUFFED SHIRT IDIOTS! STOP TRYING TO PLEASE US AND GIVE US WHAT WE WANT!”

So here you go, ungrateful metalhead jerkfaces. Here’s your stupid bag. Choke on it. God knows, our servers will.

THE HOLY CRAP COMMANDMENTS v3.0

I. Thou shalt expect nothing beyond ONE bag of some kind and THREE crappy items.

II. Thou shalt not whine and complain when some people’s crap turns out to be nicer than yours.

III. Thou shalt take a moment to consider whether you might be better off just not buying this crap.

IV. Thou shalt not expect better crap just because things are different this time. Crap is crap.

V. To paraphrase Stephen Stills, shalt thou not get the crap you want, want the crap you get.

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What do you mean you guys had a “meeting”?

I’m out of the band? Fine. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.

Maybe you guys haven’t heard, but you don’t need “other people” to make music anymore. All I need is my M-Audio Fast Track USB and my vision. You guys can take your dive bars and your loose women and your vinyl stickers and shove it.

‘Cause this little bad-ass just needs a computer with a USB port and I’m ready to create a style of sound that will bury you. I can plug in my guitar, my bass, my keyboards, even a microphone and be my own band in the comfort of my own home, while you idiots are trying to fix that busted old van in the rain in a town that doesn’t even show up on Google Maps. And don’t think I need your fancy pedals, Johnny. I can compose my own fifteen minute masturbatory solo with the GT Player Express software that gives me loads of effects and virtual stomp boxes, leaving me with extra money for t-shirts and merch.

So, we’ll see how far you get without your theremin player, d-bags. Maybe you can open for my electro-coustic downbeat glitch-gaze project someday, jerks.

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This IS Woot Off Alpha V!

Your universe get rebooted via a black hole? We’ll help liquidate the old one! That’s how we got this Funko Kirk And Spock figurine package. Hey, for an extra $50 we’ll draw a goatee on Spock.

Cahhhhptain Khirrrrrk. Mhy ohhhhhlllld frrriend. So many years gone by. When was it? Thirty one forty one, if I recall. And now! Look at you now! A figurine! Ahhhhh, old foe, the years have been good to your legacy. You and your Vulcan sidekick.

But the years, Khirrrrrrrrk. Those same years have not been good to me. My beloved wife was eaten by devil worms. I remarried, and the devil worms struck again. I opened my heart a third time and yet… she too fell prey to the devil worms. It was like the tragic story of that man I learned of from your data banks, the one known as Scott Peterson. Such misfortune. Such coincidental misfortune.

But you, Khirrrrrrrrrk, eh? You have been busy! I deduce you’ve been a hero to many! For who but a hero would have his likeness carved into a posable vinyl figurine? Who but a hero would stand a towering five inches tall inside his own plastic display container? Had I but known you were coming, my men and I would have prepared a banquet! What say you, my men? A banquet for the hero? Oh, but they laugh. They have forgotten their manners over the years. But I, Khirrrrrrrk. I have forgotten nothing.

Except the name of that little Russian fellow. Really, I can’t even remember where he and I met. Was it at a party?

Mr. Spock, I must apologize, I do not mean to ignore you. I see that you have an included figurine as well. Such a deep honor! It’s just that your Cahhhhhhptain’s name, Khirrrrrrrrrrk, that’s so much more fun to say than yours. Khirrrrrrrrrrk. Do you know, my greatest regret is that this figure is not an AHHDMEEEERAL. I could say AHHDMEEERAL all day. AHHHDMEEERAL Khirrrrrrlk. Ah, like the purr of a kitten. But such a thing is clearly not in the stars.

I take great pleasure in this moment, Khirrrrrrrrk. Knowing that soon, you will be metaphorically in my clutches for good… I can scarcely contain myself! The Romulans have an old proverb, Khirrrrrrk. “Wait long enough by the river, and the bodies of your enemies will float past.” And this pair of vinyl figurines, they will be coming Smartpost. Before they arrive, I may see all of my enemies float past. Even you. Khirrrrrrrrrrrk.

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They were the melodies that announced that cartoon funtime was here, that it was time again to surrender to the animated haze. In our Pavlovian raptures, us kids didn't notice that a lot of those songs were pretty lousy. Presenting part two of a three-part exploration we're calling Saturday Morning Nightmare: The Worst Theme Songs In Cartoon History. Gluttons for punishment and sugary breakfast cereals are invited to see Part One and Part Two.

WildC.A.T.S.
To be fair, this rap-rocking refugee from the musical litterbox does capture the gratuitous obnoxiousness of the comics that inspired it.

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