Apps in Development

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#MondayManCrush: The Risen Christ is really just like you and me, except really more like the Royal Family.


Now that I’ve opened my store, it occurred to me that developing a few apps might be in order. The only thing that makes me hesitate slightly is my complete lack of any kind of training in, or knowledge of, or for that matter interest in, programming, but these are the kind of minor hurdles that I conquer with one hand tied behind my back. Which sounds impressive, but programming has very little to do with hands anyway.

It’s only a legend, by the way, that I was the inspiration for the IT specialist’s maxim, “the problem is between the chair and the keyboard.” What does that even mean? The only thing between the chair and keyboard is me. WTF?

I’ve always been an “ideas man,” which has saved me a lot of the grief which I would have suffered if I’d actually taken any of my ideas and coaxed them that one step further into reality. Reality? Who needs that kind of downward vibe, squelch-your-hopes-and-dreams boondoggle?

I like the purity of ideas, unsullied by tawdry concepts such as realization or iterations. I did get interested at one point in “agile development,” which is basically taking your idea and getting a bunch of nerds to build a concept version, then releasing it to the unwitting public, that’s you, when it’s not even remotely ready so we can get free quality assurance testing.

This goes well with “agile attention spans” so that by the time we’ve ironed out all the bugs, our target audience is already bored with our product and have moved on to something else, like iPhone 35, which folds into a piece of origami, charges with a cord that hasn’t been invented yet, and reinstates the headphone jack.

That is, IF you’re invited to buy it! It’s pretty fuckin’ exclusive! LOL!

This app development thing is really like standard business stuff. You gotta have a vision and a mission, so like : “I see this company running a small banana republic in cahoots with the CIA in five years,” could be your vision, and the mission would be “sell a whole shitload of something people don’t really want” but don’t fret about that because that’s where your marketing genius comes in, boo-boo.

So the app bit is like, the same deal as finding your “niche.” You try and find a void in the market, something that causes burning, itching and flaking, i.e. pain, and then you make up something that heals that pain, and then that’s what your business will be.

This is a “widget”. And don’t worry if you don’t know what that means. It doesn’t matter if you couldn’t tell a widget from a big pile of spaghettini with clams, widgets are now your new life—which you already hate!—and for which you gave up your corporate middle management job, with healthcare and pension.

Take a moment and pat yourself on the back, or anywhere you can reach, frankly, and contemplate how far you’ve come. There’s no doubt about it: this, my wannabe self-made, crying-cause-you’re-happy billionaire, is a business decision made of win!

Now, moving forward, you focus relentlessly on that niche. You don’t try to be everything to everybody. Lordy LORDY no, missus!

So for example, some people are in pain when they are not popular. Invent something, no matter how ludicrous, that could boost their popularity and they will flock to that product the way white cops flock to a Black ten-year-old with a suspicious-looking My Little Pony knapsack.

Thinking of two approaches, one is a sex widget and the other is a money widget.

Because I am a marketing guru, I’m going to use a startling, off-the-wall anecdote that will nonetheless give you in-depth understanding of the problem, viz., the sex approach.

Just this afternoon I heard some pigeons—or “New Brunswick chickens” as I like to call them— coo cooing and wattle wattling and whorr whorring like the entire female cast of “Depraved Family Fun dot com” on my balcony and I ran to investigate. Well, no less than three pigeons were having group sex in the corner of my balcony, the same corner where they gave birth last year to a congenitally deformed baby pigeon that was, freakishly, bigger than the parents.

I nurtured that six-toed, Dodo-feathered gimp pigeon until I couldn’t take the stress anymore and just shoveled it off the balcony under cover of night. Let the downstairs people take care of it for a while!

But the salient point here is: Even pigeons are hanging out without you, having group sex in broad daylight, and you can’t even score on GrindScroff! Even with those pics from ’85, which you still get away with because, irony of ironies, no one actually meets you to experience the terminal door shock that would arise from the in-flesh reckoning.

And, eureka! Here comes my inspiration, directly from those hi-rise hobo hawks: For the sex approach, you will design a “penis extending glove” that fits over guys’ small, barely visible penises and, like, voila!

As long as they don’t take their pants off for the rest of their lives, they are instantly more popular with those modern-type women who directly control their own sex lives and are into guys with large, or even just normal sized dicks.

Face it, they’re probably thrilled you have a dick! Which kind of tells you that, with a bit more research, you could have determined that a penis extender was not really a viable idea because no one needs it, not that being unnecessary is really a drawback, generally. I mean, who needs a half-gallon yogurt incubator with more settings than an ICU intubation pump? Exactly.

So, anyway, ignoring that SNAFU, major bump in popularity there. And I’ve got the perfect name for it: Dickly! I can see the packaging artwork like it was already in my hands!

Or maybe, whaddaya think, Cockify. Is Cockify better, does it resonate, differentiate, is it synergistic, does it give you the look and feel, the brand? All righty, then!

This is all just off the top of my marketing-guru head, you realize. Right? Pay attention, you’ve already wasted the first half of your life, before you met me, so it would behoove you to pick up a tip or two.

The only possible glitch is, how would you let your target babe know about your new-found fake hung-nification, beyond just you and your lawyer taking her to a food court at the Eaton Centre and announcing it while she’s got a mouthful of chop suey? Right? Good job one of us is on the ball!

I see a raised hand. What’s that? A sandwich board with a big hole in it at dick level? That is an awesome idea! Then also this would be synergistic with gay men, who are all about the big dicks, it’s all they think and talk and dream about. Very good!

Because you could have a trillion bucks in Bitcoin, look like Ryan Gosling and have the cure for COVID-19 in a jar in your three-car garage but without a big dick? Get over here to the end of the line-up that starts with Gomer Pyle.

Gay men are The Big Dick Meisters, that’s for sure. In fact if you sneak up on any random gay man, you’ll find he’s muttering to himseIf constantly and if you get close enough—but not too close, because AIDS, right?—you’ll hear what he’s actually saying is : “big dicks, big dicks…!”

So now your sex widget is a gay penis extender with “optional” portable glory hole. Agile! Adapt!

Except you know and I know that a gay man would not consider a gloryhole optional once you’ve casually mentioned it’s available. Without a glory hole, and most important of all, the wall the glory hole is in, they would have to see the guy’s face!

Ewwww! What sort of sicko needs that kind of weirdly intimate connection on a routine blow ‘n go? Seriously? LOL!

So, gather round, gay demographic, don’t forget the knee pads, or maybe one of those throw cushions you got from Wayfair which are on special because they use them as packing material for transporting children to their white slavery delivery points, and some of them are, shall we say, not in the most pristine condition. The throw cushions, I mean.

I’m pumped, I dunno about you! So that’s how the sex approach might work in determining what it is you’re going to sell. Remember though, it’s never what you actually sell that you’re actually selling. Jesus Murphy, did you miss the remedial classes? You’re selling hopes and dreams and relief from pain. And some people are in pain because no one loves them, and others because, no Rolex. It’s all down to the human condition.

Wow, that got deep!

The financial approach is more straightforward, i.e., if you have more money more people will love you, plus you can pay for all the sex you want. Crack whores have to feed their kids, after all! Gay guys need a little bottle of that room freshener, and definitely some new piercings because they can still ride a bike in relative comfort. But whoever is paying homage, look, it’s a pair of gender-agnostic lips on someone’s little buddy, and that’s their hope, dream and relief from pain. We’ve solved the problem that you made up!

Give yourself a nice, big pat somewhere you’ve never thought of patting yourself before. Why? Because You Deserve It. Does that feel good or what?

So, we’ve covered your vision, and probably your mission statement, too. Think of all the money you saved not going to the Rotman School of Management! You can invest that dosh in something useful, like a hand-blown crack pipe from Sunshine Paraphernalia. It will look so good on you when you yank down your panties on Gerrard Street and scream “Where’s my baby daddy!” while pulling used condoms out of your up-do.

Anyway, here are three of my apps that I’ve devised and am tendering for development.


Submergedly™

This app for Influenzas—or is it “Influencers”? I always get them mixed up—monitors South Pacific islands for water levels rising due to global warming. Choose any random South Sea Island, and when water levels are peaking, fly in on your private jet, stay at the Ooga Booga Inn, where the hand-sewn bamboo sheets caress your lithe young body and the fish is so fresh on your plate it winks at you as you take the first delectable bite.

Eat good food, fuck the native boys, and fly out again, after giving a 10-star review on YELP. Post to Instagram, then watch the wannabes wet their Victoria’s Secret undergarments when they find the island is now inaccessible because, being submerged, it doesn’t exist anymore! Right?

Beauty!


MyDogDiedify™

Owe money to friends? Owe anything to anybody? Don’t sweat the small stuff! This app will generate iron-clad excuses as to why they’re fucking unreasonable to remind you over and over. Settings for “Pushover” (what do you expect? They kicked me out of rehab!) to “OnToYou” (My five year old daughter, who I just found out is NOT MINE, was diagnosed with ADHD! I’ve got more important shit, dude!).

See them squirm with the cognitive dissonance of angry plus sad, until they break down and say, “OK, OK. Give it to me in product.”

Win-win with both wins for you! GNARLY!


AnonSexGrindScroffRandomizer™

Here’s a familiar scene: You, tearing your hair out every Friday night after you’ve got wasted on Molly and are trying to line up, helloooo, some anonymous casual sex on GrindScroff. And let’s face it, you’re popular, dude! Hashtag Quel ennui So Boring!

Problem is, all this time you’ve been thinking there was a right choice. Random!! Hashtag Loser Hashtag Sad!

Just fire up AnonSexGrindScroffRandomizer™ and let it do the heavy lifting of having no standards! AnonSexGrindScroffRandomizer™ arranges up to ten “dates” for your evening, then blows off nine of them with a fake address, leaving lucky number ten headin’ your way!

Now you can relax, take some more Molly and lie face down on the living room floor in a coma, primed for the time of your life with—who cares, right?

Premium version includes insurance so you can replace your stolen smartphone and an AirBNB account so you can move restlessly from flat to flat all over Europe after they post those nude action pics of you on LinkedIn!

Hashtag Totally Worth It!


Now you’ve got the ideas. No skin off my nose if you just go back to bed and pull the Cheetos bags on top of you. I’m heading for one blissful week, possibly less, to the Ooga Booga Inn, where the linen sheets and the hungry natives await!


#MondayManCrush: The Risen Christ

Jesus Crushed!

It’s the Thursday after Easter Monday, the day when Jesus stepped out of his tomb and rode the escalator up to Kitchen Stuff Plus, where cheese graters were on special. Sorry, “microplanes”.

I know that I missed Monday yet again, but why this petty insistence on that hobgoblin of small minds, consistency? You must be new here. My regular readers come here for something they can’t get anywhere else: str8 dudes ribbed and served with your morning coffee at unpredictable intervals.

Today’s hymn to Him ranges beyond the boundaries into blasphemy, but seriously? Jesus turned water into wine, which shows more than a little mischievousness. To quote him directly:

“To women caught in adultery, I say: No way you should get stoned.
A glass of Manischewitz, maybe.”

The story goes that later that same day he bumped into Mary Magdalene who, hungry for something a little exotic, had ordered some take-out from “Auntie Boo-Boo’s Yummy Gentile Snack Cart.” Jesus raised an eyebrow at her choice, and was about to reprimand her, but she cut him short.

“Look,” she said, “I know it’s not kosher. But seriously, I’m a whore. They’re gonna stone me anyway, sooner or later. So fuck it, I might as well have the BLT!”

So now I’m supposed to elaborate what makes Jesus so tantalizing and appealing, even though he’s a straight dude. That is, after all, the whole point of Monday Man Crush: making str8 dudes uncomfortable but hopefully in such a way that they have to laugh it off and not publicly come out all homophobic.

Since Jesus never said anything about gay dudes, and, significantly, surrounded himself with hunky guy-acolytes, it stands to reason he was shifty-slidey in the homo love department. He even said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me!” which just emphasizes the slightly off taint of queerness that has given generations of the faithful their entrance into that subterranean pizza-parlour Hillary M. O. that makes years of seminary deprivation worth the wait.

What a shanda for the goyim, right? With the slight problem that Jesus isn’t perceived as a Jew, and wasn’t even a Christian yet because, Easter. It took a few generations for the goyim, that’s me, to come up with that Hail Mary/How’s It Hangin’ Alice? boondoggle.

Anyway, Jesus—who it turns out is white, by the way; sorry, guys, but photos don’t lie—dresses in super-cool sixties hippie clothes, has lush, curly long hair that smells like Old Spice body wash and fairly screams “I never finished my BA in Liberal Arts!”; appears in at least two Broadway musicals; and is not unfamiliar with how sensual a pair of stigmata-hobbled feet can look when encased in a pair of those handmade sandals they used to have at PayLess—the ones with the thin straps that wrap around the ankle and which easily last a couple of months if you’re carried everywhere in a sedan chair.

If you need further proof of JC’s savoir-faire under pressure, check out that runway spectacle of the Grand Entrance into Jerusalem.

Minerva! This guy knows his PR backwards. No falling down on the catwalk for this canny martyr to fashion—He rides ass like a pro! Jesus, I suck your dusty Nazarene toes. Ditch that Magdalene bitch and make with the switch, bubbaleh!

And speaking of switches: crucified, mocked or whipped under pressure and sprayed from a can, our Bro from the Great Beyond knows that, like an adult movie starlet wearing drop earrings from Birk’s, lucite-soled stiletto’s, and nothing but air in between, it’s the come-hither drape of a loincloth and what’s left to the imagination that sets a body lusting for the man meat that can never be yours. Make mine a vinegar-on-the-rocks-of-Golgotha, garçon!

Jesus is just like you and me, in other words, human, but really more like the Royal Family: human but undoubtedly better than human. To be more specific, there’s really no comparison between a Meghan Markle and anyone else’s dusky colored but not really more than a California tan trophy bride. Yours is like a real housewife, so, just human; Prince Harry’s is like bestowed by God, whose wisdom cannot be questioned, so better than human.

That’s why we love Meghan and want to shelter her from hurt. It wasn’t her choice to be bestowed by God! Let up on the pressure, world!

And, just like Jesus, if you love her enough—Meghan will deliver the goods.

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