Actually, it IS Rocket Science

This is why I have DV-R

There’s a new series of commercials that are circulating around which have taken advantage of all of the huge leaps forward in technology that we’ve made in the past several years.  No, c’mon, you know what I mean.  Commercials that take their cue from time lapse films or morphing images like in Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” video.

But as much as I suppose I should be willing to bow down to their abilities to do such great things in getting on board with such neat technology, I’ve witnessed two particular commercials whose sponsors have run so forward on the looney scale that they’re now bordering treacherously close to the deranged catergory.

These are two commercials that I’ve only seen once or twice, but have stuck with me for the sheer fact that they are at once both depressing and also extremely frightening.

The first: (sorry, guys.  I looked for this everywhere to get a decent video of it, but for now if you could be a dear and just bite the bullet and live with what I filmed from my point and shoot:) (Oh, and if you haven’t seen it before already, yes, there is no vision of the guys’ face throughout the entire thing.  What, did you think I was that bad a videographer?)

Now, this just upsets me on several levels.  Firstly, this commercial is basically explaining that the only thing we have to look froward to is the oppressive hold that gasoline will have over us for the rest of our lives.  You know what?  Screw “Gas for life.”  Guess what?  NO ONE wins those things; they’ve always got an inside horse.  What they’re REALLY saying is “get ready to live your life savings out at the pump, asshole.  Oh, and enjoy that pregnant man-gut you got from eating too many nachos from our convenience store.”

And on top of things, how depressing is it to watch your ambiguous self-reflection age right before your eyes in less than thirty seconds.  AT A PUMP, no less??  Geez, I can think about TEN thousand other ways I’d prefer to live out my old age, if it ever came to it.  It would involve going in a park, or to the movies, or anywhere that would get me away from that smell all elderly care centers seem to have.  You know, that bleach-scented stale pee smell?  But wait.  All of those would require driving to partake in.

Hey, 76 gas, go eat a bag of dicks.


Oh, and then there’s this:

Holy. Farts.  I don’t even know where to start with this one.  Should it be about how detrimental it could be for you to tell your potential park frequenters that there’s a chance they might suddenly hyper-age like that shitty Robin Williams movie “JACK”?  Or how it’s absolutely beyond horrific to watch a young child, vibrant and virile in his youth, to become probably the SCARIEST OLD MAN I’VE EVER SEEN??

You know what?  DON’T CARE.  These videos are just downright screwed in la cabeza.  Which is why it creeps me out that someone’s giving them the green light, or that they actually think these things are going to be a good idea for their company.  Sure!  A commercial portraying the long and winding road into arthritis, dementia, and possibly any other degenerative disease.  I like it!  BUT WAIT!  Stick with me on this- just spitballing here.  What if we… put. it. into… Hyperdrive!  Make our audience painfully aware of just how fleeting our lives go by and make them feel miniscule and that their efforts in their better years are basically still gonna get them thrown in some old folks home drinking meat out of a straw, or through a hypodermic needle, if they’re even lucky to get that far, am I right, Tom?  Yeah, Tom knows what I’m talking about.  Oh yeah, and spit some shit out at the end with our brand so that they think it’s worth patronizing our branch.  Are we good here?

All right.  Full disclosure?  I’m probably going to hit up Magic Mountain and/or UStudios before the end of the summer, but it has NOTHING TO DO with that freaky-ass commercial.


Why your teeth are assholes

I don’t mean that in the literal sense, of course.  But seriously, teeth are some big time dickfaces.

You tell me about any other bone in the body that purposefully protrudes OUT OF YOUR SKIN, and I’ll offer to rethink things.  (And no fair bringing up the bones in our ears.  If I can’t see it without a scope, it just don’t count, yo.)

I’ve compiled several case scenarios to support my argument, which I will present at this time:


Exhibit A:

TEETHING.  Every attentive and loving parent knows that that teething is probably one of the most GODDAM STUB-YOUR-TOE-INFURIATING things in your baby’s life, not to mention your own (especially your own).  This is usually the only time a parent contemplates taking the risk of getting their children drunk by rubbing alcohol on the infant’s gums- THAT’S how shitty teething is for everyone involved.  I don’t particularly remember this stage, but I’m almost certain my parents do.  But you guys signed on to this, so you should have read the fine lines in childhood upbringing.  Don’t worry, though.  You’ll get a chance to redeem yourselves later.


Exhibit B:

BABY TEETH FALL OUT.  They fall out.  They fall right the fuck out.  You spent a great deal of time dealing with this little dipshit of a dictator who is incapable of speech but is yet able to bitch and moan for several months without actually fashioning a coherent phrase, let alone a word.  And your reward?  Those little boney assholes just plop out of your kid’s mouth without so much as a thank you.

I once acquired a cavity that I pitched a giant fit about until my mom brought me to our family dentist.  The dentist explained that there was no use in taking care of it since my tooth was going to fall out sooner than later.  And left my mom to clean up the co-pay.  And then I asked for a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure as a reward for sitting in a chair for longer than 5 minutes.


Exhibit S:


Yeeeeeeeuuuuu Sonsabitches.


Exhibit FANCY!:

TEETH GROW OUT OF PLACE.  Uncomfortable, and sometimes horribly unattractive.  You know where this is going:


Exhibit Steel Magnolias:

BRACES.  Think about this: Your doctor tells you he needs to fasten a man-made linkage device from your ankle to your hairline that you will have to wear for the next 2 years, give or take a few.  Because it will help things in the long run.

Fun fact!  My orthodontist actually told me that my braces wouldn’t make a difference on how my teeth actually look.  I looked over to him and asked:

“Does that mean my teeth will never look ‘good’?”

“No!!  Your smile is actually fine!  We’re just trying to correct your bite.”

“What?  So this won’t have any effect on how I look once it’s all over?”

“No, not really.”

I don’t even know where to start.  Seriously!  I’ve started writing this part several times and I keep erasing it.  There’s nothing fun about braces.  And to the children who were born after 2000 who have the advantage of Invisalign:  Don’t come crying to me about your piss poor little lives on a completely invisible and unobtrusive method of getting those crummy mouth buttheads even.


Exhibit Hamburglar:

WISDOM TEETH.  I haven’t had mine taken out… yet.  And it’s been looming over me since the 8th grade.  Every time I go in for a routine cleaning, I pray that if I ever get a reactive “Whoa!” from my dentist that it is in response to some mouth ulcer or even a cavity, it will be because I’ve dealt with those before.  I’m ready for them.  What I’m NOT ready for is an extraction of such a deeply-rooted mouth-bone that it requires heavy sedation and multiple days of eating nothing but solutions in food categories.

Not to mention, it’s a pretty dickish thing to do when you’ve cared for your mouth this whole time and all of a sudden you get a drop-in who didn’t previously RSVP, and in turn decided to make its grand entrance so late in life after you thought you had overcome most of the oral bullshittery.


Exhibit Parthenon:

YELLOWING:  If I have to look at one more person with blindingly white teeth, I’m gonna puke eggshell.  You’re trying too hard, friends, and it’s painfully obvious.  I’ll tell you this:  NO ONE has naturally alabaster teeth.  If you want to put on a few whitestrips here and there, go ahead.  But don’t go apeshit, yeah?  Keep it somewhere between SW7566 Westhighland White and SW00500 Classic Light Buff.


So next time you’re thinking about that expensive waterpik or that super special on tooth enamel restoration, consider this:  Tooth enamel can’t be “restored.”  When it’s gone, it’s gone, like, kaputso.  And waterpiks are prone to mold.  Would you like to shoot MOLD through your mouth?  Continuously??

Didn’t think so.

And finally:  When was the last time your teeth woke up out of bed after forgetting to brush your hair in the middle of the night because if they didn’t it would FALL OUT?


Your teeth are assholes.

Sunday Comics (pt. 9)


T.G.I.S.- Am I RIGHT, ever’boday?!

That is the phrase, right? Short for “Thank God Igotthroughthe Shit?”  Right? Yes?!

Actually, I still have three papers left, but those are breezers at this point.  I write a blog entry almost every day; I think I can handle a couple of five page-discourses on a few peer-reviewed journal articles about some cognitive-behavioroh godammit you know what I think I just bored myself to death.  Can I just quit bellyaching for a little while?  I think we’d all like that.

Instead I think I speak for all of us when I say, “Welcome back, sanity.  Ashlin sure did miss you.”

You know, I’ve spent the last several entries on here pissing and moaning about what I was dealing with in school.  I did so thinking it was more for myself than anything.  I use this blog as catharsis to vent my frustrations so that I can laugh at them rather than letting them fester in the back of my mind.  I also use this blog to make self-deprecating jokes and share some stories of things I find interesting.  But, you know, mostly self-deprecation.  And yes, I see the stats and I read the numbers of visitors to my site every day, but I never really thought that this ridiculous blog would garner that much attention.  That was until the absolutely massive outpouring of emails, text messages, phone calls and the like from so many people began surfacing.  I got daily affirmations from one friend who I haven’t even seen in over ten years (Thanks, Jay!), a voicemail from my parents who lovingly asked if I had hijacked a car and driven off a cliff à la Thelma and Louise style yet, and a very thoughtful phone call from my first ever epic love (you know, that one in high-school {or previously, if you were ever that lucky}),who is currently in Alaska, doing very important things with percussive instruments and still took the time to call (Thank you, Chadwich).

And I could still go on, but then I would begin to sound like someone making an acceptance speech after the lead-out music had long since begun to play.  It just floored me how many people reached out and gave their support.  It was like having a surprising number of unknown pen-pals.  And I hope you guys realize how appreciated it was and continues to be.  Seriously.  I’m not good at showing a lot of sentimental emotion, but you knocked me out with those American replies.  Get it?  Get it??  Yeah, you get it.

So in my effort to thank you guys for how immensely helpful and supportive you’ve been, how about a Sunday comic, eh?

Thank you Chris B., Maria, Patrick, Jason, Missy, Letitia, Aunt B, Uncle J, The Cousins and Erin, Chris G., Mark and Melinda, Jeffrey, Megan, Chris P., Tony, Miss Sula, Bill, and shit if I left anyone out; I’m so sorry and I will make it up to you with chocolate covered brownies as soon as I see you again (or beef jerky, your choice! Wee!!)  They’re playing Ashlin’s theme.  See you at the afterparty!


You thought I was kidding, didn’t you?

This is literally the only thing keeping me from jabbing a mechanical pencil through my sofa cushions right now (give’r take on the “literal” sense).

One more day.  Just one. more. day.  I can do this.  I AM doing this.  This is being done.  By me.  So there.  Suck on THAT, education.

Video killed the graduate student

Gonna be a short one today because as mentioned before I’m in the throws of finals and at this point my brain is sort of… um.  howdoyousaaaayyy… dead?  Braindead?  Is that a familiar term?  Anybody?

Fun fact!  My mind is actually working on nothing short of a chemical reaction much like that of what happens when muscle nerves and sodium chloride interact and you’re left with these odd Frankensteinian twitches with a disembodied frog leg (Careful:  not for the squeemish).

So, yeah, come Friday somebody’s gonna need a BIG glass of chillthefuckout.

What’s odd is that when I take breaks from studying and writing and the like, I tend to opt for something less normal than sitting outside and enjoying the peacefulness of the world around me.  No.  No, I, in fact, choose instead to watch episodes of various tales of individuals who are so screwed up it merits hilarity without really putting that much effort into doing so.

Mostly I’m catching up on episodes of things like Curb Your Enthusiasm and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (thanks to my dear friend Melissa for the introduction).

Now, I know these shows are fictional.  Which would normally mean that I shouldn’t hold any redemptive faith in them in any sort of misery-loves-company sense of the phrase.  But here’s my counter to that:  SOMEONE came up with their bizarre and borderline-PSYCHO-at-times plot lines.  And judging by the content of some of their material, whomsoever came up with it is obviously more cuckoo than I’ll ever have the chance of being.  Because these storylines are also capable of remaining humorous, and at times, downright laughable.  Guys, that’s a LOT coming from a girl who once got dumped by a guy because I didn’t laugh aloud at his favorite sitcom (I’m certain it was that and had nothing to do with my inability to be  someone open to sharing my emotions… at all).  In fact, I rarely laugh out loud at ANY fictional television program.  I appreciate its humor, yes, but if I could liken it to anything, it would be like watching Titanic and slipping into a 6 month depression over Jack’s death; I GET it.  I just don’t suspend disbelief enough to get into a show that much.

Then there are the shows that are NONfictional and basically just make me (as well as just about anyone else) feel better in sheer comparison.  These are the shows like Hoarders, My Strange Addiction, and (Wait for it) I Didn’t Know I was PREGNANT.  Holy shit, you guys.  I’m just gonna stop there because if you don’t know which shows I’m referencing then you need to close this window immediately and get yourself to the nearest television, hulu, netflix, whathaveyou, and educate yourself.  This is the stuff of absolute Gitmo solitary-induced hallucinations.

You know what?  I’ll save you the time.  Just make sure you’ve got your SPF Lunatic on.  Did you get your back?  Get your back.  No, really, the batshit is really bad down here.


(admittedly:  I totally fell for the previous parody, which you can find here.  But I failed to watch anything past the 10 second mark, which put me in dangerous territory.  Possibly part of me wanted someone to truly be addicted to huffing gum.  I’m seeking counseling for that.  Or for sheer laziness.  Probably the latter.)


“Dogs, cats… A chinchilla… We’re about to bring the pig out right now.”


If you call yourself a doctor and you can’t tell the difference between gas and a pregnancy, maybe you shouldn’t be commenting on a network television program.  But I’m no professional.

Also, when you’re told by a health care representative that this is “not no bladder infection”, that’s technically a double negative, and you should also probably consider getting a second opinion, pronto.


Now, to be clear, I know I’m going to get a lot of flack because I’m training to become a therapist so that I can HELP people. But here’s the thing:  These people are not my patients.  If they were I would make sure to protect them and abide by the strict and well-needed HPI and HIPAA enforced limitations.  At the same time, I am also fully aware that by signing on to doing shows like these, everyone on these programs are offering their individual story as an educational enforcer (excepting the middle video.  That person was offered some aid at some point and refused it, I’m sure of this. {Seriously, you can’t house barn animals in your home without someone noticing}).  That also means that by doing so they might make themselves veritable fish food for the rest of the media and its consumers. Which also means that they will be found on youtube and thrown into ridiculous blog entries by people like me.

Good Mormon to you

I’m entering that magical time in every graduate student’s life known as “Finals week.”  It’s a very special time for a young woman in her development into adulthood, and can be accompanied by feelings of confusion, misunderstanding, and even frustration at times. But with the proper education and support from family members and friends, she can emerge into an adult gracefully and the process can be both transformative and enchanting.

Or one could just lose her everloving mind and go batshit on some poor unsuspecting person who was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Late last week, I participated in my practicum readiness exam (basically a test to determine if I’m cut out for this shit or if I’ve just wasted the monetary approximation of an Audi in loans and interest).   The exam, which was purely essay, required us to provide multiaxial diagnoses and ethical dilemmas for a hypothetical client without the aid of books or notes for the first time ever based on our memories from the DSM.

Now, for the rest of the world who will look at that and think I’m a pretentious asshole:

The exam, which was purely essay, required us to write down a full diagnosis for a hypothetical client while pulling from the psychologists’ bible- the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual-  It’s basically the guide to how we know where you’re fucked up the most.  Ain’t that FUN??!!

Now, yes, from the beginning of the program, we all know this is coming.  But so is death, and it’s not necessarily something every twenty-seven year old is necessarily prepared for, regardless of how much preparation she puts in.

For the past several weeks, I have been shoveling as much information in my mind as possible to prepare for the coming week.  Which is why my body jerked me awake at 5am this morning so I could continue my attempt at more cramming.

But at 5am, there’s a certain battle that’s waged between my need to do things and my desire to do things.  Having just shoved a boatload of material up there until midnight last night, I have zero in the way of motivation to just POP outta bed and begin again.

Except my brain was still wide awake and wouldn’t take “GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP” for an answer.

So I got up, reluctantly, and decided to take a walk.  I live at the pinnacle of a hill where if I walk down one side for about a mile I’ll be in the midst of a mini-mart. In that mini-mart there is a bagel shop that doesn’t have necessarily the best coffee, so to speak, but it’s a decent enough reward for your effort in getting there.  I usually grab one to bring back to the apartment to enjoy here.

That also means that I’m required to walk BACK UP the mile-long stretch to get back home.  An added bonus to a walk like that.

I made it down there, got my coffee, and began trudging up the hill.  The sun was already up so it wasn’t like I was walking in rape-city, but I really just wanted to be back in my own apartment to enjoy the coffee I had just purchased. Funny thing, when you’re walking uphill on a major incline, your admiration for the world around you decreases exponentially with every step.  Seriously!  Try it out sometime!  Go to a local gym, get on a treadmill, crank that sucker to 11 incline, and see how you feel about that cute person over there after about five minutes.  “That cute person” may very well turn into a demon who is only concerned with making you feel bad about yourself because they’re putting in so little effort and they still look amazing, while you’re here about to sweat out your body’s reserves.

So I’m walking.

And I get to a red light.  Now, I’ve wanted to write about this for a long time, and I will eventually, but my town’s law enforcement is apparently DEAD SET on making sure no one transgresses the primeval pact between pedestrians and automobilist’s on walking against the sign, jaywalking, or walking off the sidewalk.  I’ve gotten in trouble for this myself within the first several weeks of moving here, but I digress.  I’ve basically learned that when the red hand appears, stay the fuck put.

Now, in this case, I came upon a duo of decently clad young men in white buttoned-up shirts and dark full-legged pants riding their bikes.  In the summer.  Pants.  On BIKES.  All right, all horseshitting aside, here were some Mormon youths obviously doing their rite of passage pilgrimage to save the sinners around them.

You know what?  Do whatever you want.  I don’t necessarily agree with your plan, but I can at the very least admire your tenacity. But at 6am, the only thing I want to concern myself with is that liquid rejuvenation in my hand.

I schlepped myself up to the intersection and did my own prayer to Joseph Smith that he might ask the heavens to smile down on us and change the signals sooner than later.  My prayers were unanswered.   I was left at an impasse between myself and my helmeted brethren and I knew it was only a matter of ti

“Ma’am?  We’d like to give you this.”


“Would you like this?”

And he gestured a pamphlet toward me.


All right, you guys, I just need to clear the air and mention that I’m already at my wit’s end here with school and the like.  I’m sort of done.  Like, DONE, done.  As in my brain is no longer functioning on all cylinders DONE.  And I’ve been done.  I’m DONED.  And the last thing I want is someone hawking anything at me at that hour of the morning.  Let alone someone trying to change my (poorlyexistent) faith.


So here’s how I saw fit to reply to the caring young gentleman who was only doing his rightful job as an emerging adult-by-Brigham-Young’s-standards into his righteous calling:

After looking down at his surely-life-transforming reading material, I looked over at him and said: “Sure.  Just put it in my backpack.”

OH!  Oh, wait, I forgot to tell you.  I wasn’t carrying a backpack.  Actually, I wasn’t carrying anything.  Besides my coffee.

Which is why it’s not surprising that he did a double take and gave a pause more pregnant than something he’d seen at a birthin’ session.  There was a moment of sheer “does not compute” look on his face, and I could see we were still at least 20 seconds before we’d both be out of the intersectional woods.  So I, uhm, improvised?

“Just, you know, throw it in there.”

“Uh. What?”

“No, it’s fine, really, throw it in.”

“I… don’t…”

And the light turned green.  I scooted off as quickly as they did, as I’m sure their training hadn’t prepared them for encountering a woman who feigned hallucination of an attaché before, either.


I actually thought of offering him some of my coffee, but realized that would border on torture.

Sunday Comics (pt. 8) (Plus Surprise Ending!)

(*Careful- this post contains details of animal poop- you’ve been warned*)

Oh man, you guys.  You know how I know it’s going to be a good day?  When in the process of scanning my cartoon for Sunday comics at the local print-store-which-shall-not-be-identified, I came across someone who will likely spawn or be a part of another blog entry on the subject of why I’m glad I don’t huff glue.

We’ll just hold onto that for another time, though.

The following is not as much a comic as much as it is a situation that occurred during my trip to Hawaii.  We were lucky enough (on top of everything else during our stay) to have a room with a balcony, and every morning we’d go out there and enjoy the morning.  Until my mom and I made probably the biggest mistake of our lives while we were there, as it became something the locals preyed on after a while.  But not the locals you would expect.

You know what?  I’ll just show you and explain later.

Feed the birds... Tuppence a' Hitchcock-worthy scenario

You know what’s scarier than a ravenous bird?? A FLOCK of ravenous birds. … With NO regard for table etiquette.  We sat there helpless as these assholes got close enough to clean out the sleepies from our eyes.  But they made sure to repay us.

With little poops.

Little, teeny, tiny, soggy poops.

Has anyone here owned a bird as a pet before?  Anybody??  Don’t worry, you’re in a safe place for disclosure.  I’ll go first.  I, myself, owned a bird once.  His name was Topper.  He was a grey cockatiel.

And he POOPED. … …He pooped EVERYWHERE.

Sweet guy, really, but try to bring any friend to a party who had a tendency to POOP EVERYWHERE and not apologize for it.

Try explaining to your mom why paint’s peeling off the walls in your room because you didn’t notice sooner that the bird had taken a shit on the wall trim.

Honestly, I was too young to own a bird with such high requirements that exceeded even poop coverage, but I did learn a valuable lesson about birds from it.  Namely that birds don’t have anal sphincters.

I’ll just go ahead and repeat that because it bears repeating:

Birds. Don’t. Possess. Anal. Sphincters.

Meaning that little squirts of green and white plops would just splay out willy nilly, and the only chance you had of catching it was that special time when his feet suddenly got really warm (a key sign of optimal poopage to come) and make your way to the nearest newspaper (or magazine you were prepared to throw away already) and pray the fellow didn’t perchance fly within the next 10 seconds.


Anyway, the Hawaiian balcony, yes?

We dealt with the birdmob until we were out of the tasty english muffin on my mom’s plate.  All we were left with was a disproportionate ratio of birds to humans and the burnt remnants that had fallen off of my mom’s breakfast crumpet. Oh, and bird poops.  Lots and lots of bird poops.

You know how in War of The Worlds when they accidently discover that magical yet banal device to ward off their enemies? (What, you think I’m gonna spoil an H.G. Wells masterpiece for anyone by telling you what it actually was?) I had my own epiphany that morning to ignite the mass exodus of those assholes.

At my wits end, I chose to offer them the last few bits of english muffin, even though they were just burnt edges at that point, mostly.  As I offered the blackened iota to the nearest winged flight of fancy, he ventured close enough to eat it but stopped halfway, noting that it wasn’t the buttery, warm, white flakey crust that he was used to, and he flew off.


And within the next 3 minutes, so did the rest of his cohort, after one by one inspecting my final offering and unpolitely declining.  Finicky turdlettes.

Which proved to me this wasn’t a case of us feeding the poor, or doing any charitable work on our parts, whatsoever, since these crapmongers apparently had the palette that could discern between perfectly toasted and charred.  No.  This was a case of another species pilfering our hopes and dreams of bettering the world and shitting on them.



Oh wait, I told you there’d be a surprise ending, yeah??

Saw this the other day and couldn’t stop laughing.  Only because I still make “PEW-PEW” noises whenever I’m flicking any hair, crumb, whatever, off the edge of my fingertip.  That and hearing a guy go into falsetto never fails at making me smile (And the dub is so much better than the piece-of-absolute-shite-you-expected-us-to-accept-as-good original ever was, MR. LUCAS):

On inventing

Another installment of a conversation with The Most Brilliant Person Alive.


MBPA:  Do you ever think about inventing something?

Ashlin:  What, like, you mean in particular?  Like have I come up with something?

MBPA:  Yeah!

Ashlin:  No.  Not really, not yet, at least.  Why, have you?


Ashlin:  No kiddin!  What is it?

MBPA:  Okay, well… they’re socks…

Ashlin:  Uh-huh?

MBPA:  BUT!  They have little divots in them between the toes… So you can wear them with sandals!

Ashlin:  …

MBPA:  Isn’t that smart?

Ashlin:  … Yeah.  It is smart.

MPBA:  See?!  It’s great, right?

Ashlin:  Yeah.  Because it’s been done already.

MBPA:  What?!

Ashlin:  Well, first off, because the 70’s brought about toe socks to the Americas.

MPBA:  Oh yeah.  I remember that.

Ashlin:  But more importantly, just so I’m clear, what you’re referring to is a sock with indentations specifically between the big toe and the next in the series, right?

MBPA:  YEAH!  See?  Completely different.

Ashlin:  Yeah.  That’s been done before, too.

MBPA:  Oh yeah?  Where?

Ashlin:  … I don’t know… 17th century Japan.

MBPA:  Whaaaa??

Ashlin:  No, seriously.  They wore toe socks that made space for their little wooden thong shoes.

MBPA:  What?  That’s ridiculous.

Ashlin:  What’s ridiculous about that?  You just came up with the same idea without realizing it’s been implemented for centuries.  Isn’t it actually smart on your part to come up with an idea like that without prior knowledge that it’s already been invented?

MBPA:  No.  It’s stupid because it sounds like you’re making that up just to put my idea down.

Ashlin: WHAAA?!  No!  Christ, look, we’ll look it up right now

Ashlin:  Okay.  What do you say now?

MBPA:  … Well. … At least I’ve got one advantage.

Ashlin:  Oh yeah?  Wassat?

MBPA:  I’ve got a better name for it.

Ashlin:  What is it.


Ashlin:  … Right.