OMG Twitter Stop Being Such a Starfucker

No, I don't know the guy. And even if I did it would be super rude for you to ask me to introduce you for no good reason like that. Just be cool, man. No one likes a desperate social media platform.



Badvertising: "I sentence myself to die?"

I guess my complaining about rats in my attic and web searches for pest removal have triggered some sort of cookie that leads to me seeing a ton of ads for Tomcat rat poison, like this one (you might have to click it to enlarge):

I have kind of a visceral revulsion at tracking like this, but I realize I'm basically fighting the tides at this point. So whatever, at least killing rodents is slightly more relevant to my interests than day-glo blazers. But what the fuck is going on with this ad?

There is another variation of this with a little mouse in a cowboy hat who, I think, shoots himself dead. He gets little cartoon Xs over his eyes and everything. I sort of dismissed it out of hand, but when I saw this bizarre take on rodent criminal justice I paused, with a lot of questions in my mind.

What sort of schizophrenic pitch is this? 
Why is the mouse wearing a barrister's wig? 
Oh, wait, I guess he's wearing it because he's an actual mouse barrister. 
Okay, well why the fuck is the mouse a barrister? 
Why would he sentence himself to die? 
What did this mouse do that was so horrible and malevolent that he not only fell from the grace of his position in the high court of, presumably the UK, but was also compelled to sentence himself? 
How could he have possibly been so overwhelmed with grief, shame, and guilt as to condemn himself to die? 
Is that even allowed? 
Surely he would have to recuse himself from mouse court, right? 
Why would mouse court still abide by the death penalty in this day and age?
What other sorts of crimes would mouse court preside over?

You'll notice none of those questions was "Where do I get Tomcat rodent poison?" 


Close to Home

I'm late to the party with this, but oh god I've never had my professional existence reduced to its core with such savage precision.

Maybe I could go work in a coffee shop or something.


Talk About Wasted Money

Someone, somewhere, paid money for my impression on this ad:

Which means that someone, somewhere, was sold a bill of goods. Even if I was the type of guy to buy blazers...who the fuck would wear one of these in public? The Joker? 

Even the idea that you might see these on some red carpet somewhere, worn by clueless, vapid douchebags with too much money doesn't hold water: they're $11 blazers. In day-glo colors. I can only imagine the quality of production involved.

Sorry, struggling, blind producer of cheap-ass blazers. I wish you the best in your future endeavors.


Diary of Descent: August


August 2


The use of lethal force is hereby authorized and required to contain and subdue any affected individuals in affected areas. At this time deployment priority is no longer evacuation/rescue. Full priority will be given to subduing/containing any individuals exhibiting the following:


Badvertising: Even for Comical Dildo Commercials, This Sucks

Are you in the market for a dildo? Bully for you! I don't know a whole hell of a lot about dildos, so I can't really make any informed suggestions. I can tell you which one I'd recommend avoiding, though:


Hurrah, Sports!

I love football and hockey, but I'm not afraid to expand my sporting horizons with the occasional World Cup dalliance or maybe a WNBA game if I'm too high to get off the couch or something. But the point is I am always looking for the next innovation in sports and sporting, because I live a life from which I need constant distraction or else my brain will cave in on itself with hatred and anxiety.

So I'm really psyched about whatever the fuck this is migrating over to the United States:

See? It's a sport because there was a ball on the field. At some point. I'm pretty sure I saw one. Anyway, I don't speak Italian so if you know what the hell's going on I'd love to hear it.

It's no Kronum, and it's certainly no Tazer Ball, but I'd watch a bunch of dudes beat the shit out of each other on a dirt field on a Sunday afternoon.


Okay, Things Aren't COMPLETELY Shitty.

This thing exists. That makes the world a little better.

Sometimes I Really Hate My Industry

I work in Marketing for a company that markets to advertisers. This means that I work firmly in the middle of a Venn Diagram depicting the shittiest people in the world. But it pays the bills and the team is cool and yada yada yada whatever I made my peace with it. But part of my job involves subscribing to industry rags to keep abreast of various goings on.

Which means sometimes I get a reminder of just how completely, utterly shitty these people can be:

Come the fuck on, guys.


The Perfect Metaphor for Project Management with 25 Stakeholders

"Please let's just release this thing. We're on our 18th revision. Please get out the door, please get out the door, please get out the door."

h/t reddit


Back at Ya, Anonymous Indian Internet User

I'm sure this person was actually looking for porn, or based on the article they landed on maybe some sort of anti-American screed. But I like to think that somewhere in India, someone just hates my guts.


I Have No Idea what This is but I Made a Bunch of GIFs of It

This commercial is pretty typical run-of-the-mill Japanese consumer insanity:

I do not pretend to know what the fuck that thing is supposed to do to your face. Tone it? Like, sucking on a shake weight will give you a rugged jaw line or something? I don't even understand. But Ronaldo's in it so it's gotta work, right? That guy surely wouldn't just smile and sell us some sucker's bet, would he? (hahaha of course he would).

Anyway, watch that and be horrified. Then use these GIFs for all your reddit and message board needs:

All together now!

Hard-Hitting Offseason Journalism

Asking the tough questions in Kentucky:



I like to think of myself as smarter than average. I realize that if anyone were to actually test that, it might not work out that way. Call it delusion or positive self image or just good ol' hubris, but it helps me get through the day by imagining that I'm just slightly more clever than your run of the mill hairless ape wandering the streets.

Which is why I scoffed at the line at the ATM by my house when I stopped by for a third time to find two people struggling mightily to figure out how to cash a check. This is despite the instructions clearly printed on the side of the machine. Any time you see someone on the phone waiting for customer service at an ATM, you have to concede you're going to be there awhile. I wouldn't even expect the customer service line for an ATM to actually work, to be honest. I figured it's sort of like a corporate appendix; someone long ago thought it was necessary but it stopped working long ago.

So I rolled my eyes and muttered under my breath about what a bunch of morons they were and headed back to my car determined to find a different ATM where I wouldn't be slightly inconvenienced because I'm an American god dammit.

As I reached for the door I noticed a scratch, which is a real bummer because it's pretty severe and the car is still less than a year old. I tried buffing it out with my fingernail, hoping it was actually some sort of debris. No joy. I sighed, resigned myself to the deterioration of all material possessions with my mantra, "It's just stuff," threw open the door and hopped in the car.

Except it wasn't my car.

It was the same make and model as my car. But the dashboard was all wrong. The upholstery was the wrong color. It was the wrong texture, even. For a split second I thought I was simultaneously occupying two time streams, which goes to show the lengths my brain will go to in order to protect my fragile ego's notion that I'm smart.

It's not even like it was parked right next to mine. It was on the other side of the row. I just saw a familiar shape and color and beelined for it. 

I'm not a smart man. Or at least not an attentive one. 


"Better Send this to Everyone!"

Every office has one: the person who just can't stop sending company-wide emails that really don't need to be sent. I'm not talking helpful stuff, like "It's Wayne's birthday so there are cupcakes in the break room." That's important shit people need to know. I'm talking shit like "Here are my photos from my trip to the botanical gardens this week!" or "I know we're spread out in multiple offices across the country but I figured all 1200 of you would enjoy seeing pictures of my daughter for some reason."

Making things worse is the fact that every office always has 10-20 people who might not overshare on company email, but definitely abuse the "reply all" function of their email. These psychos come out of the woodwork any time there's a new hire, with their "WELCOME TO THE TEAM STEVE" and sharing of various GIFs to prove their excitement.

Let me just state, for the record, that a reply all welcome message is not a sincere way to communicate. It is the email equivalent of standing in the middle of a crowded room and announcing, loudly, to everyone in attendance: "I AM SAYING HELLO TO TOM. DOES EVERYONE SEE ME DOING THIS? I WANT CREDIT FOR BEING NICE TO TOM."

If you really want to say hello and welcome someone, do it in a personal fucking email directly to them.


If You're Bothered by Lady Thor, You're the Reason There's a Lady Thor

The comic book nerdwire is all atwitter with reactions to the news that Marvel is going to make Thor, the actual-Norse-deity-appropriated-as-a-spandex-clad-hero, a lady. The reactions have pretty much split down the middle into the sort of predictable "Finally, lady superheroes and a positive portrayal of women in pop culture for all the young girls to look up to!" and "WTF U CANT MAKE THOR HAVE A VAGINA THAT RUINS THE CONTINUITY."

You can probably guess which side I'm on.


Targeted Advertising

Finally, Google AdSense has dialed into the perfect ad to resonate with the type of people reading my blog.


The Road to Recovery, Part 4

When last we spoke, I'd just undergone surgery to repair my blown out L4-L5 disk. 

Think about the coziest, most comfortable sleep you've ever had. Now envision someone shaking you awake because it's time to go to some horrific amalgamation of school AND work, and for some reason it's freezing cold and you're already burdened by the knowledge that you'll never sleep this soundly again in your life.

That's what waking up in recovery was like. 

Do You Like Michael Keaton?

I am more excited about this than I maybe should be.

How rad is that poster, though?!


This Guy Hates Gay Hamburgers

This is Bryan Fischer. I have no idea who he is, other than an angry old white guy who's really upset about dude sex and gay hamburgers. 

See, Burger King ran a special edition Whopper at Pride San Francisco with a rainbow wrapper that says "we're all the same inside." And it was a big hit with the locals even though it was the same regular Whopper just in a different wrapper.


Football Players from 1992 Hate Abortion

This is making the rounds on the internet today, and it's fucking fabulous. 

1992 was a simpler time and a more innocent era, when a billion dollar industry like the NFL felt like it could and should wade into the most fiercely-contested political debate this side of Israel/Palestine with a video where a bunch of musclebound dudes who make millions of dollars a year tell women how to use their bodies to best benefit dues who want babies.

But oh man, there is some absolutely delicious '90s era unintentional homoeroticism in this thing. And not just from the neon short shorts and feathery haircuts. Who knew Frank Reich and Don Beebe were locker room fuckbuddies?

Remember kids: there is no instant replay on abortion. Although if you think about it, abortion is sort of like an instant replay on pregnancy, and since we can all agree instant replay is a good thing it stands to reason that the NFL thinks abortion is super rad.


Thoughts I Have in the Shower

Military shooter video games should have a Paperboy-style press clipping at the end detailing all the lives lost, property damage in US dollars, and political fallout.


Sure Thing, I Can Do That.

"We're running an ad to congratulate a client on their anniversary. We need it to really capture the tone of our platform and literature, so lots of open space with a few splashes of bright color."

"Okay, so you bought the four-color ad option? Or just the single spot color printing?"

"Neither. Black and white was $100 cheaper."


"I need it in an hour but I'm taking the rest of the day off okaythanksbye!"


If I Ever Hit This Point, do me a Favor and Shoot me in the Face

I spend summers away from my wife. Not really by choice, but more necessity than anything. And it gets lonely. Of course if you've read anything on my blog before you already knew that because I bitch about it all the time.

Cooking for one sucks. Cleaning up after cooking for one is even more depressing. Sleeping is almost impossible without her next to me. And of course there are the, y'know, "marital duties" that go neglected.

But if I ever reach the point where I am strapping a pulsating silicone vagina to my tablet computer so I can fuck it, you have my consent and indeed my personal request that you put me down like the feral animal I have become.

(video is sfw)

Tales from the Bus: The Ritual

Every morning the same: doors open and people trudge aboard the bus. 

Everyone stops at the bus driver to pay their fare. Some use dollars and coins, some use their little plastic city-issued bus credit cards, and some flash a transfer ticket to the driver. We all have to wait our turn to pay our way. There is little conversation, aside from maybe a cursory "Hello." There is even littler smiling. 

Here we are, a great jumble of humanity packed in a can like so much pink salmon, embarking on a journey together that will see us flung to varying parts of a vibrant city, and not a one of us seems happy about it. The days change; sometimes the sun is shining and birds are singing, sometimes the clouds are low and grey and the rain is pouring. But the ritual stays the same. 

Stand, wait, trudge, pay, sit. 


If Seth Rogen Gets me Killed, I'm Gonna be Pissed

North Korea regularly makes the news for threatening to blow up various countries, mostly South Korea and the US. They do it so often, in fact, that for the most part the rest of the world just sort of shrugs and assumes they're just trying to scare some food aid out of everybody. 

Actually, maybe not the entire rest of the world. It's easy to sit and laugh from across the Pacific, but maybe if I lived in Seoul where North Korean weapons could actually hit if they decided to do something stupid I would worry more.

So the press had to stop rolling their eyes and dutifully report the most recent threat from Kim Jong-Un et. al. to wipe America off the face of the earth over...a Seth Rogen/James Franco movie?

I guess North Korea's pissed because it makes fun of their government and the central plot involves (comedically) trying to kill their Dictator-for-Life. Yes, it's absolutely ridiculous for a nation to threaten war over ANY kind of movie, but if the roles were reversed and an Asian film detailing a hilarious assassination attempt on the sitting US President I think people would cry foul here, too.

But just imagine the horrific shame of dying in a horrific nuclear fire because Seth Rogen pissed some dude off. Millions of lives snuffed out in an instant because of this guy

Imagine a world where "The Seth Rogen War" is in history books. Maybe he'd be sent to The Hague. Maybe Seth Rogen would forever be vilified as a horrible monster who brought death and destruction to the world.

It's like one of the worst "What If...?" comics ever conceived.


The Double-Edged Sword of Progress

Have you heard about the "recent" controversy over the Washington Redskins and their offensive name? Basically in the '90s a group of Native Americans sued, arguing that having a football that calls itself the indigenous equivalent of "Washington Niggers" is sort of offensive to the people denigrated by the word "redskins" and maybe the team should change it in the interest of social justice and just general "not being huge assholes."

Naturally, they lost. Then the team's lawyers used an end-around to back-date the statute of limitations on the case before any appeals could be launched. A few people showed up at stadia with signs decrying the political incorrectness, and then it all sort of fell out of the media spotlight for two decades until recently, when the smoldering embers of controversy were suddenly stoked into a raging campfire of anger that turned up the pressure on cartoonishly-evil team owner Dan Snyder to just change the goddamn name already.

His reply: "Never."

Fans of the team (PS as a sports fan I totally get buying into the ideas of "tradition" and stuff, and not wanting your team to seemingly arbitrarily change its name, but come on man. Rip the Band-Aid off and let the healing start) and the usual cluster of media vulture talking heads who sit around waiting for shit like this took to the airwaves to decry the liberal pussies trying to ruin a good, honest businessman in the sake of political correctness gone amok. 

The two sides went back and forth, and even the fucking President and Congress felt the need to comment on the shit. But it seemed like a stalemate. Until today when the US Patent Office basically stuck its dick right up Dan Snyder's ass and invalidated the Redskins trademarks on the grounds that they're offensive.


Diary of Descent: July


July 1
It's taken four days of cat and mouse, but I've found him. He's on high alert, probably because he lost track of me the day I found Nicole and took off. I figured he would have the surrounding woods mapped out or even booby trapped, so I made a beeline for the main drag through town and booked it East.

No sign of Valerie.

July 4
It's been one year. One year since the world went off the fucking rails and everything changed forever. One year ago I was drinking to forget my stupid job and my girlfriend troubles. Today I'm stalking another human being with every intent of murdering him in cold blood before he can kill me.

And I have to do it without alerting the hundreds of undead corpses milling around looking to eat me alive.

Starting to figure out his schedule: he’s out every morning to clear out any biters that have stumbled near the house he’s camped out in. Then, if he’s got food, he eats. Last two days he apparently hasn’t had anything, though. At first he would spend most of each day spiraling out from his little base, and I think he was looking for me. Lately though he’s been heading directly for specific houses and looting them.

He’s back every night before dark. He’s always very alert, looking around, stopping at the smallest sound. No doubt he’s got a way to see out the windows without giving himself away. This is going to be tough.

July 5
I’ve been trying to ration out my supplies so I can eat regularly and keep my strength up, but I’m running out of options and I’m down to a can of refried beans and a can of corned beef hash. 

Not exactly what I’d pick for what might be my last meal, but I’ll make do. 

Tonight I’m going after James. I’ve worked this out in my head a thousand times, and every time I’ve delivered some sort of dramatic indictment of all his crimes before finishing him off.

But I can’t be dramatic. I have to find him and kill him. Quickly. Before he can kill me.

July 5
I feel like I should write some sort of last will and testament. If you are reading this and have found my journal, it’s likely I’m dead. Hopefully I’m not chasing after you trying to eat you. If I am, you have my blessing to end my suffering with a bullet to the brain. 

I don’t know what else to say, except that I hope you understand that I’m doing what I’m doing because there is a man out there who is a danger to everyone he encounters, and he’s cunning, armed, and more dangerous than any of the monsters walking the streets. He’s killed my friends. He’s tried to kill me. 

In fact, if you’re reading this and I’m dead, you should be on the lookout for him.


Uh, You First

I should confess that I don't even own a suit. It's something I think about rectifying every six months or so, when I'm feeling particularly scrubby and in need of a wardrobe upgrade or I have a funeral to attend. But for a long time I kind of prided myself on being the sort of guy who doesn't need a suit, which in the business world is a horrible and self-defeating ethos because at some point you will need to look sort of professional for somebody. That's the whole point of a suit, right? To look professional, put together, and well to do.

Which is why this is so fucking ridiculous:


You Know that Feeling?

Have you ever gone out on a date to a nice restaurant and overindulged? Not just "Oh, I had one drink too many," but "Oh god damn why did I order TWO Key Lime Pies?"

But then your date, inexplicably after witnessing your horrific display of gluttony, wants to head back to your place after? You weren't banking on that! You thought for sure this date was ending in no sex, otherwise you wouldn't have ordered the 38 ounce "Big Boy Ribeye!" So you decide to do the noble thing, suck it up, and treat your date to a night of beef-tinged carnal passion.

For some reason that scenario just came to mind.


Who Buys That?

Oh my god you guys, an automatic tortilla maker you just drop a cartridge into, like a Keurig coffee maker thing!

My house is a perfect example of why this product is stupid:

My wife, a chef, wants only homemade tortillas. They taste better to her, and because she is sick in the head she enjoys cooking things anyway. So when she's craving tortillas, she makes them herself.

I, a barely-functional man-child, just buy tortillas at the store because honestly who the fuck cares about the tortilla, it's all about the pound of meat and beans and cheese I'm stuffing that fucker with. Sure, I'll happily eat homemade tortillas. And I agree, they do taste better! Just not better enough to justify making them myself.

And I feel like we're a pretty fair representation of the tortilla-consuming public: some people like to take the time to make them at home, and some people just buy them at the store and don't give a shit.

The person who makes them at home will never buy this thing because it defeats the entire purpose of making tortillas at home, namely better taste and, y'know, love or whatever.

The person who buys them at the store will never buy this thing because it adds an extra step/expense/gadget in between them and eating a burrito, and expediting the burrito-to-mouth process is the whole point of just buying a bag of tortillas and not taking the time to make them.

Soooo...who the fuck is this for?


Spice it up a Bit!

Look, I don't need to "spice it up" in the bedroom, because obviously I am a virile and sexy man with a wonderful sexy wife and we do sex all the time and it's perfect.

But I'm just saying, if hypothetically we wanted to mix it up a bit, I'd be down to try grapefruiting. 



The Road to Recovery, Part 3

Part 1
Part 2

With my surgery scheduled, I had nothing but time on my hands with which to freak out about it. I've had surgeries before, but I think the last one was when I was nine years old or so. I don't really remember anything about them, and back when I was nine I hadn't quite developed my constant nagging fear of death, so medical procedures weren't quite as scary. Unless there was a shot. If there were shots involved my dad had to try and hold me down while I screamed and kicked as the poor CMA tried to jab a needle in my butt. Shots were no bueno.

But I didn't have to get any shots. I just had to let them inject me with a chemical cocktail that would disconnect my brain from my body while they hacked through my vertebra and scraped a bunch of cartilage goo off the sinewy fibers of my spinal cord.

Easy as pie, right? 


How many times have you been sitting in a conference room thinking to yourself "God DAMMIT I wish these dress slacks were sweatpants"

Have you ever found yourself embarrassed at wearing sweat pants in public and wondered if there was some way to class them up a bit?

Congratulations! You are the entirely fictitious person Betabrand had in mind when they started selling the stupidest thing ever.


Badvertising: You know what would really sell socks?

I don't really think a lot about my sock purchases. I don't have any sort of brand loyalty when it comes to socks, and really just default to whatever feels nice and cushy, matches the color I'm looking for, and is cheapest. If it meets those three criteria, it goes home with me on the once-every-other-year trip I make to buy socks.

But companies that make socks, like Burlington here, want you to remember their name when you're in the sock aisle (seriously though, how often do people buy socks? Am I the weirdo for wearing them until they have holes in them? Do people regularly buy socks every week? That seems weird to me.) so they needed a memorable ad that would burrow into your brain and create a positive association with the Burlington brand.

And someone, somewhere, pitched them a concept in which a mother sexually abuses her son. 

And somehow that person was not immediately fired. 

And somehow this insane fucking concept made it through to actually air (in Europe, I think, but still).

The video is safe for work, although if you have your speakers turned up someone's ears might perk up at the suggestive wordplay. And setting aside the debate for why Western culture still insists males cannot be victims of sexual abuse because they would obviously enjoy any and all sexual advances, even from their mothers, who the fuck thought that the suggested image of a woman blowing her underaged son at the kitchen table would sell socks?


The Road to Recovery, Part 2

Part 1

The neurosurgeon explained to me my options in the rapid fire, emotionless, monotone voice of a guy who came here from China to be a neurosurgeon and really doesn't have time to deal with bullshit like my feelings. 

He points out the MRI results and goes over them with me. The view of the MRI is as if you were staring down through my body from above, so we're looking at a cross-section of spine and, well, me. 

"That was gross. And kind of weirdly intimate," Kat told me later, "I...I saw your meat."
"Baby you're the only one I'd show my inner meat."

The neurosurgeon explained my situation:


The Road to Recovery, Part 1

In August I decided to get serious about my health. Well, semi-serious. Slightly more serious than usual, anyway. Basically I wanted to spend more time exercising and less time having a sodium-fueled panic attack after eating enough Kung Pao Chicken to feed a family of four. So I enrolled at a gym up the street from my house. And it was fun! The gym is one of those "MMA" gyms, but it's less about punching each other in the face and more about bouncing around with fingerless gloves and punching bags while doing some vaguely Crossfit-ish things too.

So naturally after a couple weeks I hurt my back.

At first I thought it was a pulled muscle. My whole back locked up and it was really hard to stand up straight. Transitioning from "standing" (or my best approximation of it) to sitting or lying down was agony. So I rested it, iced it, and popped ibuprofen like they were candy. And it got better! Better enough that I could go back to the gym, where I would promptly hurt it again.

I went through about four months of this before I bit the bullet and went to Urgent Care.


Is This Really All That Arousing?

There's a strip club near my office. Despite the fact that everyone instantly "jokingly" asks, I've never been in. I've yet to visit a strip club in Washington, mainly because: 
  • As a person over the age of 25 I like to think I've outgrown throwing down $15 for a beer.
  • My last experience in a strip club was slightly less than awesome.
  • I'm happily married and, failing that, I have an internet connection if I really need to see naked ladies.
  • Strip clubs in Washington don't serve booze and don't let the dancers get naked.
That's right. Strip clubs with no stripping. So whatever. But the club outside my office has a giant video board advertising all the boobs and butts you apparently can't see inside. So I get to look at that all day out the window, which is nice.

Lately they've been advertising a "Topless Tug o' War" and, to be honest, I'm unsure how that's supposed to be enticing. Of all the gym class activities I could envision topless women performing for my titillation, tug of war is pretty low on the list. Way below topless dodgeball, topless floor hockey, and even topless-we're-doing-line-dancing-for-a-week-and-nobody-knows-why.

I can't really picture this as sexy. Do...do the boobs jiggle differently while straining to pull a rope? Will they be pulled into something, like a pit of jello or whatever, that would look good on boobs? Is it just the Roman gladiator aspect of semi-nude combat that's arousing? 

I'm curious and also horrified to see what kind of person is lured by the promise of a topless tug of war. I hope they don't have to do it in those stiletto heels; "topless broken ankles" sounds even less sexy.


And This is Clearly the Worst Super Bowl Ad and Maybe the Worst Ad in History

What the fuck, Utah?

This is the Greatest Super Bowl Ad Ever

Okay, so in terms of entertainment, that was probably the worst Super Bowl ever played. People may have favorites, but I kind of feel like the much-ballyhooed commercials weren't really much better. Unless, of course, you were in Savannah, GA. Then you got to see one ambulance chaser run what is clearly the most insane and amazing Super Bowl ad in history:


Stop Putting Fucking Mustaches on Your Cars

If you live in a large-ish city in the US you've probably heard of Lyft, the ride-sharing app you can use to avoid having to take a taxi. The way it works is simple: you download the app, you load your credit card data because obviously you can trust this thing you just downloaded that immediately asks for your credit card number, and you request a ride. Then a creepshow in a rape van is instantly given your location and phone number and will call you to let you know they are on their way towards you and there is nothing you can do to stop them. You pay through the app, and both driver and passenger get to rate each other for things like punctuality and smell and willingness to engage in sexual congress. It's all super neat and allegedly cheaper than hailing a cab.

Credit Lyft with immediately realizing people would need a way to recognize a stranger's car coming to abduct them give them a ride so they started handing out giant pink mustaches to people who apply to be drivers. Slapping a mustache on your car's grill is the same as flipping on the light atop your taxi, so whoever asked for a lift (oh god I just got that!) can easily identify you and then hastily walk away from the curb because they just realized you are the kind of person who drives around idly waiting for the opportunity to get a stranger in your car.