I went to Trade Secret @ the Arnot Mall in Big Flats, NY. It was my first visit. I am very pleased with my cut, color and highlights. I am shocked, however, at the extreme lack of professionalism, that started with my initial call to make an appointment and continued until I left my stylist’s chair. I called and described what I wanted done, and asked if I could get in that evening. Two minutes of total silence…I thought perhaps a simple “hold on” or “let me check for you” would have been appropriate before leaving me hanging on the phone. Once in the salon, I was even more shocked. I was told to have a seat. I looked around and had to ask, “Uh, Where?” as there are no seats in the reception area for clients to relax in while waiting. He pointed up on the salon floor and said that I could sit in a cutting chair. While my color was processing, I decided to shop in the retail area next to the reception desk. The reception person, who I have learned by this time is Eric, answered the phone with a Trade Secret greeting then smiles and says “Oh, it’s you! I thought it was a S-T-U-P-I-D customer!” I was appalled. If I were not in the middle of a process I would have walked out right at that moment! Eric went on three breaks out in the mall while I was in the salon for 2 hours and entertained 1-3 friends at all times while in the salon. They were talking, laughing, having a great time. My stylist left her chair to greet customers, explain sales, and ring up a person because Eric was nowhere around. That was MY time he was stealing. I had a husband and 2 children waiting for me in the mall and my appointment would have been shortened by at least a half hour if my stylist did not have to wait on other customers that were Eric’s responsibility. I saw one paying customer besides myself while there. I saw one free haircolor and two separate stylists give free haircuts to friends. Upon asking my stylists when the manager would be in because I would like to speak to her, I learned that the store has no manager. Well, that was quite obvious! I love my hair. My stylist was amazing and I spent just under $100 that evening, but would I go back? Probably not unless that stylist went to another salon. All my friends love my hair and ask where I had it done. I tell them, but I also share my ridiculous experience and no one is interested in going themselves, and who could honestly blame them?

Darlene Niver
209 Meadowlark Road
Horseheads, NY 14845
(607) 734-6613
darleneniver@yahoo.com

Gym Class Heroes The Quilt
Introductory hip hop for emo bedwetters.

Black Eyed Peas The E.N.D.
Sports bar music for divorced Caucasians.

Cobra Starship Hot Mess
Adults dressed like/performing for preteens.

Muse The Resistance
The “Delta Kappa Radiohead” roofies Queen.

see also:
-Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 3)

-Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 2)

-Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 1)

-Six-Word Starbucks Reviews (vol. 2)

-Six-Word Starbucks Reviews (vol. 1)

Kings of Leon Only by the Night
The sound of bearded men crying.

Asher Roth Asleep in the Bread Aisle
Rap for all-white, gated communities.

Jay-Z The Blueprint 3
Egomaniacal nursey rhymes, brand name packaging.

Ke$ha Animal
Cum-belching whore lowers the bar.

see also:
-Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 2)

-Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 1)

-Six-Word Starbucks Reviews (vol. 2)

-Six-Word Starbucks Reviews (vol. 1)

3Oh!3 Want
Dumb jocks discover shitty laptop beats.

BrokeNCYDE I’m Not a Fan, But the Kids Like It!
Bizkit’s five remaining fans discover 3Oh!3.

Jack’s Mannequin The Glass Passenger
Singer’s leukemia compressed into audio format.

Bayside Bayside
Did their drummer die of boredom?

see also:
-Six-Word Record Reviews (vol. 1)

-Six-Word Starbucks Reviews (vol. 2)

-Six-Word Starbucks Reviews (vol. 1)

S-E-X.

Lord knows there’s plenty of that awaiting him on the open road.

I sat down with Scotty to discuss the after-hours of the carnival business—when the lights go down on the ferris wheel, the pee splattered rides in Kiddie Land finally start to dry, the tarps come down on the ring toss and dunk tank…and the real games begin.

In this edition of Carnie Tales, Scotty gives us a little sex education, breaking it down to the bare essentials…

…prostitution:

I’ll be a son of a bitch if it didn’t cost me a hundred and seventy-five dollars. A hundred and seventy-five for a good fuck and a piece of blowjob. Holy shit, man, I was fuckin’ broke the next day. That was a fuckin’ hooker. Huge tits…and she has fuckin’ big tits. You can put your fuckin’ hand right on the motherfuckers. She was a good suck though. I gave it to her. I used a condom. Two. She sucked it when the rubbers were on. I said ‘leave the fuckers on.’”

“I like hair down there. It tickes when it’s a little bushy. That’s why I like it. You can put it in there and get it tickled.”

…how to get more women into bed:

“Put more maple syrup on your French toast. You gotta be a man and use lots of syrup. You’ll pick up a lot of pussy that way. Girls like that. When you eat spaghetti, put Tabasco sauce in it. One time I did that and the girl I was with said ‘let’s go.’”

…and his own sexuality:

“I’ve been horny the rest of my life. Where have you guys been?”

Become friends with Scotty on Facebook. It’ll highly increase your chances of getting laid.

see also:
-Bon voyage, Scotty!

-Self-Defense Tips From a Carnie

-Sex Advice From a Carnie

-Carnie Tales (vol. 1)

However, in this particular installment of Carnie Tales, we’ll touch base on just that… …the road:

“I ride with my boss. I have to keep him awake…so he can drive. I don’t. I fall asleep. His wife bitches at me all the time. I’d like to have her. She’s hot. I’d like to have his daughter better.”

…women:

“I went with a girl once. For seven years. She went down to Virginia, got pregnant by another man. I broke up with her. He came up here, said “I want to meet ya.” I met him…right on the ground. That’s stupid. Cheated on my woman. I graduated with her. I met her in sixth grade. I went with her eight years. She went down to Florida…Virginia. Come back pregnant by another man. That was the end of it.”

…more women:

“I went to a whore bar one time…I’ll be a son of a bitch…she grabs my cock, takes me in the other room…and strokes it.”

…and Mexicans:

“I had this one Mexican, ten years ago…runnin’ the merry-go-round. Every time he’d go underneath it…he liked to jack off in front of ‘em. You can’t do that when people are on it…because the pedal is outside where the front gate is.”

Become friends with Scotty on Facebook. You have much to learn from him.

see also:
-Bon voyage, Scotty!

-Carnie Tales (vol.2)

-Self-Defense Tips From a Carnie

-Sex Advice From a Carnie

The astonishing photography and masterfullly composed captions and anecdotes herein chronicle our expedition.

Now let’s enjoy the Miami of Canada—Chicago!

October 10th
10:23 am
On a spiritual journey to the Windy City with Yetti & Tony Shaddock.

10:58 am
Three guys in a car…and I’m breathin’ on Easy Street? Someone needs to spark up this roadtrip with a wet hot fart.

11:18 am
“You boys ain’t from around here…you have no business o’er at Joncy gorge. Take yer city haircuts n’ go on, git!”

1:18 pm
Sleeping like a baby…particularly one of the dead babies in that sack he’s resting his head on.

5:46 pm
Who goes over my travel route before every roadtrip & makes sure to redirect me on a Dunkin Donutsless path? Whoever you are, go get raped.

8:23 pm
We crossed time zones unscathed. Hey, 7 o’clock, we have a second chance together…try not to fuck it up this time.

9:39 pm
Chicago arrival. First on the agenda? SUH FUCKEN REAL DEEP DISH CHICAGUH PIZZUH.

11:21 pm
Sippin’ on a 312 Urban Wheat Ale at some Korean dive bar. L’il Fart ordered a “hot sucky” and all he got was some lousy drink in a ceramic flask. If Asian fellatio is this hard to come by (pun intended, LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!) in the Big Onion, I’m not impressed. On the bright side—according to this coaster, my Survival Kit is almost half completed…

Two down, three to go. Baby just needs a new pair of shoes, a designer purse…and flashin’ my juicy tits for some fancy beads should be easy enough in this toddlin’ town. Bring on the night!

October 11th
Happy birthday, baby Shaddock.

1:51 am
My heart’s telling me this is a Rum n’ Coke in my hand, but my brain’s telling me it’s Roofies n’ NyQuil. I need to flee this crowded bar and get some shut-eye. I know the risk of walking these streets at night with only two-fifths of my Survival Kit…but I simply cannot go on. No rest for the wicked. Mr. McLaren, gimme a firm floor to sleep on.

12:02 pm
Good morning, city cats.

12:28 pm
Not even birthday songs or burger crowns will wake this tiny dancer.

2:10 pm
May I wax philosophical for a moment?

When you’re soaking your meat bone shaft-deep in some poon tang, you’re in a quaint village of physical pleasure the guys and I like to call “Tangtown.”

Likewise, if you and a buddy are forming a “wobbly H” with a gal, you know, having a little ménage à trois, or, in laymen’s terms, tag-teaming the ol’ broad…I’ve just determined that must be a suburb of Tangtown called “Tagtown.”

Now, it all sounds well and fine…however, after pondering this for a while over my morning coffee, I’ve uncovered a paradox.

If “Tagtown” is basically “Tangtown” with an additional person…you gain a friend, yet lose the “n”…

Is it really worth it?

7:24 pm
After standing out in the cold for roughly an hour, desperately asking every passerby: “tickets?” or, when I was feeling articulate: “do you need tickets?”—I finally sold my extra. I lost $10 on it and missed who-knows how many bands while I was out here. Fuck you, Horseheads bums, for not taking it off my hands. “Whoa, ETC…chillax, bro. You know how much I hate awesomeness. Hey, when you get back, can you help me build a shelter incase the Soviets attack the U.S. with rainbow-colored FUN Bombs?”

8:00 pm
A secret Teenage Bottlerocket gig after the show tonight? Free entry? Busing provided? Don’t mind if I do.

8:16 pm
Dude shitting in stall with no door. Tons of dudes walking by. Pants off. T.p. rolled away from him at one point.

8:45 pm
I have waited 14 years for this moment. I’m watching Screeching Weasel. In Chicago. I rule.

10:22 pm
Now I’m watching Alkaline Trio. In Chicago. I’m back to rule again.

No idea what time it is.
I’m actually writing this portion in retrospect, because the battery in my phone died shortly after Alkaline Trio finished their set. This is a blessing in disguise, of course, because at this level of intoxication, I’m liable to drop, throw or trade my iPhone for a cigarette.

Waiting for a shuttle bus to take us across town to the secret Teenage Bottlerocket show.

Speaking of which…if you’re in the Chicago school district and awesome enough to sit in the back of the bus with people of premium-grade superiority…and the seat in front of you has “www.anewlow.net for free pussy” written on it; wreathed with monstrous, cum spurting penises both uncircumcised and snipped (we covered all bases)…know your little pockmarked butt cheeks are sharing a seat once warmed by the chiseled asses of your heroes, Tony Shaddock and Eric Thomas Craven.

Teenage Bottlerocket were pretty rad…

…though, I’ve got to be honest, I want less of this sappy lovey dovey crap and more songs about aliens, zombies and spies. Bring back The Lillingtons.

October 12th (Columbus Day)
Happy Rape, Pillage, Murder and Enslave the Indians day! Fuck you, Chris Columbus.

10:24 am
Interesting postscript to dude shitting in stall with no door:

1:26 pm
The “Zombie”:

That’s three shots of espresso, two cups of coffee, steamed milk and whipped cream topped with chocolate and caramel drizzle…I’ll be walkin’ outta here with Shaddock teeth.

5:27 pm
I got some pussy in Chicago.

5:40 pm
Sightseeing in Logan Square.

6:11 pm
The Sears Tower. Chicago, Illinois.

6:20 pm
Goodbye, Chicago.

7:06 pm
Family reunion in Rolling Prairie, Indiana.‎

7:16 pm
Crossed back into good ol’ Eastern Standard Time. 6pm October 12, 2009, it’s a shame we never got to know eachother…

October 13th

2:55 am
Back in New York. Made the 911 call on this l’il number—car in a ditch off the interstate. We were really hoping to see a dead body…but she was fine.

3:40 am
Yetti got caught pissin’ in public. Amateur. Then allowed them to search his car? Amateur. I’m just glad they didn’t look under my seat. That’s right, I’m bad. Real bad. Michael Jackson.

5:28 am
Alright, gang, you can rest easy now…we’ve landed back in Horseheads, safe n’ sound.

However, before I go and wrap this up, I’d like to address a pretty big concern of mine…

While in Chicago, we hopped a train downtown and went to Millenium Park…only to be told by the officer on duty that the park closes at night.

Rape is already a pretty challenging sport…we don’t need the level of difficulty raised. Are we honestly expected to abduct some broad OUTSIDE the park, sneak her in past security and just use the park grounds for some sort of exotic effect? Parks are good for prowling. The rape itself isn’t performed within the perimeters of a park for atmosphere, but for the convenience of supplying victim(s), isolation, and, in the event that you take things too far, providing a satisfactory plot for interment.

Way to take the fun out of nightlife in the big city, Chicago.

Furthermore, I’ve done some research…and apparently Chicago doesn’t report its statistics for rape. Check out this city crime comparison from 2006.

I’ll tell you why Chicago’s rape statistics aren’t available: NO ONE GETS RAPED IN CHICAGO.

What kind of city has the rape record of a happy suburban cul-de-sac out of the 1950′s with a “neighborhood watch” program ? Not a very good one, I’ll tell you that right now.

Hey Chicago, go get raped.

This side-by-side comparison of Elton John and Jack Osbourne proves, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Elton John is the son of heavy metal legend, Ozzy Osbourne.

Unfortunately, this discovery unearths more questions than answers…

Is the relation between Elton and Ozzy a joint coverup by Sony Music Entertainment and Warner Music Group to preserve the integrity of Black Sabbath? Are Elton John and Jack Osbourne the same person, or just hideous twins? If they are, in fact, the same person, is Elton’s “Jack wig” composed strictly of pubic hair, or just mostly? Whose pubes are they? Was the wig made by ventilating the pubic hair, or did he go with the “vintage” weft method? Is it also possible that he combined the two techniques, using a weft for the main part of the wig and then ventilating pubic hair at the edges and partings to give it a fine finish?

Only one thing is certain at this point…Elton John is a dangerous man and he must be executed.

If you encounter this imposter, remember, he received a knighthood from Queen Elizabeth II…and an honorable death for a knight is a swift beheading.

I would like to thank renowned  author, Michael Ian Black, for taking a stand with his thought-provoking new report, I Smell Conspiracy, providing a well respected public voice to Conspiracy Theorists everywhere, and paving the way for their own theories to finally be heard.

Thank you, Mr. Black, for giving a voice to the voiceless.

White Chocolate Mocha
High fructose paste in a cup.

Iced Mocha
Lightly sweetened anal discharge, over ice.

Coffee Frappuccino
Coffee “flavor” blended with synthetic byproducts.

Caffè Americano
Snobby way to ask for coffee.

see also:
six-word Starbucks reviews (vol. 1)

Toilet paper should come in rolls of plush, absorbent, flushable gloves…not awkward, difficult-to-maneuver, foldable square sheets. Each finger on T.P. Gloves™ would provide for easy insertion, allowing you to get in there and really dig out any unwanted brown moisture (or unpleasant crust, depending on how long you typically sit on the toilet reading Cosmopolitan with an open hole)…then again, T.P. Mittens™ would offer a unique scooping alternative for those of us with looser anal cavities.

Most importantly, the palm coverage of these revolutionary new products would prevent mishaps (like the one pictured above) from constantly happening to innocent people around the world.