Fairway Making Outlandish Claims Again

Fairway Market, the New York-based grocery store chain, has resorted to making outlandish claims in a bid to attract customers.

"When I saw that sign, I couldn't believe it," said Upper East Side resident Stella Hirschenbaum, 93. "I thought I ate olives before Fairway existed. My mother used to put them in her cucumber salad, and I always picked each and every one out of my dish." Hirschenbaum has no surviving relatives who can corroborate whether she did, in fact, consume olives before Fairway's founding in 1930, and confesses that her memory has been shaky since a bout of reefer madness in 1949. "I could be wrong," she said.

Mario Drucker, an employee at Pickles and Olives on First Avenue, was also shaken by the news. "That Herb Ruetsch [Fairway's President and CEO] must be one son of a bitch," he said. "You're telling me Fairway invented these?" Drucker dug a scoop into a barrel of alfonso olives. "I'll tell you what, though. I admire Herb's balls." When asked to clarify whether Drucker admired Ruetsch's nerve or actual testicles, Drucker merely shook his head and retired to the shop's cheese counter.

Fairway's claims come on the coattails of their hire of paranoid schizophrenic Peter Nafter, the man responsible for the creative for Cocoa Puffs' "Cukoo for Cocoa Puffs" and Skittles' "Taste the rainbow" campaigns. Nafter experienced his psychotic break while eating the chocolatey cereal and also suffers from synesthesia.

Despite customer skepticism, it is unlikely anyone will come forward to formally refute Fairway's word. When reached for comment, Samir Haddad, a farmer whose family has tended hundreds of acres of olive groves on the Lebanese-Syrian border since the 17th century, failed to contribute any commentary this reporter could understand.

"I don't necessarily appreciate the hyperbole," Upper West Sider Caroline Levy said. "But it's not like I'm going to make Greek salad without olives. Fairway's got the goods, and I'm gonna keep going there."

I have been carrying around this very large conch shell, but the sea has not called yet.

I have been carrying around this very large conch shell that I purchased at the airport in Jamaica, but the sea has not called yet.

I thought that, perhaps, keeping the shell tucked under my arm was interfering with its ability to receive mobile service, so I put it down on the stoop of my apartment building. A rat must have been watching me, because it appeared out of nowhere, crawled into my shell, and escaped with its new home like a foul, urban hermit crab.

I have been carrying around this very large spiny shell that I purchased at the gift shop in the Museum of Natural History, but the sea has not called yet.

I thought that, perhaps, carrying the shell at arm's length so as not to be pricked by its spines was preventing me from hearing it ring, so I put it down next to me on a bench near the dog run. A very large woman sat down on the shell, and now she is suing me.

I have been carrying around this very large shell sign I stole from the gas station on the corner of 96th & 1st, but the sea has not called yet.

I thought that, perhaps, hiding the sign under my coat as I ran from the station owner was distracting me from picking up calls, so I put the shell down in Carl Schurz park. Now I am operating an illegal gas station behind a stand of trees next to Gracie Mansion.

The sea never did call, but the East River did. And often. The river sounds like Danny DeVito and smells like him too. Sometimes, when the shell is ringing, I think it might be the sea. But it's always the East River.

I need a vacation.

Mad Men, Season 5

We're only two weeks into Mad Men, and one things's clear: Matthew Weiner wants to turn his once taut, sophisticated drama into a sitcom. Like, a CBS-caliber sitcom. Notice how Don has been flopping down on his bed every time the music goes womp-womp? Remember when Harry got high and ate 20 sliders? Care to explain Betty in a really bad fat suit? Weiner isn't as sly as he thinks he is. We're onto his little comedy plan and the fact that his name is probably pronounced a much funnier "wee-ner."

Wee-ner is notoriously secretive about his show, but I got my hands on a breakdown of what transpires over the rest of the season. I'll be releasing information about the characters based on what actually happens in the show each week as I get it, so here now, what we can expect from Don and Betty in Mad Men's fifth year:

Don

More bed flopping! Don's happiness may not have increased, but the laughs sure have. Don will continue to fall face first onto every bed he sees, followed by every couch, ottoman, and folding chair. Wait a second, that bed wasn't in the kitchen a second ago. Well, neither was Don! But now that he is, he needs something to fall on to show us the depths of his despair. Hey, what's that ball pit doing at Sterling Draper Cooper Price? Oh, just waiting for Don to dive on in. And why on earth is the Benny Hill theme playing every time Don walks in the room? Everything is funnier set to the Benny Hill theme.

Expect Mad Men's influence on the way we live in 2012 to continue. Whenever Don enters the office, Roger will cry, "Timberrrrrr!", starting a catch phrase frenzy. Not to mention a tumbling trend among hip, well educated urbanites called "Drapering." Ikea should brace itself for unprecedented bed sales. Especially the Ikea in Red Hook.

Betty

Betty will continue to gain weight, wearing a larger and larger fat suit each week. Eventually, she will be so large that she fills an entire room in her house, where she will have to be fed with a curtain rod. This is because she has grown so comically fat that no human hand could possibly reach her mouth. It's also because when human hands still could reach her mouth, she bit one off. So now Henry has a hook for a hand, and Sally's only chore is to clean Betty's skin folds, with the same dowel the family uses to feed her.

Betty's favorite foods are donuts, bagels, and other things easily speared and delivered via stick. Plus puddings. Puddings have the perfect gluggable texture, but easily cling to the feeding stick. Betty's favorite puddings are chocolate, banana, and orange cream, the latter of which is extremely hard to find, and will require many trips to the market for hilarious mix-up story lines.

America, previously resentful of Betty's cold, distant mothering, will finally fall in love with her, mostly because she will remind them of themselves. And don't forget about the fashion. Yes, fashion. The best part of Betty! Just because her curves are changing doesn't mean she can't look sharp. We'll be introduced to the mumus of the mid-1960s, which the AMC research department call "on trend."

Google Has a Dystopian View of Our Future, and We No Look So Good.

Google, long resistant to marketing themselves through traditional routes, has recently flooded our subways, commuter trains and magazines with a stream of print ads featuring pithy, albeit microscopic, copy, and charming illustrations. Have you seen these ads? You know, the ones with pin headed humanoids with hulking bodies and limp, stringy limbs. So, basically, humanity's evolutionary future once Google's bionic arm starts fishing around in our collective DNA.

Here are two regular people who, I don't know, are just hanging out:

The guy in the helmet isn't surprised because, well, are you surprised that this is Google's view of humans? Left up to the search engine, this is exactly what the human race will look like in a generation or two, given the physical effects of plugging into the interwebs.

The more time you spend on the internet, the stoopiter you get, your brain shrinking as you slump and squint in the glow of your computer. A walnut sized brain is all that's needed to process your daily deals emails. In fact, science tells us that the more offers for hot stone massages and mediocre Italian food you vet, the smaller your brain needs to be to function, finally settling at a very efficient pea size. As the brain shrinks, so does the surrounding skull, skin and hair. Haircuts will only cost $500 in the future! This probably sounds like an outrageous sum, mostly because you don't live in New York, but remember: inflation. Google was very considerate to shrink our heads to keep grooming costs at a minimum. You've also probably already guessed that the helmeted chap is so outfitted because our heads are terribly soft well into adolescence in our futures. Until around the age of 18, if a bird happens to shit on you, even from just a few feet above your head, you will die.

Next, check out those gangly limbs. Damn, they be gangly! As we continue to sit at our computers, our arm and leg muscles will atrophy, until they are long, spindly appendages that can barely support any weight at all. Our arms, of course, will be strong enough to lift our hands so that we can type and text and still mouse around, but legs will only sustain our mass long enough to make it to the fridge or the door for the pizza delivery guy. Also, pants will be two extremely long tube socks, sewn onto a pair of bikini briefs. This is a universally flattering look and will be touted as "the best thing since the stretch pants craze of the 2010s" by someone who has never walked behind a person wearing stretch pants in the 2010s.

Next, our overgrown torsos. I forgot to mention that our arms will be strong enough to lift our hands even when we're holding pizza slices, entire birthday cakes, and bacon balls, a futuristic dream food made of gooey cheese encased in crispy bacon. We will just eat, and eat, and eat, and internet, and internet, and internet until we fulfill our destiny as the gorgeous, supple creatures in Google's advertisements. All procreation will take place in test tubes and World of Warcraft.

Personally, I can't wait for the future and welcome it with spindly, open arms. How about you?