Aimster Sends a Letter to Domino's Pizza

Domino’s Pizza recently launched an advertising campaign to promote their all-new recipe, which apparently is so knock-your-socks-off amazing that it beat Papa John’s in a national taste test. I tend to think that a study with that conclusion could only have been constructed by someone as clueless as Paris Hilton, or possibly the Snuggle's Bear. After all, the Snuggle's Bear is so damn cute that he’d be sure to divert peoples’ attention away from the actual taste of the pizza. As for Paris Hilton, well, maybe her fake tan, bad hair extensions, and/or fucked-up nose would prove distracting. Or maybe she would just loan people cocaine from her private stash before they tried the Domino’s brand. That would certainly skew the results.

I was curious about the new and improved Domino’s and thought I should give it a shot. I was going to purchase one until I saw a commercial that changed my mind. Ironically, it was a Domino’s commercial.

In the advertisement, Domino’s claims that basically everyone has tried their new pizza, except for a select few “holdouts”. Because this is about as unacceptable as genocide, they target a specific “holdout” by putting personally addressed Domino’s signs all around his town, and finally by bringing him a pizza to eat whilst they film his reaction. I’m sure even Paris could guess whether or not he liked it.

This commercial rubbed me the wrong way, so I decided to write Domino’s a letter about my feelings. Here it is:


Dear Domino’s Hot Shot Executive,

It has come to my attention that your company recently came up with a new pizza recipe so that people would no longer compare your food to cardboard. Let me begin by congratulating you for this conversion. After all, nobody wants to be told that they suck at the thing they are supposed to be best at.

I was all ready to try your new pizza when I saw one of your commercials on television, and those 30 seconds of viewing left me with great dismay. In the commercial, an entire crew of Domino’s employees/enthusiasts go out of their way to bring one of the improved pizzas to a “holdout”. They then film him sampling the pizza and consider the entire operation a great success when he deems it delicious.

The subject of the commercial began as a common person on par with me: he was a Domino’s new recipe virgin. But then he got a free pizza. I simply cannot understand this. Why should this guy get a free pizza and not me? Is he better than me somehow? Is it because he’s a man and I’m a woman? Are you trying to be sexist? Women like pizza too, you know. Don’t you remember how April ate pizza along with the Ninja Turtles? The man in your commercial received a pizza at no cost. I feel that I should be entitled to the same privilege.

Although you have greatly offended me, there is a simple solution to this problem. Just send me a free pizza, and all will be well again. I won’t feel psychologically scarred, and I will no longer have trouble falling asleep wondering if I am on some sort of free pizza naughty list. I am usually home after 8 pm on Mondays through Fridays. I am also willing to accept a gift certificate.

Thank you for your kind attention to this matter. I hope you have a pleasant day.


And then I included my name and address. I'll let you know when I get my pizza.

Aimster Reenacts Justin Bieber's "Baby" Music Video

Unless you've been living under a rock, nay, a boulder large enough to fill the Grand Canyon, you've heard of Justin Bieber. And unless there is a giant mass of barbed wire where your heart should be, you love the song "Baby" and can't get it out of your head. These days, "Bieber Fever" is more contagious than the Bubonic Plague.

Last week I found myself reenacting the "Baby" music video for my roommate, Mikey. He told me it was pretty funny, which was like feeding my ego a steak. Therefore, I decided it was unfair to keep that moment between us, and that I needed to reenact my reenactment, but better. This time, I made sure to style my hair with Justin's signature side swept bangs and I wore a hoodie, which Justin wears so often it's hard to believe he didn't come out of the womb that way. Otherwise it's all improv.

If your life is a constant tragedy, a.k.a. you haven't yet seen the original "Baby" video, then you should watch that first. Otherwise my version doesn't make as much sense. You can watch it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kffacxfA7G4

And then you should follow this link to watch my priceless version (and I know I could have posted it directly to this site, but then I wouldn't have been able to see how many views I had, and how am I supposed to track my rise to stardom without that?):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bf9DhZcfJX0

Hope you enjoy. I'm going to go to my room and wait for the producers of Glee to call me.

Aimster Spends an Evening with Scientologists

For those of you who don’t know, I work in the entertainment industry, and here in Los Angeles there are a lot of Scientologists in entertainment. Furthermore, many of these Scientologists are powerful folk, so it’s not really a good idea to get on their bad sides when you’re an up-and-comer like me.

Fortunately for you, this grain of knowledge has not deterred me from writing a story about the time I spent with Scientologists last Saturday. Allow me to start at the start.

I have a friend, who for the sake of anonymity I am going to call Xenu. Xenu is not a Scientologist, but some members of his family and some of his friends are. A few weeks ago he was invited to participate in a play. As a good friend, I promised I would attend, and I kept that promise upon learning that the play was put on by Scientologists, being performed at one of the many Scientology centers in Hollywood, and was an adaptation of an L. Ron Hubbard story. So there I was on Saturday, with my brothers Chris and David and my friend Nate.

Some people assume that all L. Ron Hubbard did was write stories about aliens that hold some secret texts upon which the religion is based. Well, I am here to tell you that this is false. Maybe.

Mr. Hubbard wrote tons of pulp novels set in the wild west, the high seas, the air, and of course, space. I myself have never read one of his books so I can’t attest to their literary merit, but you have to give the guy some credit for naming them things like Black Towers to Danger and All Frontiers are Jealous. I mean, that’s personification at its highest.

The program for the evening was a western called Hoss Tamer. Upon arriving at the theater, I was surprised to discover something about Scientologists which I have a huge amount of respect for: they were wearing costumes. When I say this, I am not talking about the cast of the show. I am talking about the people in the audience. I think this should become a universal practice, probably because it reminded me of the days that I used to go see the Harry Potter movies dressed as Harry Potter, and not just on opening night. How awesome would it be if when you went to see Footloose, everyone dressed in terrifically flashy 80s clothing with crazy hair? Or if we all wore loincloths to see Tarzan? Actually, nevermind. That last one just made me turn against my own idea.

In the back of the program I found a glossary of terms that were a part of the dialect in the 1930s and 40s. If in real life I ever call you a “furrin’ lineback with false-fronted pants”, I am really telling you that you are foreign, have a stripe down your back that is a different color than the rest of your body, and have created a façade with your pants to make your penis look bigger than it really is.

After assigning Nate to take care of me in case the lemonade I was given for free was spiked with some sort of drug that would disable my senses and cause me to give the Scientologists money and a pledge of lifelong membership, I sat down to enjoy the show. It was done like an old radio show, where the actors read the parts and there were sound effects and music. Xenu did a wonderful job playing a hammer-headed sidekick to the bad guy (according to my glossary, “hammer-headed” means mean-spirited and is supposed to refer to a horse, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to expand the context). Afterwards everyone was invited upstairs for a reception.

I however, had a goal to accomplish before going upstairs. I wanted to find a souvenir to take home with me, which is a nice way of saying that I wanted to steal something. There were many collections of L. Ron Hubbard books on display in the theater which were sold in a separate section of the building for $10.00. I decided this was perfect. Nate had brought his bag to the show so I figured I’d just swipe one off the shelf and put it in his backpack. We went over to the display and picked a few of them up to see what the options were. After serious contemplation, I decided to go with Man-Killers of the Air. I grabbed a copy and sneakily placed my program over it. I was ready for the next step of transferring the book to Nate’s backpack when he started walking away. Apparently I did not communicate my plan very well. I need to work on that in the future.

Luckily we went outside and I was able to get the novel concealed without arousing suspicion. We then went back inside so we could congratulate Xenu at the reception. Going up the elevator, we noticed that there were keyholes next to the floor buttons. We discussed where you might be able to go with key access, and were highly satisfied with Nate’s conclusion that L. Ron was probably frozen somewhere in the building.

At the reception, we were immediately targeted as people who had obviously never been there before and were offered beverages and a tour. Let it never be said that the Scientologists are inhospitable. They had a superb cappuccino and hot chocolate maker and there were people in costume to whip up and serve the drinks. I hadn’t yet noticed any adverse effects from the lemonade so I decided to have some more. Next there was a costume contest for all the people who’d dressed up. We were instructed to cheer for our favorites and the winner got some sort of box set of L. Ron Hubbard audiobooks. I am thinking that if Xenu is ever in another one of these shows I am going to go dressed up and try to win the prize, just so I can beat the Scientologists at their own game.

Nate and I were separated from Chris and David when we avoided getting roped into the tour by heading to the food table and loading our plates with goodies. As we sat and ate, a woman wearing a giant diamond tiara and a sash that read “Ms. Multicultural” walked in. Being me and not sensing that Nate was uncomfortable and didn’t want to interact with anybody, I decided to engage her in a conversation and asked about her get-up. She explained to me that she received this designation from the United Nations for the work she has done between the U.S. and Mexico. We talked a little bit more and she told us that we must return often. [Note: In writing this entry, I Googled “Ms. Multicultural United Nations” and found nothing. It seems like a crazy title for a person to make up but maybe I just misunderstood what she was telling me. After all, she was “furrin’” and her English was not perfect.]

At this point Chris and David were still off on the tour and Nate and I were too hungry to continue to have sustenance from the snacks, so we opted to leave and go to In-n-Out. After snapping a quick photo of me posing with the Battlefield Earth display, we left. At the restaurant we gobbled some tasty burgers and got free In-n-Out hats which we wore for the rest of the night. We looked grand.

Back at the apartment Chris and David informed me that they were given L. Ron books after their tour, so it really wasn’t impressive at all that I stole one because had I been caught in the act the Scientologists probably would have given it to me anyway. I still prefer to think that I am as quick with my hands as a pickpocket at the Taj Mahal (and yes, I did choose that comparison because it happened in Slumdog Millionaire).

I suppose it’s possible that any Scientologist reading this might hate me now. But you know what, I don’t hate them. And if they try to sabotage my career, I can always try to get a job with the people at South Park.

Aimster Goes Sunglasses Shopping

My eyes are extremely sensitive to the sun. Had I been in the movie Men in Black, they probably would have blinded me with the flash from that memory erasing gadget and I could have sued for millions. Although I would have spent the rest of my life without sight, I would obviously have a lot of friends and suitors eager to exploit my riches. If I’ve learned anything from living in Los Angeles, it’s that this is a perfectly viable lifestyle.

Knowing that my eyes water with every sliver of the light penetrating my irises from space, you can imagine my discontent when I snatched up my sunglasses last week and one of the lenses popped out onto the floor of my car. The damage was irreparable. Tragedy had struck and the choice between constantly looking like I’ve been crying and dishing out the money for new shades was no choice at all.

My previous pair of sunglasses were by Michael Kors, but I only shelled out $25 for them due to the magic of Nordstrom Rack. They had been such a faithful companion for so many years that I came to the conclusion that it is worth investing in some nicely made sunglasses as opposed to the cheap ones that might be lying about how much UV protection you’re really getting. So after work on Friday, I headed over to the Beverly Connection, which for those of you who don’t live in LA is a gathering of discount stores across from the Beverly Center, the mall of the stars. So basically it’s like the rejects of what you find across the street.

My first stop was to the trusty Nordstrom Rack, where I tried on a slew of sunglasses only to find that my head is still of childlike proportions and most of them make me look like a bug on acid. Furthermore, every pair had a security tag about the size of my ear hanging from the bridge of the shades. I wasn’t sure how to judge my appearance in these sunglasses when my nose looked like Pinocchio gone plastic. And then I saw a pair that was the exact style I’d had in mind. So I tried them on. They fit well and looked good. Had I found the winning shades? I looked at what brand they were, and instantly felt a pit form in my stomach. They were Juicy Couture, and I began questioning everything I believed in. If I bought these sunglasses, would I suddenly find myself parading around in neon terrycloth sweatsuits, overly tanned and with hair dry as a desert from being overbleached? Would I go on to spend hours of my morning doing my make-up, only to leave the house and tell people that I hadn’t really put any effort into my appearance that day? Thus is the power of Juicy. Fear gripped my heart and I decided to check out the other stores.

First was Ross Dress for Less, of which one of my coworkers regularly sings the praises. This was a bust, as they only had about eight pairs, and three of them were the Jessica Simpson brand which I just could not bring myself to support.

Next I went to Marshalls, where a crowd of women were hawking the sunglasses turnstiles like they were actually discounts for liposuction. After battling through the insanity I managed to try on a few pairs and found two that I liked, one from Coach and one from some other brand that I don’t remember. The only thing about the Coach sunglasses was that they said the word “Coach” all over the sides, and I’m not really one for that sort of incessant branding. And then I looked at the price tag. They were $9.99. I couldn’t believe it. These must have been mislabeled. This was more of a steal than a tipsy and eager college girl’s virginity. But I still wasn’t sold because of all the branding, so I opted to put them on hold and go to one final store, just in case.

I ventured down the street to Loehmann’s and headed into their accessory section, full of promise. They had hundreds of pairs of sunglasses for the choosing, and I eagerly began shoving them on my face so aggressively it’s a wonder I didn’t poke my eye out. I was thinking about how great it is that these stores sell past seasons' designer duds for so cheap when the song “Save Tonight” by Eagle-Eye Cherry came on. I started to wonder if these stores are also a place for past seasons' songs. Hoping that they would next rock my world with a selection from the Backstreet Boys, I continued my search.

Instead of finding something awesome, I began to wonder if my head is misshapen, due to the penchant of every pair to look askew. I found one Jimmy Choo pair that was stellar, but they were still like $200. Seriously, the nerve of that guy. Even his discounted merchandise is an easily calculable percentage of my annual salary.

I walked back to the Beverly Connection whilst contemplating which was the lesser of two evils: sweatsuit-threatening Juicy or overly-labeled Coach. On my way into the complex I passed a Staples Copy and Print Center. What is a Staples doing amidst all these clothing stores? My best guess is that it’s there for actor wannabees at the Beverly Center who need to make copies of their headshots, just in case they run into someone important while pretending to be able to afford things on their waiter salaries.

At this point my decision was made: I just couldn’t beat the $10 deal on the Coach pair, so I went to the cashier at Marshalls and asked her to retrieve them. I was thinking about whether or not I wanted to pay with the twenty I had in my wallet or charge my debit card when the cashier gave me a $65.84 total. I was shocked and confused. I looked at the tag on the sunglasses, which read $59.99. I realized that I must have mixed up the prices for the obscure sunglasses brand and the Coach brand. Of course the non-designer brand is 10 bucks. Coach glasses would never go for that cheap. I withdraw the virginity comment.

I could have said, “Never mind, I misread the price,” and gone to Target to buy non-designer but probably just as durable sunglasses. But I was too tired. So I slid my debit card and walked out of Marshalls defeated and with sunglasses that say the word “Coach” more than I probably say any words in an entire day. Oh well. They don’t look half bad.