Albert Pujols Signs with Angels, Begins Reign of Terror

Up there!  It's a bird! It's Superman! No, it's that plane I bought.

Yesterday, first baseman Albert Pujols called a press conference to announce that he had signed a 10 year, 254 million dollar contract with the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim (who apparently can't decide which city they play for).  Albert had worn number 5 on his St. Louis Cardinals jersey since the beginning of his career, making his home in St. Louis and opening a restaurant there called "Pujols 5."
Albert approached the podium chewing vigorously on a piece of "5" brand gum produced by the Wrigley company, which Albert had purchased that morning along with three new BMWs, a solid gold bidet, and the planet Neptune.
After giving a brief statement, Pujols was asked why after repeatedly saying money wasn't a high priority for him and he simply wanted to play on a successful baseball team he opted to leave the St. Louis Cardinals, who had won the World Series twice in Albert's time with the team.  His response was as follows:  

"Yeah man, you know, it's all about the winning.  I just wanna play some ball, you know.  The Cardinals, we win the World Series and stuff, and the Angels, they gonna pay me a whole lot of fucking money, man.  So yeah, I just wanna play on a team that's gonna win some ballgames."

When he was told that his statement made absolutely no fucking sense Albert killed three reporters, removed their spines, and twisted them into a horrific representation of the number 5. 
Albert then informed those present that he had a special surprise for all of his fans:

"I got a big surprise for all my peoples today, man.  Back home [in his native Dominican Republic] we kinda poor, you know, so I figure I buy the whole goddamn country.  We gonna rename it and everything.  I call it 'Pujols.'  It's cool, yeah?"  

Albert then produced a large map with the Dominican Republic circled and a picture of his face sloppily glued on top of it. 

"Now that I got all this money I can help out all my peoples back home.  I can use the money I make in the Angels to help make the Dominican Republic a great place for all the kids to sew my baseball jerseys and make shoes and stuff to sell so I can make some money, you know?  It's gonna be great, man!" 

At this point, Albert smiled broadly; the first time he had done so since the conference began.  
When asked if he thought he would be able to maintain his high level of play throughout the length of his 10 year contract despite already being in his thirties, Pujols cackled maniacally, turned into a bat, and flew out of the room.
There were no survivors.

Nolan Ryan Looks Like A Turtle.

 

That's all.  You can go back to your lives now.

I want my quarters (fighting the machine).

My apartment complex's laundry room is pretty much awful.  On any given day, three or four washers or dryers will be broken, the change machine will be finicky at best and most likely empty, the whole place smells like the north end of a southbound Mexican immigrant, and it's full of those awful flying abominations that look like giant mosquitos.  I don't know if they actually suck one's blood like mosquitos, but damned if I'm going to let them have the chance.
After a great many heated arguments with the washers/dryers (I lost most of said arguments), I decided it best to give the machines' owners what for.  The exchange was as follows.

Me: 

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to request a refund in the amount of $1.25 due to the malfunctioning of your dryer at [my address] (Unit number PFD-886).  Having placed a reasonably small load of laundry into the dryer (perhaps it would have been a larger one were the washers not so godawful small), I inserted my money and returned later to find my clothes slightly warmer and moved around a bit, but still quite wet.  Being that the machine is known as a "dryer" and not a "clothing warmer and reorganizer" I had expected that my clothing would be dry.  The other dryers worked fine.  I have had problems with other dryers before but did not bother to report them, thinking that maybe God just hated me.  Due to my failure to report them I do not expect a refund for past occurrences, but with gas prices currently exceeding tolerable levels, I must ask that I be refunded my $1.25.  Also, I must ask that the money be mailed to me in quarters since the laundry facility's change machine only accepts dollar bills that have been hand-delivered in hermetically sealed cases straight from the U.S. Mint.  I would try ironing my bills to make them acceptable, but I do not own an iron.

Sincerely,

[Me]

Them: [sends check for $1.25]

Me:

To Whom It May Concern:

I recently submitted a refund request due to a faulty dryer in my apartment complex’s laundry area. The text thereof was as follows:

 [original email text]

I subsequently received a check for $1.25, which would be completely acceptable were it not for the indisputable fact that a check for $1.25 is not five United States quarter dollar coins.  With gas prices currently exceeding $3.50 per gallon, it would cost me more than $1.25 to drive to the bank and cash the check. I could walk, but it’s been rather hot outside lately so I would need to stop for a drink at some point, which would most likely cost more than $1.25.  Furthermore, it seems logical that since the dryer stole my money when it was in the form of quarters, it is only fair that the money be returned in the same form. Additionally, since no one can be bothered to refill the change machine in the laundry room, quarters are a rare commodity here nowadays. This makes me less inclined to consider non-quarter refunds to be acceptable. In light of the above, I must again ask that I be sent $1.25 in quarters as previously requested.  Upon receipt of said quarters, I will either A) place the check in a self-addressed stamped envelope (to be included with said quarters) and return it or B) destroy the check, whichever you prefer. If this form of reimbursement cannot be arranged, I’m afraid I will have to renege on my previous promise and demand refunds for past incidents so as to be compensated for the gasoline required to travel to my bank.  Thank you for your prompt response, I am sure this can be resolved soon.

Sincerely,

[Me]

Them:  

          Dear [Me],

We apologize for the inconvenience but it is not normally our policy to send cash.  You will have to talk to our customer service department.  The number is [number].

Sincerely,
Yolanda

Me: [demands larger refund, randomly selecting machines to report as faulty]
Them: [sends refund]
Me: [wins]

Whoopi Goldberg Soils Herself and There's a Phallus In That Puppet (commercials that make me feel ill)

So let's say you're an actress.  You've won an Oscar, a Tony, a Grammy, and some Golden Globes.  You're filthy stinking rich.  What kind of commercials do you sign on for?  If you're me, the only commercials you run are public service announcements reminding the general populace that you're awesome and they're not and that you've just purchased the country of Honduras for your own personal vacation spot so could everyone living there kindly get the hell out, please?

If you're Whoopi Goldberg, you casually announce that you've been pissing yourself of late.

For those of you who didn't bother watching it, the commercial consists of Whoopi dressed in various outfits discussing her tendency to wet herself.  She then tries to brush it off like it's nothing, saying that one in three women have the same issue.

Ok, so about 2/3 of American women are overweight and 1/3 are peeing themselves... I'm no mathematician but statistically speaking, you're all disgusting.

I can't begin to understand why Ms. Goldberg feels it's necessary to tell us about her bladder problems, but it does explain a strange anomaly on one of her old movie posters:

---

...And continuing in that vein, here's Jamie Lee Curtis reminding us that women need special yogurt to make them poop:

Those of you with weak stomachs probably didn't watch that, so in summary: two sacks of uterine filth are clucking about their holiday dinners and the younger one declares that she's constipated.  Her mother gleefully responds that she used to be plugged up too until she started eating the magical dairy Drano that Jamie Lee Curtis is hawking.  Is it just me or is Jamie Lee just a little too happy here?  Clearly this is not only gross, but a total sham.  Everyone knows women don't poop.

---

Moving along.  If this next one doesn't give you nightmares, you're probably Jeffrey Dahmer.

 

Again, a summary: some unsuspecting bloke wakes up to find that the horrible, horrible Burger King mascot is in bed with him.  But it's ok because the King gives him a sandwich.  They hang out and share a laugh and everything's great until their hands touch, most likely reminding them of the brutal sodomy inflicted by the King the night before. 

This commercial is the king of all horrors.  Enough said.

---

Every now and then, an ad comes along that has even me wondering if maybe living in a Tibetan monastery might be a preferable alternative to viewing any sort of media at all EVER.  This is one such ad.

To paraphrase the text on that ad for those of you who are so profoundly stupid as to not understand why this is so horrifying, there's more inside Doug the puppet than you would expect.  Apparently what's inside Doug is a flesh-colored object that has to be censored.  Yeah.  It's a... you know... well... a... umm... how to put this nicely...

Please don't make me go into more detail.

 The expression on Doug's face just makes it worse.  Is he ashamed?  Is he angry at the mystery man who (and this is why it's so horrible) must have reached his hand into Doug's body and found... that?

Suffice to say, I did not "click to expand for video."

Miller Lite is terrible.

 "Oh, look at this!  He's having a go at the light beers again!"
Yeah, yeah, I know.  As soon as they stop deserving it, I'll stop harping on them.

Have you ever tried Miller Lite? (That's lite, not light, mind you.  G's and H's are heavy.)
If you're scowling right now, the answer is probably yes.


"More taste or less taste?" they ask in their stomach-churning commercials, which employ the ever-so-subtle tactic of implying that if you drink a light beer other than theirs you must be a social pariah. 

Well, the simple answer to that is "Depends on what the taste is."  Let's say you're forced to eat a pile of cow dung.  More taste or less taste?  For the love of Horgh, less!

Miller Lite has "more taste" in the same way a rapist is "more affectionate."

I don't know how a beer that's so watered-down still manages to be so catastrophically awful.  It must have something to do with Satan.

The face of ultimate evil

 
Last time I drank a Miller Lite, my stomach went on strike for two months until I promised it a lobster and some Guiness.

And then there are the "vortex bottle" ads. 

If your beer's greatest appeal is that the bottle is designed to get the beer the hell out of there so you don't have to spend as much time tasting it, you've got a problem.  Might as well claim that it tastes better on the way back up from your stomach than the other beers (note: it doesn't).

In their defense, though, the watered-down taste isn't their fault.  The only reason Miller Lite is so watery is because every time a new batch is brewed IT MAKES GOD CRY.

Gatorade Coolers Threaten Strike

The NFL players and owners recently came to an agreement that both sides could be happy with, but there’s one group that isn’t happy: the Gatorade coolers. 

“We’ve been unhappy for a while now, and we had asked the NFL to put something in the new CBA to provide us with better working conditions, but what did we get?  Nothing!” says Frank the Gatorade Cooler, lead representative of the National Coalition of Athletic Beverage Dispensers.  The NCABD has been threatening to strike for months but held off in hopes that the NFL, one of its most important clients, would set an example to other sports organizations.  “We’ve always had a special relationship with the NFL.  Ever since the first time a team dumped one of us onto their coach after a Super Bowl win, we’ve been really close,” Frank reminisces.  “That’s why we were hoping they’d be the first to give us the treatment we deserve.” 

One might wonder why the NCABD would focus their resentment so strongly on a league that has had a mostly positive relationship with them.  “Honestly, the end result we were looking for was to get some leverage over Major League Baseball,” says one Gatorade cooler, speaking on condition of anonymity.  “We had hoped that if the NFL worked out a deal with us, MLB would be forced to follow suit.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, working a football game isn’t always a picnic.  My friend Al had to do four [Tennessee] Titans games last year and of course Kerry Collins got falling-down drunk before each game.  First time, he’s so trashed he thinks Al’s a urinal and pisses all over him.  Then the next two he lifts Al’s lid and spends the first quarter of the game puking into him.  That’s just [expletive] gross.  But that’s nothing compared to baseball,” he laments, rotating his lid back in forth in what can probably be considered the equivalent of shaking one’s head.

Gatorade coolers have indeed had a hard time of it in baseball.  San Francisco Giants fans recently witnessed closer Brian Wilson having a meltdown wherein he threw, punched, and hit a cooler with a bat.  2009 saw pitcher Carlos Zambrano taking a bat to a Gatorade dispenser in a Wrigley Field dugout after being ejected from a game.  The dispenser pressed charges, and Carlos was found guilty and sentenced to three more years of playing for the Cubs.  Zambrano appealed the sentence on the grounds that it was “cruel and unusual.”  His appeal was denied, but the presiding judge informed Carlos that if he behaved himself he’d be allowed to retire before the 2012 season.

These overt displays of hostility against Gatorade dispensers are just the tip of the iceberg, says Terry, a cooler who has been in the business for over 15 years.  “Yeah, you get thrown around a bit when a player gets ejected or is mad about something, and you’ll be sore for a week afterwards, but it’s the humiliation that’s the worst.  Players don’t respect us.  We’re always props in their little jokes, like that time when Derek Jeter told [Yankees pitcher C.C.] Sabathia that I was a giant burrito.  That fat son of a bitch took three huge bites out of me before he realized he’d been had.  Oh, and they all laughed about that one.  Jerks.” 

C.C. Sabathia after the "burrito" incident

  There have also been accusations of discrimination against dispensers in baseball.  Another anonymous source tells of a time he was disciplined for possessing contraband beverages when working a game in St. Louis a few years back.  “Yeah, apparently the batboy took a few drinks out of me and got sick, so they suspended me because they said I brought booze into the ballpark.  Everyone saw Scott Spezio pour half a bottle of vodka in me during the first inning.  But who ends up taking the fall?  The guys in orange.  Every time.”

Having been snubbed by the NFL, NCABD reps will vote Tuesday on whether or not to strike.  “We feel we’ve been reasonable up until this point,” says Frank the Gatorade Cooler.  “We thought we could count on the NFL to repay us for everything we’ve done.  Maybe after the next Super Bowl when we’re not there and the winning coach gets a huge urn of hot coffee dumped on him instead, someone will finally appreciate us.”

Give Us a Sign, O Lord!

Here we have the local alternative school for halfwits, dropouts, pregnant teens, the behaviorally disordered, and those who can't be bothered to slog through the ever-so-difficult tribulations of a typical high school curriculum.  It's only fitting, then, that they receive the proper accolades for going a few semesters without soiling themselves or trying to sell meth to the teachers.  Here is an excerpt from the commencement speech given between bong hits by the principal at the graduation ceremony:

Congratulations, "graduates," on all the hard "work" you put in here at our "school."  Here are your "diplomas."  You've "earned" them.  We wish you the best of luck in your "careers."
As janitors.

---

Click to enlarge atrocity.

Some people are capable of correctly placing apostrophes.  Your'e not.  The poor bastards even trademarked this foul-up.
Seriously, though, you'd think that a company who can afford such a snazzy sign with such stylish iron-on decals would hold themselves to a higher standard.

---

I realize this post was rather brief, so here's Adam West reminding you that you can click "Follow" (edit: it now says "join this site") in the "People who love me" box on the top right of the page and apparently you'll get some sort of notification when I update.  I don't know how it works.  I hate technology.  Also there are a bunch of buttons at the bottom of the post that can be employed to make other people read this via stupid social networking sites.

Look at this picture and pretend he's saying that last paragraph you just read.

What Girls Want and How Vanilla Ice Rocks a Mic: The Bold Claims of Popular Musicians

Through the years, popular musicians have made some pretty brash statements.  Some--like the Beatles' "I am the walrus"--are easily dismissed.  None of the Beatles were walruses.

Others like Billy Currington's claim that he's "pretty good at drinkin' beer" seem quite believable.  However, there are many that occupy the middle ground between obvious fact and obvious fiction.  Today we'll explore some musicians and their bold claims, deciding once and for all whether or not they're true.

---

Statement:
"I rock a mic like a vandal."

"Artist"/Song:
Vanilla Ice/Ice Ice Baby

Pertinent Info: 
Thought most lyric resources use a lowercase V, it seems more likely that Mr. Ice intended it to be interpreted as "Vandal", not "vandal."  The Vandals were a group of people best known for sacking Rome around the year 455 and stealing large amounts of women and valuables.  Vanilla Ice was best known for sacking Queen's "Under Pressure" around the year 1990 and stealing its music, gaining in the process large amounts of women and valuables.

And stylish haircuts.

The Verdict: 
Mr. Ice is right on with this one.  If the Vandals were still around and took to rocking mics, they'd do it like Ice.

---

Statement:
"[I'd] steal the sun from the sky for you."

"Artist"/Song:
Bon Jovi/I'll Be There For You

Pertinent Info: 
It's an indisputable fact that Jon Bon Jovi has never done anything worthwhile.

His rendition of "Swan Lake" sucked.

Bearing that in mind, it's already rather implausible that he'd do something so difficult as stealing the sun, but for the sake of argument we've compiled some more scientific evidence for you.
The sun is (contrary to popular belief) not just a shiny ball that hangs around way up high and can be grabbed and stuffed into one's pocket given an appropriately tall ladder.  For starters, it's about 1.496×10^8 km from the Earth (get a bigger ladder, Jon).  Furthermore, it's a giant ball of burning gas.  Its surface temperature is around 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit.  Even if Mr. Bon Jovi were to travel to the Sun with intentions of stealing it he'd be burned to death before he got there, which regrettably has yet to happen.

The Verdict:
Impossible.  Besides, stealing is illegal.  Shame on you, JBJ.

---

Statement:
"Girls just want to have fun."

"Artist"/Song:
Cyndi Lauper/Girls Just Want to Have Fun

Pertinent Info:
It seems at first that Ms. Lauper is trying to do the men of the world a huge favor by explaining what women want.

Not this.

However, we're being scientific here, so rather than take her word for it, we conducted some research.  We interviewed some women and asked them what they really want.  Though a few did say "to have fun," the answers ranged from "I'm thirty five and I'm still not married! Is that too much to ask? [hysterical sobbing]" to "It'd be nice if you'd leave the goddamn toilet seat down for once" to the more popular "Not you, that's for sure!"
After extensively studying the survey results, we concluded that the things women want are:
* Babies
* Attention
* Money (or shiny things that cost money)
* Marriage

The Verdict: 
This one's false.  Check the list.  Fun isn't on there.  Unless, of course, you call marriage "fun."

This guy doesn't.

---

Statement:
"You can't touch this."

"Artist"/Song:
MC Hammer/U Can't Touch This

Pertinent Info: 
The first thing we need to determine is what Mr. Hammer means by "this."  The song addresses this issue by saying "this is a beat you can't touch."  One could argue that Hammer simply spelled "beet" wrong and wants everyone to leave his vegetables the hell alone, but we'll give him the benefit of the doubt and go with "beat."  "Beat" is defined as "a stroke, blow, throb, or pulsation."  While being told that we can't touch Hammer's throb or pulsation is just fine with us, we must realize that literally speaking those are abstract nouns not concrete objects and thus cannot be physically touched.

The Verdict: 
He's right.  We can't touch it.

Nor do we want to.

---

Statement:
"Bitches ain't shit but hos and tricks."

"Artist"/Song:
Dr. Dre (and a bunch of other people)/Bitches Ain't Shit

Pertinent Info:  
We don't have a very extensive rap music vocabulary here but it would seem that despite the glaringly obvious spelling errors found in this song's lyrics, Dr. Dre is implying that women are primarily composed of garden tools and breakfast cereals.

Women.

In supplement to what we learned when researching for the Cyndi Lauper song, we decided to contact a few doctors on the subject of women.  After lengthy interviews we discovered that physiologically, women contain many of the same substances as men: blood, ligaments, bones, etc.  They also contain other mysterious ingredients such as "ovaries" and "feelings" (whatever those are). It should be noted that we contacted actual medical doctors with actual degrees.  Conversely, Dr. Dre was unable to provide us with proof that he has in fact received a doctorate degree from an institute of higher learning.

"Imakill U isn't a real school?  Damn!"

The Verdict: 
Not even close.   While women do occasionally contain Trix (via eating them), it's not a major part of their bodily composition.  Neither have they been known to contain hoes, rakes, or similar tools.  For someone who fancies himself a doctor, Mr. Dre has a lot to learn about human biology.

---

Statement:
"I'm a cowboy."

"Artist"/Song:
Bon Jovi/Wanted Dead or Alive

Pertinent Info: 
No.  You're not.

The Verdict: 
I hate you.

Die.

Elevators: A Guide For Idiots Like You

Let's not mince words here.  You're an idiot.  As such, you have great difficulty operating simple devices such as elevators.

This elevator is for you.

The following is a guide for idiots wherein we'll discuss your idiotic elevator-related actions and thoughts, what goes on in response to your stupidity, and the unfortunate results thereof.
We hope this guide will help you in your future elevatorial endeavors.

Action #1:  Repeatedly pushing the button for the floor to which you are going

What you think:

“Ohmygod hurry up close the door I'm in a hurry I need to go to the eighth floor NOOOOOOOWWW!”

What the elevator thinks:

I will go to the eighth floor when I'm damn well ready.

Result:

The elevator goes to the requested floor when it's damn well ready.

Action #2:  Pushing the “up” elevator request button

What you think:

“Urrr... I need to go... down?”

What the elevator thinks:

Going up.

Result:

You go up.

Action #3:  Getting onto the elevator and not pushing any buttons

What you think:

“Yaaaay I'm on an elevator! I get to go straight to the floor I want!”

What the elevator thinks:

For all I know, there's no one in me.

Result:

Elevator roulette.

Action #4:  Standing stationary right in the middle of the doorway as the doors open

What you think:

“Duuuuuuuhhhhhh... [Crickets chirping. Fart noises.]”

What everyone else on the elevator thinks:

“What the hell's this guy's problem? The doors just opened, which obviously means someone needs to get on or off. I mean, he does know there are seven other people in here, right? God, what a moron.”

Result:

Everyone hates you and is now painfully aware of what an idiot you are.

Action #5:  Pushing every freaking button

What you think:

“I need to go to five. I mean eight. No, wait; seven. Two.”

What everyone else thinks:

“Bastard.”

Result:

Everyone hates you and gets a twenty minute elevator ride as the doors open and shut on EVERY GODDAMN FLOOR.

Screw it, I'll just take the stairs.

We hope this guide has been useful to you and invite you to also read our other helpful guides such as "Urinating: The Floor Is Not Where You Should Do This."

Holidays suck. Do something about it.

Holidays suck. Don't try to deny it. They suck. Everyone goes into every holiday thinking “Ok, this is a holiday. That means I'll be happy and have a good time.” But then you aren't and you don't, so you're miserable. Why is this? Are you a sociopath? Are holidays inherently flawed? I think not. More likely, you're just going through the same predetermined motions and antiquated rituals every holiday of every year. So to jazz things up a little, here are a few ways to make your holidays less monotonous and more enjoyable.

1. Celebrate a different holiday.

Are you white? Celebrate Kwanzaa. Jewish? Try Ramadan this year. Southern Baptist? Maybe sing some songs to Ganesha, the Hindu elephant god. American? Call Christmas “Boxing Day” like those crazy Canadians do. And box. You know, with punching.

Better yet, make up a new religious holiday, complete with origin stories and cultural significance. Make up your own deity or just pick someone/something mundane and make it holy.

Last year's Horghmas was a complete success.

2. Change it up a bit.

Instead of giving gifts on Christmas, take stuff from people.

After you've hidden your Easter eggs, instead of finding them, don't find them.

Instead of getting wasted off of Guinness and Jameson on St. Patrick's day... well, never mind. We'll leave that one alone.

Instead of a Christmas tree, have a Christmas bear.

3. Different Time or Location

Christmas is always cold. Independence day is always hot. Easter is always at Uncle Ned's house. Increase your holiday enjoyment by breaking up the temporal and locational monotony.

Celebrate the 4^th of July by shooting off fireworks in September. At 3am. On your neighbor's front lawn.

Instead of hiding your kids' Easter eggs in your backyard, hide them at the local strip club.

Have your Thanksgiving feast in the Gaza Strip.

Just don't ask them to cook the turkey.

4. Celebrate without pants.

[As a service to everyone everywhere, I have elected not to include a picture of myself without pants.]

So there you go. Enjoy your newly awesomized holidays.

Bud Light is AWESOME!

I don't usually watch TV, so I'm rarely fortunate enough to see the AWESOME commercials that are on.  However, during this football season, I had the distinct pleasure of seeing a bunch of HILARIOUS and BRILLIANT Bud Light Ads!

They're always about normal people like me doing HILARIOUS stuff like I always do while drinking Bud Light (which everyone does, duh!).  My favorite one was like this:

 The best part is how in every commercial, someone says their slogan, "Here We Go!"  It's probably the best slogan ever because beer slogans should say something about how the beer tastes or its quality or some such and "Here We Go" TOTALLY does that!  That's why it's so cool that they manage to shoehorn it into every commercial, having a character say it at a time that is completely appropriate and makes perfect sense!

Even though it's probably the best slogan ever, companies like to change their slogans pretty often so I came up with some more that are really good at describing Bud Light's taste, quality, and ability to make even the most boring times FUN!  Here they are.  Anheuser-Busch, you may use these free of charge.

I know, right?  Right?

I really want a beer now, don't you?

Self-explanatory

Bud Light is the best!

Let's get this elephant on the road.

Myspace has died and getting on Facebook for more than five seconds makes me feel like a Muslim with a mouthful of pork around noon in the middle of Ramadan, so I hereby proclaim this to be my official word depository.  Pardon the mess, I'm still learning how to use this stupid thing.


Anyway, for your amusement, here's the Very Bright Thing I Did for today:

Step 1: Attempt to squirt shaving cream into hand.
Step 2: Completely miss hand.  Squirt shaving cream all over wall.
Step 3: Attempt to clean up mess with toilet paper.  Fail miserably.
Step 4: Use hand to clean up remaining mess.  For some reason, don't wash shaving cream off of hand.
Step 5: Become annoyed with hair hanging in face.  Brush freshly washed hair aside with shaving cream-covered hand.
Step 6: Hair is now full of shaving cream.  Stupid successfully achieved.