Zarvis bum oil redux

I don't like telling anyone what to do .. I mean thanks for being here willingly and reading this weird stuff I write so that it lands in a brain and doesn't just float into the cloud and dissipate like the majority of our ideas, energy, and time; but listen: I would really like you to read the original Zarvis bum oil post (< link) before you go any further. Go ahead – we'll reconvene here in a minute.

Ok, is your mind blown? Put it back together and prepare for it to be blown again.

Last February (2020 BC, "before covid") my last huzzah with the outside world was a trip to London and Paris. You can probably guess where I'm going with this: I paid the Zarvis London storefront a visit .. wait though, BY ACCIDENT. I STUMBLED ACROSS IT.

After laughing like a crazy person and snapping a couple of photos, I excitedly tried to chat up the gal running the store, ready to be embraced (maybe given the deed to my castle in Scotland, an inscribed tin of bum oil, or whatever – at least some fucking tea) and instead she completely went apeshit bananas on me for photographing the Zarvis sign. I explained the situation. I showed her my ID!!! But she wanted nothing to do with me and insisted I was violating her trademark by photographing a sign with my name on it! Come on lady. You can't trademark my name!! I kept trying to reason and she just kept yelling at me to delete my phone photos. No way, psycho. The last she saw of me I was holding my license up to the window desperately, like a fish drowning in oxygen, like Charlie in Lost


It was a total barf-o-rama.

Check this out. Even Mom was mad!!

^ this is Mom mad. She's very nice about it.

That's it, London woman. You're out of my will. You want that dirty hippo mug? Tough crap, jerk. Also, the store was empty. shrug shrug. 


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