Everyone on This Island Wants My Fake-Looking Monopoly Money

New Zealand often wants you to act or think a certain way. More often or not, that way amounts to “I want to buy that thing.”

Sometimes New Zealand attempts to accomplish this in surreal and disturbing ways.

Other times, this nation tries a different tactic, the one above being “Would you buy this thing if we make it really fat? Like, unhealthily so?”

And still other times, the marketing gimmick will be boiled down to its essential elements. What you see above is the incentive to buy anything in a New Zealand souvenir shop ever, just stripped of any business savvy or verbal artistry.

And, finally, sometimes the ploy works very well. The New Zealand government is trying to eradicate possums, a non-native pest and a threat to the kiwi, the national bird and an endangered species. (And, besides, a cutie pie species, so double threat status for the kiwi.) Fortunately for the New Zealand possums, they’re also fairly cute — certainly more so than their North American counterparts. In order to underscore the need to wipe these cuddly marsupials off the map, those in charge of the campaign plaster parks with pictures like the one above, which shows a possum eating a kiwi chick, which is one of the most brutal things ever.

So, in summary and in conclusion, New Zealand made me feel ways about things.

Seeing Thoughts in Repeat

More amusements from New Zealand. Well, amusements for me, anyway. Why are you so critical? ARE YOU JEALOUS?!

An inexplicable sign outside a Queenstown souvenir shop. The text itself doesn’t make any sense, but why try to tie it to the song by putting the musical note emblem in the corner? As strange as it sounds, I have to think that however made this sign had never actually heard the song “Mary Had a Little Lamb” — which, really, is kind of like never having chewed gum or seen an automobile.

This is a sign from a strawberry processing facility. It’s kind of funny that it was removed from the strawberry chute and just placed on a random desk, I guess, but I thought it would be even more amusing if I taped it to someone’s back so it was pointing at their ass. In any case, I guess it’s a little funny to think of a chute anywhere being designated as “for strawberries only” — no raspberries, no gooseberries, no strawberry-shaped handsoaps. Just strawberries. Get it?

Children in New Zealand are taught to be courteous to all adults, regardless of how they might make their living.

Is it just me, or do New Zealand power outlets look a little bit like the killer from Scream?

New Zealand, Land of Sexiness

Three more mementos from Kiwi Land, none of them being particularly representative of the nation or culture.

Proof that rules about house appearances aren't as stringent in New Zealand as they are in America: an otherwise innocently odd house painted to look like boobs.

Who needs blackened lungs when you can warn against smoking with a limp dick?

Thunderpants. The name says it all. Actually, now that I think about it, this one might actually be representative of New Zealand after all.

Kiwifruit Sundae with Kiwibird Topping

Not so big on words lately, so I'll instead offer something else as proof of my trip: photos of things ignored by all the other slack-jawed, camera-toting tourists.

A wine box. It's sound in the geographic sense, but I can only think about it in the aural sense. And laugh. Also: a good name for a perfume for cougars, even if those dusky sounds would be coughing and creaking joints.

Because the term toothpaste didn't sound elegant enough, I guess. I have no idea what this product does or why someone might want to buy it.

This is how signs warn you against letting your dog relieve itself in public areas. If the term dog fouling wasn't entertaining by itself, the squatting dog rendered in the blocky style of restroom gender symbols made it even better.

The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack

An iPhone photo dump, though this time with our Down South correspondent supplying all but one of them.

Appealing enough to push thoughts of fresh-squeezed pug from my mind.

As if anyone needed another reason to dread becoming stuck behind a bus.

How to interpret this? Is it truly an opportunity to create your own bloody mary? Or is it “Fix your own bloody Mary bar,” perhaps in response “Hey, Nigel, I need you to come fix my Mary bar,” with the British bloody being attached to some piece of furniture called a Mary bar? Or does it have nothing to do with cocktails and “bloody mary” is being used as a euphemism for something awful?

One tile missing — but maybe it’s better that way?

The follow-up to Joyce Carol Oates’s I Think I’m Allergic to Peas.

Gobacken Sidonna

Five unrelated photos.

One: A Complex magazine cover rendered awkward by the fact that it was already sitting on store shelves the day Michael Jackson died. Jonah Hill probably blames himself. I do, anyway.

Two: Newly emptied shelf space — and not the first time such an occurrence has been noted on this blog.

Three: Inexplicable graffiti in a Ventura gas station bathroom.

Four: A co-worker’s vehicle, dust tagged in her honor.

Five: A copy of a Jimmy Buffet record, A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean, deservedly set beside my apartment building’s dumpster.

Mrs. Weinberg’s Bungalow Colony

Three iPhone photos, unrelated save for the fact that they’re now being posted together here.

Expect period dumps of such photos in the future.