Tongue Ass! Paging Mr. Tongue Ass!

We have a chain of corner stores here called AM/PM.  They're interchangeable with Seven-Eleven, Plaid Pantry and a hundred other stop and go gas-marts.  But AM/PM  recently got themselves a new spokes-mascot whose name is apparently Tongue Ass. In the commercial, he is addressed as 'Tongue Ass.'  Every time I hear the commercial, I distinctly hear this...assemblage...declaring 'Tongue Ass!' at the end of the ad.  He is jiggly and grotesque and clearly the product of a diseased imagination. Imagine Bigfoot, if he were a fat, red haired, Scottish Rastafarian made out of snack food, with cheese doodles for beard hairs, hot dogs for fingers and a double cheeseburger for a nose.  It looks like the contents of a morbidly obese persons' intestines wearing a tie.

Who thought this would  be a good idea?  I had to look this up.  I've heard this thing say "Tongue Ass!" about seven times today and I just gave up and gave in.

Mr. Internet informs me that "Tongue Ass" is actually the wordification ( look at me doin' neologisms like a hot momma) of an acronym.  TMGS.  Too Much Good Stuff.  That's AM/PM's catchphrase these days. 

Some bright light in the Advertising Department decided, while ripped to the tits on LSD and bath salts, that if you took the first letter of each word in that motto and made it into a word, it would be pronounced "Tumgus" and it would be the name of a horrifying Frankenstein conglomeration of junk food seven feet tall and four feet wide that works in a quickie mart; and that people would really take to this sucrose-golem and think "Yo I must now go to AM/PM only forever because this thing is a wacky hoot-a-roo!"

My local AM/PM is run by a she-dragon, a tiny terrifying hurricane of a woman single-mindedly determined to make money, who will literally throw you your change and say "OK leave. Next, hurry up, next, next" as you scrabble with your wallet.  I opt to use the cashpoint at the pump to avoid this broad.  Mr. Tongue Ass was made to be this woman's husband. Between her caffeinated avarice and his demented ickiness, they could go on to produce a quickie mart dynasty of mutant dragon-hotdog progeny who would jounce around happily and dump people upside down and shake the money out of their pockets.  They would be genetically incapable of cleaning a bathroom or applying a price tag and would leave a trail of powdered sugar wherever they went.

What are we meant to do when confronted by Mr. Tongue Ass?  Are we supposed to love him?  Are we supposed to want to eat him?  Would you hand your debit card to a seven foot tall pile of junk food with hot dog fingers?  Would you ask it for a job application?  If I was still a stoner and this thing appeared on my T.V. suddenly I would scream and pee myself, like I did when Tom Peterson used to knock on the inside of the screen (Only Oregonians will get this) in the middle of Sinister Cinema.

In other news, the Trump shrines continue to come down, one by one, all over the county!  There was even a "Black Lives Matter" demonstration in Lynden!  Incredible!  Lynden used to be the home of the third largest chapter of the KKK in Washington State, and now look....they've joined the 21st century at last!

But the odd thing is that the hardest of the hardcore pro-Cheeto folks are bricking up hard.  Lawns have multiple huge signs.  Trucks and cars are being coated in stickers.  People aren't just wearing MAGA hats - they're wearing full Stars and Bars shirts and pants outfits.  I have seen this!  Someone call these folks' grandkids, please. It's just SAD.

Just down the road from me is a staunch Orangapresident supporter who lovingly hand-built a cement reinforced Trump sign and installed uplights for it, so that the holy name gleams in the night.  I have been targeting this slice of outrage for months.  I went to far as to buy a product in a spray can, and keep it in my car in case I ran into the right set of circumstances. (Use your imagination.) 

And then I saw the dude out there one day picking the weeds around his little exercise of freedom of speech. The guy is about 103, and maybe a buck, if that.  A strong breeze could take him away. He has Essential Tremor.  He was standing out there next to the road with trucks blasting past weeding his sign.  And dammit, I lost the feeling.

But listen up, Mr. Abortion Is Murder - I've still got that spray can in my car.  Your time WILL come.