Customer Review

Perfect for paraplegics. 

I cannot stress the beauty of this product enough. Its simplicity astounds me; its utility, undeniable. As a disabled member of society, my voice matters.  Loosing the use of my legs was the single most devastating experience of my life. Beer was to blame. My mother was an alcoholic, my father Irish. It was fate. One night after consuming copious amounts of ale, contemplating the stars, I fell headfirst over the edge of my roof onto the cold cement of my driveway. Luckily enough, my head stayed intact, but the same could not be said for my spine. Beer reduced me to the state of a helpless paraplegic, and I swore never to swill that cursed brine again. Oh, but it was a dismal life. A bleak existence, one without hope of succor. How I missed those throaty belches that would ripple from somewhere deep inside my belly, erupting in a roar, the contended sign of bliss! My adorable beer gut virtually vanished. Chicken wings lost their appeal. No more one night stands. I was a shadow of a man.

And then a breath of new beginnings...I discovered the RC cooler! Surely a sign from the universe that my suffering had not gone unnoticed, that my penance had been fulfilled. I forsook my vow of abstinence. This ingenious invention has brought brewskis back into my life. From the comfort of my wheelchair or my chaise lounge, I recline like a pasha and eagerly await the cold, crisp sensation of the brew kissing my lips. When I press the remote, quivering with anticipation, I swear I can feel my toes anxiously wiggling in a paroxysm of delight.

I may never regain the use of my legs, but the RC cooler has given me back something just as necessary: beer.

Who is Sheila Ann Tahir?

     S.A.T., not to be confused with the standardized testing bearing the same appellation, came into this existence roughly twenty moons ago on the lost city of Atlantis. In S.A.T.'s present form, flowing curls the color of sea foam adorn a head too large for the slender neck that supports it, consequently causing S.A.T. to wilt with the weight of accumulated centuries of feckless conjectures and hopeless disappointments (and producing an unsightly tripe chin from certain angles). These thoughts, though pointless, stem from S.A.T.'s immortality. So, too, does S.A.T.'s disillusionment with life as it is. For it is known that S.A.T. is constantly dying and being reborn; a curse with karma has caused S.A.T. to embody such dissimilar bodies as a psilocybin toadstool and an extremely attractive monkey (thus explains the recent AIDS epidemic). 
     In the present, S.A.T.'s morbid speculations on the order of the universe have caused quite the stir amongst humanity; this unique being's singular insight into life and its foibles over the ages, in different forms, has afforded S.A.T. a cushy, plush existence that any materialistic American would envy. Replacing Oprah as talk show pundit plus publishing many manuals per annum upon such controversial topics as the depressing nature of the asexual and the inevitability of every man being a potential rapist, S.A.T. has been hailed as the guru of our times and the world's most desirable (and only) single phoenix.
     Unfortunately for us, this phoenix will all too soon return to the flame. More disenchanted than usual with society as it is today, S.A.T. has vowed to leave this Earth and its fleetingly obsolete technology behind, to return in a more enlightened and less obese age. S.A.T. has always expressed a desire to die in New Orleans, which is not only S.A.T.'s birthplace but what will also become the phoenix's elephant graveyard.

 An unflattering rendering of S.A.T. in the phoenix's present form. May the next reincarnation have reproducibles.

About me

Hello. My name is Sheila. Saying I'm a girl feels like a double negative. I enjoy reading, riding my bike, and much prefer the company of animals to humans. Growing up, I ran through the gamut of strange pets. Perhaps the most bizarre thing that happened to me was when my pet duck Peeper proceeded to enact his Freudian fantasies by vigorously humping my head and nearly drowning me in the pool. I was eleven.

Indeed, one could say I am a prematurely aging cat lady. Here are my two furballs, Sable and Rory-Lion, engaging in a friendly kiss.

Enough about cats. I know I am sickening quite a few of you.

Here are some details to flesh out my person: I live for traveling, can't cook worth a damn, am terrible at technology, and love singing self-composed ditties as I ride my bicycle at night. This, I rationalize to myself, is to prevent mugging, as I hope would be miscreants will assume I am a bag lady and stay the hell away.

I apologize for how hideous this blog looks. Eventually I'm going to ask my computer whiz little sister to teach me a few tricks to beautify my blog. Until then, bear with the fluffy dandelions and know it is not representative of me as a person.

There is a new strain of gonorrhea

And it's coming for you