Truth in adverse-tising.

January 7, 2010

Commercials.  They really, really suck.  They loudly disrupt our television viewing and they subliminally suggest to all of us what we need to purchase so that we can be whole, happy, and not suck any longer.  We are constantly bombarded with images of cookies, razors, jeans, candy bars, investment banks, and so on.  But you know, there are some products we, strangely enough, don’t ever see ads for on TV.  Here are a few examples:

1.  String.  (Steven Wright has famously opined on this, so I won’t belabor the point.)

2.  Douche.   (Do women even use this shit anymore?)

3.  Canned tomatoes.  (Not spaghetti sauce, not pizza sauce – I’m talking good ol’ diced tomatoes.  A staple in any decent kitchen cupboard.)

4.  Knitting needles.  (There are lots of old women and hippie dippies making their own sweaters and shit.)

5.  Fingernail clippers.  (We all use ’em – well, except maybe this woman.)

6.  Dog leashes.  (Some dogs are pretty fuckin’ strong.)

7.  Sandpaper.  (There’s good sandpaper, and then there’s cheap-ass-eats-through-quickly-and-ruins-your-fingers sandpaper.)

8.  Towels.  (Think of all those nauseating ads for toilet paper.  What about towels, the softness of which we so deserve and should demand?)

Are there some products that simply don’t need to be advertised?  Products whose manufacturers have cornered their particular market and now nothing more needs to be said about them?  Why, then, must we be subjected to ads extolling the virtues of mountain fresh Clorox bleach?

Let me know which products you think are strangely absent from Commercial Land.  Go get a life – but keep reading this blog!

Eddie and the Jets.

September 27, 2009

This is news?

FLORHAM PARK, N.J. (AP) — Fireman Ed has something new to cheer about.

OK, then, let’s hear it.

The Jets’ most famous fan received a game ball from coach Rex Ryan during the team meeting Friday for helping lead a raucous Meadowlands crowd during New York’s 16-9 win over New England last Sunday.

Big deal.

“On behalf of the fans and representing the fans, we gave him a game ball,” Ryan said. “There’s two, actually, one in our trophy case and we gave him the other one. He does a great job.”

A great job doing what?  Getting drunk and screaming at football games?

Ed Anzalone, a New York City firefighter, has been coming to every Jets home game for years, wearing a fire helmet and leading the “J-E-T-S! Jets! Jets! Jets!” cheer.

Wow, what an accomplishment.  That’s right up there with finding a cure for cancer.  Imagine looking back at your life and saying, “Yeah, I spent thousands of dollars and hours so I could go and scream and freeze my ass off and watch grown men run around a football field.

“That’s really the first time I’d ever seen him,” Ryan said. “When I was here before as a visitor, I kind of blocked everything out and never really noticed him.

That’s because you were too busy screaming YOUR fucking head off to notice one of just thousands of all-American schmucks in the stands with no identity of their own – which is why they watch sports to begin with!

It’s hard not to notice him when you’re standing on the sideline and he’s getting the fans going and everything else.”

Yeah, because he’s so much more obnoxious than the rest of them.

Ryan sent a voicemail message to season ticket holders last week, urging the fans to make things “miserable” for Tom Brady and the Patriots.

That’s nice.  Isn’t that like both sides in a war invoking their dickless deities to help them win? Or like that pray-for-rain asshole during the DNC last year?

The fans answered that call, and after the victory, Ryan said they were the difference in the team beating New England at the Meadowlands for the first time since 2000.

Let’s win this one for the gipper skipper burger-flipper day-tripper pants-shitter!

“He wasn’t the only fan you would notice, but I don’t know the names of everybody else,” Ryan said. “I’m sure there was Fireman Joe and everybody else out there.

Yeah, along with Machinist Mike and Cabbie Louie and Pizza Man Pete and Drunk Dan and that crazy bitch LuAnn from the office who has football shit all over her cubicle.  You know who I mean.

It was great because they’re our fans and we decided it was a little token of our appreciation to give him a game ball.”

And I’m glad to see that a man with such a huge responsibility as coaching an NFL franchise holds similar command of the English language.

Anzalone was also able to briefly address the men he cheers for.

I wonder if it went something like this: “Um, wow, hey man, can I get a picture with you guys?  Oh wow, this is great, um.  Greatest day of my life.  Other than the birth of my son.”

“He was great,” Ryan said. “He was all fired up. He’s expecting a lot of wins, as are our fans, and he said this is only the start and our guys understand that.”

“Yeah, so we’re gonna keep coming and pouring money into this franchise that makes millionaires out of guys like you so that losers like us can live vicariously through your steroid-ridden lives.”

Anzalone, who usually wears a No. 42 Bruce Harper jersey to games, was included in the Pro Football Hall of Fame’s Hall of Fans in 1999.

I can’t believe there actually is such a thing.

“Their passion is as great as mine is,” Anzalone told the team’s Web site of Jets fans. “There’s no difference. I’m just blessed to be able to lead the orchestra, to get them crazy.”

Yeah, there’s a difference.  The players get crazy money and fly girls, and all you get is a game ball, a sore throat and a hangover.  And “lead the orchestra”?  Listen buddy, if you’re going to compare drunken rabble-rousing with the swing of the maestro’s baton, then I have a suggestion as to where you can display your new game ball.

Gone to the dogs.

August 16, 2009

Can someone please explain the reasoning and logic behind the idea of inviting an animal to live in one’s home?

Let me get this straight – millions of human beings have animals living in their homes – animals who will willfully destroy said humans’ property, who shit, piss, puke and sleep all over said humans’ flooring.  Dogs, cats, rabbits, mice, rats, snakes, lizards – you name it.  I just don’t get it.

Hey, I find puppies and kittens as cute as anyone else with half a heart.  But to invite one of these monsters to LIVE in my house?  Shit on my old newspapers?  Eat processed food from a bowl on the floor?  I can’t imagine it.

I grew up with animals in my house, and you know what?  The dogs and cats would shit and piss and puke all over the house.  Except in one place – my bedroom.  Wanna know why?  Because I kept my bedroom door shut at all times.  Keep the fuckers out.

But I LOVE animals.  In fact, I love them so much that I don’t even eat them or anything that comes from them.  And I also love them so much that I don’t want to keep them domesticated or enslaved in any way, including for companionship.  Why would I want, for instance, to keep a bird in a cage in my house?  Because he has pretty feathers, or because he can whistle a tune on command?  That’s so fucking selfish.

Pet owners – make your case.  Are you really willing to put up with the smell of ass for the sake of some Pavlovian loyalty?  And don’t compare dogs and cats to children or I will bitch-slap you.

While watching the mind-numbing goodness of prime-time network television the other night, I was struck by one of many ads for pills that will release men (and women) from the embarrassing bonds of erectile dysfunction.  We’ve all heard and seen these ads repeatedly unless, of course, you are a granola-eating backpacker who has eschewed the modernity and soul-sucking nature of television and, hell, technology in general – in which case, you’re likely not even reading this to begin with – so in that case, to hell with you.  You don’t know what you’re missing!  Literally!

Anyway, as I was saying, I actually chose to stay right where I was in front of the television and view this commercial, during which The Nice Man said things like “Talk to your doctor if you experience an erection lasting longer than 4 hours.”  Can you even imagine this conversation?

Guy:  Excuse me, doc, I gotta talk to you.

Doc:  Go ahead, son.  (He’s an old doctor who calls everyone “son”.)

Guy:  Well, I’ve got this problem with my, well…

Doc:  Have you tried the Viagra sample I sent home with you last time?

Guy:  Yeah, that’s just it, though.  My erection lasted, well…

Doc:  (leans in closer) Yes..?

Guy:  It lasted longer than 4 hours.

Doc:  Oh, I see.

Seriously, folks, what needs to be said here?  What can the doctor say?  “Well, ask her if she’s still in the mood”?  “Hire a hooker”?  “Call your kids’ babysitter”?  What’s the problem here?  Sounds like a party waiting – BEGGING – to happen!

But the thing that The Nice Man says in the ad that tickles me the most, the statement that prompted this post, is this one:

“Ask if you are healthy enough for sexual activity.”

Is this a question that ANYONE in the history of the human species, especially the MALES of this species, have ever even ONCE imagined, let alone asked of themselves or of anyone?

Forget the conversation with good ol’ doc.  He’ll tell you to eat right and exercise, right?  Sounds like a hot date to me!  But imagine that conversation with self:

Ego:  Am I healthy enough for sexual activity?

Id:  Fuck the girl fuck the girl fuck the girl

Super Ego:  Is my heart not strong enough for this?  Am I in prime physical shape?

Id:  Fuck the girl fuck the girl fuck the girl

Which voice wins?  You got it.  The good ol’ Id.  Thanks, William Golding.

Fucking is natural and fun and unstoppable and NO one gives a shit whether their heart is about to explode or not when they’re horny.

So, next time you see a Viagra ad on TV, just have a nice laugh at The Nice Man.  Sounds like he needs a pill or two of something stronger than they serve in the ad agency’s minibar.

Death all around us.

June 29, 2009

Poor Farrah.  Christ, of all the days to go, you know?

“Coming up later, we’ll talk to Michael Jackson’s former publicist and find out what she thinks of this tragedy which could have been forestalled if his physician hadn’t been such a money hungry, yes-man geek.  Oh, yeah, and some chick named Farrah died?  We’ll take a look at her sobbing fat-head of an ex-husband and watch rare outtakes from her stupid reality show.”

What is it about death that suddenly makes us want to congregate around the wrong star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame?

Well, let’s face it.  Wacko Jacko transcended racial barriers.  He was a black man that white people could relate to, and then later in life, he was a white man that black people could relate to.

JOKE TIME!

Q.  What’s the difference between Neil Armstrong and Michael Jackson?

A.  One did the moon walk, the other one fucks little kids.

And we lost the OxiClean guy, too.

But here’s the big pisser of them all:  Losing the Queen of the Blues.

OK, I have completely had it with the swine flu bullshit.

I’ve got 2 words for all you Chickens Little –  WEST NILE.

Remember West Nile?  How everyone was terrified to get bitten by a friggin’ mosquito?  I was working with a woman at that time who was so terrified of it to the point where I was hoping she would get it and drop dead so I wouldn’t have to listen to her hysterical hypochondria anymore.  I remember telling her, “Listen, I got bitten by about 10 mosquitoes before work this morning.  Chill out.”

How about Avian bird flu?  Don’t eat the chicken?  Or hanta mouse shit virus?

I read in my local newspaper this morning about “4 Tips To Protect Yourself From Swine Flu.”  You know what they were?

1.  Cough or sneeze into your sleeve.

OK, anyone who doesn’t already do this as a simple matter of habit and/or common sense deserves what they get.

2.  Wash your hands often.

Ditto.  And wash your stupid face while you’re at it, too.

3.  Avoid contact with sick people.

No shit!  Really?  I thought it was OK to snog with someone with a face full of mucus.  Ooops.  My bad.

4.  If you become sick, stay home from school or work to avoid spreading germs.

Honestly, do we really need to remind ourselves and each other of this kind of stuff?  Shouldn’t this all be shit we’re already doing already?

You can be sure of one thing, though – the HMOs, the pharmaceutical companies, and the manufacturers of all things antibacterial are making a fucking mint off this thing.

I live in the idyllic setting of northern New England, where crystal clear bodies of water and serpentine rivers rest beneath snow-capped mountain peaks and dense forests.  This setting, of course, brings all kinds of tourists to the area, and the particular region in which I reside enjoys a certain year-round tourist appeal – skiing in the winter; hiking, boating, etc. in the spring and summer; leaf peeping in the fall.  But the one tourist-driven activity that seems to dominate all others is shopping – shop ’til you freakin’ drop!  In neighboring New Hampshire, where there is no sales tax, villages swell with the sprawl of outlet stores, strip malls, five and dimes, T-shirt emporiums, and all other assortment of purveyors of “stuff”.

While driving through one such town in New Hampshire recently, I was struck by the existence of a store called Mattress Giant.  I find it astounding that there is enough of a mattress market that there are stores all over this country – including in rural New Hampshire – that are open for hours each day, selling mattresses. Who are these people who are going out in droves each day and buying mattresses?  Of all things!  Are people really wearing out their old mattresses quickly enough and in enough numbers that would warrant an entire chain of stores called MATTRESS GIANT?

Is it just me, or this is just plain weird?