My Blood Is Your Blood

During a search for vintage advertisements and magazine articles (a burning interest of mine), I came across this ad. It can only be described as a masterpiece of 50's style misogyny, served on an avocado-green melmac platter.Please indulge me by considering the following:

You poor son of a bitch.

How DO you manage every month? I'll bet during all that cramping and irritability, she doesn't even have the energy to make you your weekday dinner of a full beef roast with all the trimmings. Broads. They always complain the loudest.

Note how miserable this guy looks. Furrowed brow, excessive head-turning. He radiates the melancholy of a man whose whites aren't quite their whitest, and whose drawers weren't starched OR ironed. Lazy bitch.

One can just imagine the after-dinner conversation down at the Lodge:

"..... some new-fangled ailment called PMS. Why, just last week, Bob and Vera down the street separated. Now, you didn`t hear it from me, but word is that he had put up with one too many of her monthly 'temper tantrums'. Sure he`s been nailing every secretary this side of the Mason-Dixon line, but it`s no excuse for her to snap her dishtowel in anger and storm out of the room. These childish outbursts are exactly what us fellas DON`T need after 7 hours at the office. When we come home, we like to have our dinner hot, our children quiet, and our wives emotionally repressed. It`s the American way. Feelings are for communists.

Thank God she saw the ad for Femicin in Photoplay, no more of that moody business. Now she`s back to acting like the woman I married. Heh heh heh, without the cherry of course. Another bourboun, fellas?"