Turn Around

Bonnie Tyler® brand razors. Because every now and then, you need a really good shave.

"Obtainable only from retailers"! Which is to say that those knock-off blades from the creepy Portuguese guy with bitch tits around the corner are nothing short of inferior.

I'm Guessing He's A Republican

If creepy anamatronic hillbillies leave you a little unsettled, I would skip this video.



When I was 13, Uncle Klunk raped me.

He used the banana.

(Also, they serve pizza. Apparently.)

No Water For Me, Thanks

Not having living during the era in which this was marketed, I naturally have questions. I have several questions.

1. Is this a joke?
2. How much does she pay for the storage locker where she keeps her intestines?
3. How was childbearing negotiated during this age? For that matter, how was conception negotiated?
4. Is the brand named "Erect Form" because, when the corset is off, the wearer topples over like a poorly designed PlayDoh sculpture?
5. No, really. Is this a joke?

I also must point out that this contraption was marketed as 'comfortable'. I have to agree on this, it does look comfortable. Then again, I sleep with bamboo shoots under my fingernails and knitting needles poked through my eyelids. Ahhhhh. So comfy. It feels just like snuggling with gramma.

Not Pictured: Summons to Appear in Front of House Un-American Activities Committee

"Who's a girl gotta knock boots with ta getta Tom Collins 'round here?"

via MadMen Yourself

And He Always Wants to Control the Tunes

I long for the days before we, as a culture, harnessed the power of subliminal messages.

This offering, designed to encourage the conservation of precious fuel for the war effort, could not be more liminal. It's the advertising equivalent of printing your message on a length of 2x4 and wallopping your intended audience with it in the face.

I love how sad Hitler looks- he clearly has so many other things to do! "Ich told you to take the 508! Das highway is always bottlenecked at rush hour! Scheisse!"

A Little Tense

For Christ's sake, fella.... It's just coffee.

If you're gonna hit her, hit her for giving your boss a rusty trombone at the office Christmas party. Jesus.

Choosy Moms Place Faith in Junk Science

"How soon is too soon? Not soon enough."

Mothers who love their children pour cola down their throats. And there's no such thing as too soon. Douche with it. Mix it with rum on the night of conception. Fry up the afterbirth, stick it on some rye bread and wash it all down with a Coke.

Apparently children who drink cola at an early age are more popular and are in for a "lifetime of guaranteed happiness". An outrageous claim, to be sure, but it's based on evidence collected by the Soda Pop Board of America, so you know it's non-biased.

So if you care about the future of your child, force some of the bubbly brown down his throat and make the little bastard gargle with it until his teeth fall out.

Faded Beauty, Faded Dreams

It ain't easy being a dime-dancer. Fellas coppin' a feel wherever they please, stinkin' of whiskey and trouble. When I left the farm, Mama told me about the city, she told me "Bootise, you ain't never gonna make it in that big town!" But I had myself a dream. I's gonna be the star of the stage. They's was all gonna come from miles around, just to hear me sing and watch my twinklin' toes dance all over that stage.

But Mama was right. I shouldda listened to her, and stay put at the farm. Ain't no one in this town wants to hire a chubby farm girl. They all tells me "You're too damn fat!" and they're right.

So now, I keep my figure down. I work at the Swingin' Pigeon, givin' it away for a measly dime. I still get to dance, and I really shouldna be complainin'. But I just gets hungry. I gets so hungry.

Puberty? What's that?!?

Say, Coach!
Why am becoming increasingly socially awkward? Why do my parents refuse to look me in the eyes anymore? Why do I smell funny? Why does George look at me like that?

Coach!? COACH!?

Where's The Fava Beans?

Somebody get this girl something to eat, stat. I must point out that she is actually not looking at the bread, but at Mommy's meaty paws.

And I'm not sure why, but she kind of reminds me of Kirsten Dunst. Maybe it's the sociopathic desperation in her eyes.

They Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

I have never been more confused or felt stupider (stupider?!?) than I did after watching this ad. So wait.... they're Cornflakes, but they're made with rice? And corn?
And the pig. The pig?!? No wait, it's a chicken. But it's actually a cow.

The content is also shamelessly centered around the potency inherent in crunchy cereal. Please note the gun (American masculinity) that turns into a noodle (impotence) when pointed at a cow (the sacred female).

Oh, and the use of American Gothic= brilliant. Like, actually.

Also-- I dare you to watch this and not have it stuck in your head for the rest of the day.

Golly! A Weenie Roast!

This is a post-WWII short film in which a creepy man's disembodied voice instructs teenagers on how to be popular.
Highlights:

• Homoeroticism
• Nutrition deficiency resulting in confusion surrounding scarves vs. mittens
• Young girls answering the phone like 80-year old women
• Sluts with pointy breasts
• Phallic imagery
• Teen Town (?!?)
• Affirmation of established gender roles
• Financial instability
• Blanco-centric social values

Enjoy, my darling bitches!

Note: This is (I'm In Parentheses)'s first-ever video edit. Why didn't anyone tell me it was so difficult? I hate you all.

NAW!! Just kidding, I love you all! Especially you.

This Just In: Crazy Bitch Smokes Pall Malls

The payoff comes at the 0:50 second mark.





Happy Tuesday, my lovelies.

Here, Smoke These!

No matter what, NEVER EVER tell your wife that the Newport Girl came out of the TV and handed you a pack of smokes. The old battle-axe just won't understand.

Don't Shoot the Messenger

Or, shall I say "Preese, no shoot me, humbre Westerna man!!"




I know, right?!?!?! I love how this video has been assigned the tag 'Borderline Racist'. If this is borderline anything, it's the borderline between a Bob Hope stand-up routine and a typical Saturday night with the Klan.

I feel that I must bring attention to the fact that, while this ad ran in the 60's, I was born in 1981 and I can remember colouring with Crayola crayons which had colours named 'Indian Red' and 'Flesh' (that is to say, caucasian flesh. Obviously, they made the same mistake as those crazy Old Testament writers who confused skin with flesh. "Oy, what a mistake I've made!" says Rabbi Krustofski).

This abominaiton is actually *terribly* appropriate for me to have found today, because mere hours ago, I attended a lecture on Orientalism at my post-secondary home away from home.
Edward Said, this one's for you, big daddy.

(By the way, I'm pretty sure Poor Chinese-Type Baby's mother is Betty Rubble. I always knew she would leave Barney... I bet she caught him and Fred 'polishing' each other's 'bowling balls'.)

Mmmm.... Hunger-Induced Hallucinations

Libby's. For when you're so mother fucking hungry, you'll wear window sheers instead of expending the energy it takes to do laundry.
Addendum: Who picked out that wedding ring for her? It looks like a clearance item from Fifth Avenue Collection.

Cookies for Souls

I'm really uncomfortable even looking at this old Karo Syrup ad.
This child is... somehow.... not right.
I'm not sure if it's the sculpted eyebrows, the cryptic gender of the child itself, or the association of nudity with cookies.

All I know is that I'm pretty sure it knows that I touch myself, and it likes the fact that I know that it knows.
Also, I dare you to find a nipple. Male or Female, it should have a nipple plainly visible based on what we can see of its torso. No nipple= probably not even human.

I appreciate the word usage in the recipe. Nowadays, if someone used the phrase "three-way cooky" in a sentence, everyone's head would turn to the haggard blonde at the end of the bar.

Seeing as though we're playing fast and loose with the spelling of words, I'm not sure what to make of the 'scrumpshus' exclamation at the top. It's either A.) supposed to be cute, as if 'it' spelled the word incorrectly like little 'its' tend to do, or B.) the ad was written during war time. All the nutrient-absent powdered egg and canned meat everyone was forced to eat tooks its toll on the ol' grammatical skills.

Speaking of nutrients, please note how corn syrup is described as nourishing. Because Karo is rich in dextrose, the sugar your body uses directly for energy. Uh, ya, I'd say it's rich in dextrose, considering it's ONE HUNDRED PERCENT dextrose! It's syrup! Although I'm sure this would have been a big selling feature at the time- everyone just needed that extra kick of energy to get them to the next uncertain and terrifying day.

That being said, where can I buy that nifty cookie jar?

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?"