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.

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.

Oh, My Aching Tiddies

Hey ladies!

Does your seatbelt dig in to your shoulders, neck or chest? Are you plagued with safety belt irritation at the site of contact? Have you ever wanted to get motorboated by a stuffed animal?



This adorable little bear will lie spread-eagled over your chest as you drive your hybrid car while wearing khakis and inoffensive pastels. The soft velour fabric feels almost sensuous against your skin. Or at least it would feel sensuous, if you hadn't given up orgasms for financial security back on your wedding day in '96.

The TiddyBear also doubles as a modesty device for today's Mormon mom-on-the-go. Is a little extra cleavage proving to be a point of contention with your husband's other 6 wives? Cover up your scandalous melon-crack with a plush chastity device.

But wait! It's not just for the ladies! Men can also use the TiddyBear! Sure, wearing a glorified Beanie Baby across your bitch tits takes a toll on your manhood, but you probably handed over the keys to your balls years ago, anyways.

And bonus- it's yellow! The colour of sunshine!

And urine.

ABBA Met the Same Fate

I love this style of upper-body dancing. I call it "The Unfortunate War Veteran".

Also, girls-- please don't get too excited about Ken. There's not much flavour South of the border, if you know what I mean. But that hair he's rocking... that hair is man enough for twelve eunuchs. And I love his "I don't give a shit" attitude. So typical of the underground-club-coke-and-bareback-for-cash 80's man.

I forgot how 80's style was capable of morphing a 10-year old girl into a 34-year old Michigan housewife. A tightly-coiled perm, eyebrows as thick as molasses, and a good sweep of blue eyeshadow for good measure could turn Stephanie Tanner into Mrs. Seaver.

My favourite part-- skip to 0:21 when Barbie asks Ken to join the band- she's still dancing!! Bitch is a fucking slave to the rhythm! I'll bet she rode the scene hard until 1993, when she found Jesus and renounced her sinful ways. Ken left her and headed to Seattle where he played drums in a band called Reject-ulation until he got his Masters in philosophy.

Ah well... we all have to grow up sometime.

Cue Miss Grundy's Arm-Crossing Disapproval

Oh, for the days when narcotics were the only things we needed to teach our kids to avoid. What a utopian notion. Thomas More would have been pleased.

The message couldn't be more clear: experiment with drugs and end up shivering in a wooden box with a crudely-drawn vagina staring at you like the Eye of God.

Thank sweet baby Jesus that the illustrator has clearly depicted what drug users and dealers look like. Stay away from people with strange hats and ziz-zagging smiles. In fact, anyone out of the ordinary should be avaoided altogether. This includes: men with hair, women with smiles, anyone with irises in their eyes, and anyone over 1.5 feet tall.

Based purely on the font, I'm pretty sure this PSA appeared in some sort of Archie vehicle, which is hilarious because the comic featured some of the most obvious junkies of a generation.

That asshole Reggie had a huge problem with the blow. He and Veronica totally used to road trip from Riverdale to SoCal to get the good Colombian shit.

Fuckin' Moose had wicked 'roid rage and he's always pissed because his balls keep shrinking. Midge just laughs at him, so he punches her lights out.

Big Ethel has to slip some E into guys' drinks at parties, because it's the only way she can get anyone to touch her.

And please, let's not forget about the biggest basehead at Riverdale High-- Jughead. Bitch eats so many hamburgers, he shits lettuce, pickle and tomato.

Remember kids: Be wise, not weird.

Seacrest out.

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.

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.

This Just In: Crazy Bitch Smokes Pall Malls

The payoff comes at the 0:50 second mark.





Happy Tuesday, my lovelies.

Better Put On a Pot of Coffee, This Might Take a While

Like many of you, my life has been slowly eroding before my eyes. Swine flu, recession woes, global warming, anal leakage... It all eats away at our quality of life.

But now, we see a light at the end of the tunnel. Your favourite hooker-assaulting, meth-smoking TV pitchman, Vince Shlomi is back. Forget that crusty old bitch ShamWOW!, because the Slap Chop will survive in the historical archives marked 'Zeitgeist' for centuries to come.

I am honoured to present the first (I'm In Parentheses) screening of Vince Shlomi's Slap Chop. Enjoy.

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Let's forget for a moment that this product hasn't existed for 17 years. Let's also forget that this product is so useless that we've each used this product exactly once in these past 17 years.

Instead, let us please turn our attention to the human embodiment of the divine that is Vince.

Where do I even fucking start?

"All day long, you're going to be slapping our troubles away." This is a pretty substantial statement, especially in light of Vince's recent assault on a prostitute by means of punching and... slapping. And though I feel that the obvious allusion to masturbation is far too lowbrow for this blog, I will nonetheless make reference to it.

I also love Vince's blessed advice to us all: "Stop having a boring tuna, stop having a boring life." Now, I haven't received my Liberal Arts degree YET, but since it is less than a year away from completion, I feel I am qualified to offer my literary assessment. This. is. poetry.
Not since Ezra Pound has the essence of the human experience been captured in so few words.

In closing, let us remember that if Vince can do it with one finger, we can do it with our whole hand.
Just keep slappin' away.

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.

On The Next Episode Of "Mad Men"

Ok fellas, we've got the Lane Bryant account. Now, they've told us they're sweet-talkin' the Chubby demographic.

They've put together a Chubby Fashion book, full of Chubby-size clothes for the typical All-American Chubby.

Keep in mind boys, that this is not your father's Chubby. This is a new, bold and modern Chubby we're courting. We need to think outside the box on this one, and really sink our hooks into those Chubbies.

If we make good on this, the Husky account is gonna fall into our laps, like the food that falls out of the mouth of a Chubby.

Now. Who's gonna handle this one? How 'bout you, Jones? That wife of yours can give you some inspiration.

Let's break for lunch, and don't forget boys-- we need those Chubbies.

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'.)

Marcel Marceau Is Silently Expressing His Concern.

Life, she has not been good to me.

Zees is why, when I wake from ze four-day slumber brought to me by ze angels of Absinthe, j'aime buver ze Chocolat Poulain. Because, as we say in Paree, "Better chocolat zan a pistol to ze face"

Source

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?"