Maker's Mark: What it is

I totally agree with the premise of this commercial: Purchasing Maker's Mark Bourbon is not about showing off. I would take it a step further however and suggest that it's not about appreciating that the corn squeezings are "made in super slow motion," because after all, the only thing we see being made in super slow motion is the wax seal.

No, what Maker's Mark whiskey is all about is getting seriously cranked in a very short period of time. It's about doing your best to forget the year that has just gone by- your ill-fated experimentation with Facebook, that person you thought you'd never see again who dropped back into your life, played soccer with your brain, expertly removed your heart and ate it right in front of you, then dropped right back out (probably for another decade or so, thanks for nothing btw.) It's about being able to forget who you are and where you are going (or not going) for a few hours, when it's Saturday night and you've got nowhere to be and nobody's going to be shaking you awake tomorrow, or caring if you wake up face down on the bedroom floor, half-strangled in the bedsheets because you spent the night fitfully tossing back and forth, drenched with sweat, with your stomach in knots, being haunted by the ghost of The One That Got Away.

It's about being able to take an exit from the Pain That Is The Highway of Life (feel free to use that, it's not trademarked like this whiskey) and pause at the Rest Stop of Forgetfulness (you won't be wanting that one) before the relentless demands of Time force you to return to the Jersey Turnpike of Reality (I never said I was a poet, dammit.)

It's certainly not about being classy, or having a good time with friends, or the slow-motion application of a wax seal. In the end, it's really not about anything at all except maybe dulling the ache for just a little while. And when you wake up with another kind of ache, you realize that you've just added to your credit line in the Bank of Hurt, and the only saving grace is that you are one day closer to the cure.

Oh, and that you aren't a Russian farmer, and have to go through all this with vodka.

And once again, we'll let AT&T's war on society wrap up the year

It just wouldn't seem right if the last post of the year did not have as it's subject "cell phones and the royal assholes they turn us into," would it?

Here's a guy out to dinner at what looks like a nice restaurant (it sure doesn't have a Golden Corral feel-where's the chocolate waterfall? And it's not a Cici's- no sign of cheesy deliciousity here.) His date is aware that there's a football game on- the very first time he glances down, she asks if he's checking it.

(There's clearly a back story here- maybe they had a bit of an argument about going out this particular night. She wanted to get out of the house and have a romantic dinner. He wanted to stay home and squeeze in sex during halftime. She "won" the argument, this time, but she knows what that's worth when it comes to this selfish, self-absorbed dick...)

Naturally (and to the delight of the YouTube chimps, who find a way to laugh and applaud pretty much everything they see on the Big Shiny Box, when they aren't obsessing over the background music) the Guy plays Injured Party, throwing it back to his date, suggesting that she must think he's some kind of wizard if she believes he can check the game from their table. "What am I, some kind of 'Summoner,' and I can just 'Summon' stats on my phone?" Because his girlfriend has been in a box since 1995, and because she's kind of sad and desperate, she buys this, until...

Being a Guy On Television, this Jackass simply cannot restrain himself from being an absolute moron, audibly responding to what he sees on his phone even as his girlfriend expresses concern about their relationship. Yep, we've seen this show before, haven't we? Be it Beer, McRib Sandwiches, or Football, the hold Stuff has on guys is far more powerful than that of the clingy, sensitive, serious woman, who after all will Still Be There at Halftime. So go ahead and be a cruel, insufferable jerk, buddy- she isn't going anywhere. This is Television, and on television women may be the brainy, well-dressed, organized, sensitive and sensible ones, but they have a fatal weakness the guys do not have- they simply MUST be in a relationship, even if it's with pigs like this.

You just KNOW that this evening ends with Girlfriend sitting there at the table, arms crossed, with a bitter, resigned look on her face, while the other males at the restaurant gather around the guy and watch the game on his phone, occasionally hooting with delight. If she's really pissed, he'll drop by Kay Jewelers this weekend and pick her up a chunk of rocks on a string. That will make everything better.

And that's it for Year Three of my blog- I can't believe that when I started this, I thought I'd run out of ads to mock after a few weeks. I apologize, Ad Agencies of America, for my lack of faith. See you in 2012!

Hey, Golden Corral: Put Lipstick on a pig, and it's still a pig!

Ok, I'm going to be a total elitist snob in this post. I can just imagine this stupid "chocolate waterfall" becoming the talk of neighborhoods populated with the kind of rubes who think that Golden Corral is the place you go for "special" occasions like Bowling League night or to celebrate winning the Horseshoe tourney (for mom's birthday, it's Denny's. For weddings, it's Olive Garden or Sizzler.) If I close my eyes I can SEE the sweatpants and fuzzy sweaters brigade ogling all the yummy steam vats full of fried chicken and shrimp, cube steaks and gravy, mac and cheese, etc that hold out the promise of maybe 30 minutes or so of shameless gorging.

Here's what else I can see- a line of disgusting, sweaty, sticky-fingered barely-bipeds poking pretty much everything imaginable into this chocolate dust-and-grease magnet. French fries. Chicken wings. Aforementioned sticky fingers. "Looky, everythin' tastes better when it's got chocolate on it, am I right or am I right? Strawberries? Ain't they related to them there fruit things? Hey, if we wanted healthy food, what would we be doin' at Golden Corral?"

Putting a chocolate fountain in a Golden Corral is kind of like offering champagne and caviar at a baseball game. It's like shopping for fine jewelry at a Dollar Store- at first glance it might look high-class, but then you remember where you are and think "wait, something is really, really wrong here..." (I mean, what's next- a waiter walking around with a giant pepper shaker at Cici's?)

Of course, this is exactly the thought that should be going through your mind if you find yourself at the Golden Corral in the first place. Then you should be asking "am I really this sad? Do I really need to be eating this crap? Do I really want to be associated with these people? (The "It made my jaw DROP" woman just made my day. Not to mention the guy explaining "I love chocolate, have since I was a kid." Wow, awesome insight coming from a guy who I PROMISE you does not take the feed store cap off during his "meal.")

Do I really think it's super-awesome that there's this liquid chocolate, and super-funny that Uncle Charlie just took a break from scooping meatloaf on to his plate to roll an ear of corn through it?"

Oh, and BTW- you tell me what is more disturbing here- that Golden Corral felt it was necessary to put up a huge sign which reads "Do Not Put Hands In Fountain," or that more than a dozen people decided to whip out their cell phones, capture this thing on video, and post it to YouTube?

This guy has a television show, and I can't average more than 400 hits a day?

Life is so unfair.

Here's an barely literate moron who's claim to fame is his refusal to admit wrong after using a false claim of racial attack to get himself on television almost thirty years ago. After a couple of decades of camera-mugging, he made a run for the Democratic Party's nomination for President which the word "quixotic" does not really begin to describe, doing his best to ruin each debate he was inexplicably invited to with his bizarre rants and disconnected, broken word salads.

Then Keith Olbermann and Cenck Uyger made the mistake of being Progressive instead of Establishment Democrats and were shown the door by MSNBC. That created room for faux Progressive "Leftists" (yeah, right) like Lawrence O'Donnell and this worthless bag of wind. So we get gems like this commercial, in which Reverend Al sputters something about blueberry pie ( I think; I don't speak Sharptonese.)

Anyway, this is all really pointless and stupid and irritating because we are reminded that this pathetic snake oil salesman has somehow managed to land a highly-paid television gig in which he is promoted as a serious political commentator. As far as I'm concerned, this is like asking Dennis Miller to grade the State of the Union Address or Rush Limbaugh to call plays on Monday Night Football- it just doesn't work, because the speaker can't beg, borrow or steal an ounce of credibility.

"They were ones that were eatin' the pie!" And you were the one giving me the migraine. I think I'd rather hear that BIG BIG BIG Smart Car commercial 45 times an hour (easily accomplished by watching Olbermann or Uyger on Current TV) than spend five minutes watching this blowhard. Hey MSNBC, there's real talent out there- maybe the next time there's a slot open, you might actually try to find some of it? Because this is just one small step away from giving Mark Furman a set and an early evening time slot.

Decorative toe tag comes with upgrade, just pay separate shipping and handling!

I was just coming in from a walk on Christmas Eve and I caught the last few seconds of this wonderful little gem. As jaded as I am, I really thought that it was a parody of the Snuggie ads. Imagine my delight when I realized that no, the makers of these things are dead serious. They really thing these things are a good idea- or, at least, a salable one.

Ok, I can remember an episode of Seinfeld in which Jerry notes that George has taken to wearing sweatpants on a daily basis. Jerry admonishes George that wearing sweatpants in public is a sign that he has simply given up. I wonder what Seinfeld could have done with this advertisement, which spends more than a minute gushing about how gosh-darned wonderful it would be if we could just get used to walking around wearing our own body bags.

It starts off reasonably enough ( I mean, compared to other commercials for similar products.) We are reminded about how freaking cold our houses are, and how damned expensive heating oil is. As long as we keep our shades drawn and live alone, and never have company drop in, I guess this "Forever Lazy" outfit (it looks like the thing Ralphie was forced to wear in A Christmas Story to me) makes a little bit of sense. But, just like the Snuggie commercials, it then goes too far- it shows people wearing these "All that matters is my comfort, fuck you society" outfits in family settings and IN PUBLIC without even the slightest trace of irony.

Except, does it? "You'll be the talk of the tailgate." Oh, I have absolutely no doubt of that. If you wear one of these things to the tailgate party- or anywhere else where you might actually come into contact with civilized human beings- I have no doubt that you will be the talk of everyone who sees you. Why this is a good thing from the wearer's perspective? That's another question.

And the absolute best part of this ad- in fact, I think the best part of any commercial I've seen all year- is the "handy front pocket for emergencies" we are told about as we watch a happy Forever Lazy customer dash into the restroom. Ok, so we are all officially four years old now? We needn't worry about having an "accident" in our "Forever Lazy" wrappers, because the front just unbuttons in
a flash- hey, that's another improvement from these annoying belts and zippers!

Now just attach a convenient, disposable rubber bladder to the front flap, and I can sit through an afternoon of football without ever leaving my couch. Gosh, why would we ever wear anything BUT Forever Lazy?

Actually, I think that's the goal of the people who make things like Snuggies and Forever Lazy- in the end, they want us to discard actual clothes altogether and just stumble through life looking like overgrown telly tubbies, except with the little televisions in our hands rather than implanted on our stomachs. Speaking of stomachs- we will be free to allow them to get much bigger once we are all draped in flowing robes or sweatsuits with footsie socks and hoods. What a perfect response to the obesity epidemic- "clothes" which render us shapeless masses of flesh covered in cheap fabric.

Well, we may look stupid (even dumber than we did in our Pajama Jeans,) but at least no one will know how fat we are until they've already committed to engaging in sexual intercourse. And we'll never have to worry about those annoying little "accidents" again. Thanks, Forever Lazy!

Just like the rest of us, Santa gets dumber, duller and more helpless every year

Since his first appearance in popular literature, which was probably "A Visit From Saint Nicholas" (published in 1823,) Santa Claus and Christmas have, for many people, gone together like turkey and Thanksgiving. Thomas Nast gave him a recognizable face in the 1870s, and soon the jolly fat guy's run as the most successful marketing gimmick of all time was under way.

In the 20th century, we got Santa Claus-themed greeting cards, candy, cartoons, car commercials- heck, there was hardly a product the big guy WASN'T selling between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. But whether he was helping Jim Varney save Christmas or sliding down a hill on an electronic razor, one thing remained constant: Santa was always on top of the situation, always in charge.

Not anymore.

On television, Santa has joined the rest of the electronics-addicted population in being totally incapable of taking a step without first consulting a product assembled by a preteen girl in China. A product which provides instant information concerning topics he Needs to Know About Right Now- the current temperature in cities 3000 miles apart, for example. Or how many billion more people he has to visit tonight.

(Quick aside: I've had more than enough of the insufferably arrogant "all humans are materialistic Christians on December 25" theme. No, Santa does NOT have 3.7 billion people to visit tonight- he can skip the Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Jews, Calvinists, etc. , not to mention all the Christians who believe that Christmas has nothing to do with maxing out one's freaking Visa card on presents and ostentatious light displays. Ok, now back to my original rant....)

I'm used to being Santa Claus portrayed as a silly, more than a little creepy stalker this time of year (that "Santa Claus as Truck Salesman") ad is REALLY weird- would you really buy a vehicle from a guy who looked like that?) But until this year, he always seemed to be the boss of each situation. Now he's begging for information every five seconds and being admonished by a disembodied voice to "take it easy on the cookies" (Santa has to "take it easy on the cookies" on the one night they are provided, free of charge, in unlimited quantities?) Suddenly it's not magic that gets Santa to every house on the planet (again, groan...) but a downloadable App.

Never mind how silly this all makes everyone else who uses this device (not that they didn't look plenty silly already.) Does the average human need to know any of this information? Isn't it already available with a quick online search or (gasp) a call to an actual human being? (What am I thinking? Phones aren't used to talk to people any more- just to "stay connected.")

Anyway, at least this ad ends before Santa asks his phone for directions back to his sleigh. That's probably coming next year, because by then Santa- along with the rest of us pampered idiots- will have become so damned helpless we'll be getting lost in our living rooms without the assistance of turn by turn directions. Bah Humbug.

There's Hope for Me in 2012!!!

Check out the guy who makes his appearance four seconds in, and at the very end of this ad for Bank of America. Greasy hair. Beard. Tight buttoned-down sweater, with a pink shirt sticking out the bottom. In other words, a guy who looks like he's totally incapable of washing or dressing himself. Not to mention a total femme.

He's got a baby in his cart. So unless this is a Baby Store and he's making a purchase, it looks like this guy has found someone to have sex with. Greasy hair. Beard. Tight, buttoned-down sweater. Pink untucked shirt. This guy can find a sexual partner serious enough to be willing to produce a child by him.

Now, maybe this is more about the power of desperation. Or alcohol. But I'll put those ideas aside for now, I don't need my balloon popped with New Year's Eve only a few days away. As a better-than-average looking guy who knows how to shower, shave and dress, this commercial gives me a lot of optimism about the future.

And hey, I'm better with money, too. I don't "save" my using a Bank of America credit card. I save by using cash and avoiding debt. Pretty hot, eh ladies?

Or maybe greasy hair, beards, tight sweaters, untucked pink shirts and no money management skills are in now? I think I'm probably out of luck then. I mean, I might be willing to convert for the right girl- but this is asking a bit too much. I have my pride!